a key to my at, in case I lost mine; sometimes when I wasn’t home he went inside and waited for me. I was on friendly terms with everyone in my building: my legless and maddening neighbor Volvo, who had moved into the smal one-room at adjacent to ours shortly after Daniel left; Jacky, former rock star and prince of the city; Tanya, former prostitute, now a successful fortune-tel er; and Tanya’s mother. Benny lived on the top oor, next to two large ats that had remained empty for as long as anyone could remember because of some dispute that had been tied up in the courts for decades.
Benny was a restless, impatient person. He drove a taxi, and lately he’d been struggling to make ends meet; the tourist industry had nearly vanished and the col apsing economy a ected everyone. On the other hand more people were taking taxis because they were afraid of being blown up on a bus. That helped a lit le, but not enough.
Benny had other worries, too. He had a very emotional relationship with his ex-wife Miriam. The two of them stil fought and stil had sex, behind her boyfriend’s back. He hated her and loved her and couldn’t rid himself of his desire for her. He vowed to quit smoking and he vowed to stop seeing Miriam, but he hadn’t had much success with either plan.
He was burly and hairy, though in recent years he’d started balding, much to his dismay. His real age was forty-one, but he liked to tel people he was thirty- ve. He did repairs in my at, bought me smal practical gifts like coat hooks, and worried about my safety. Often he gave me long, mournful lectures about my political views, trying to explain, patiently and hopelessly, why I was wrong to help and trust the enemy. He pitied the Palestinians too— but their miserable situation wasn’t our fault. It was their fault, because they had terrible leaders and because they hated us and would never accept us and because they would always want al the land, including our State. And for the past seventy years they’d been trying to kil us; even before the State was founded they’d already started with their wild at acks, plunging knives into women and children, slicing of their heads.
At other times he spoke just as mournful y and hopelessly about Miriam. He worried that she was neglecting their children; he didn’t trust her new boyfriend. A self-centered pig, he said, who was drawing Miriam away from the children, and she was too blind to grasp what was going on. What she saw in that poor excuse for a human being, that pet y crook who was born with his brain in his arse and his nose in other people’s arses, he would never know. Benny was a devoted father, and sometimes when I walked along the seashore with my jeans rol ed up to my knees I’d see him sit ing Buddha-style on a blanket, surrounded by his four smal children. One would ride on his broad shoulders while the others poured sand over his crossed legs or tried to impress him with their acrobatics. He’d grin at me from the midst of his clan, but he’d never invite me to join him.
“Benny, I’m too tired for a visit today, I’m worn out from the demo.” I took of my shoes and flopped down on my bed.
He sighed. “Why, why, why do you do these things? Where were you, anyhow?” He sat down at the edge of the bed.
I told him about the demonstration. It had not been reported on the news, he didn’t know it had taken place.
“The last place on earth I would want to be, the last thing on earth I would want to do,” he said, shaking his head.
“I’m sure there are a zil ion things you would want to do even less,” I said. “Swal owing a live cockroach. Get ing into a booth ful of scorpions. Shooting a child.”
“You have an answer for everything.” He sighed again. “So I can’t stay? I just had another visit from Miriam, I need someone sane to talk to.”“I’m sure I’m as messed up as Miriam. Come back later, I’m going to sleep.”
“Your eyes are red.”
“From the tear gas.”
“I can’t understand why you do these things to yourself. On behalf of people who are trying to kil you, people who cheer every time a bus with someone like you on it explodes.”
“Please, Benny. I’m tired.”
“Okay, I’m going, do you need anything?”
“Just sleep.”
“What does tear gas feel like?’ he asked, curious.
“It stings. Your lungs burn. You feel like throwing up, or at least I do. You get scared.”
“Poor Dana.”
“No, poor Palestinians.”
Benny sighed heavily. “You have a good heart, Dana, but you refuse to see the writing on the wal . I’l drop by later, unless business picks up.”
“Great.” I shut my eyes, and the sound of Benny shut ing the door as he left was already mingling with a dream.
First Daniel and I fixed up our flat, then we married, and then we fought.
When Daniel and I bought the three rooms that became our ground- oor at, they looked as if they’d drawn inspiration from those black-and-white Time-Life photos of inner-city blight: broken sinks, cakes of dirt in every corner, spot ed mirrors nailed to the wal . Prostitutes had lived in the building, and they’d left behind not only mirrors but also their shiny damask bedspreads. Daniel was horri ed when I suggested we wash the bedspreads and use them as sofa covers.
The building was also stained and run down. But this was prime seaside property, and even the smal est of the three ats was very expensive. Daniel’s parents were heavily in debt, so my father came to the rescue. “It’s the least I can do, duckie,” he said.
Daniel’s younger sister Nina moved in with their grandmother, though she chose to sleep in the living room and to use the converted balcony for meditation. Nina was twenty-two and recently divorced; she was also unemployed and “o men” for the time being. Moving in with Granny suited her; in any case it was bet er than going back to her parents’ house. At Granny’s she could play tapes of her guru’s teachings and listen to Ravi Shankar to her heart’s content. She had even started giving yoga lessons to Elena, the prim Russian woman who came to
