The Same Sea (2 page)

Later, in Tibet, more asleep than awake,
he remembers his mother. If we don't wake up
we've had it. We'll be late. In the snow in the tent in the sleeping-bag
he stretches to press his head to her tummy.

In Amirim Street Mr. Danon is still awake.
It's two in the morning. On the screen before him
the figures don't add up. Some company
or other. A mistake
or a fraud? He checks. Can't spot anything. On an embroidered mat
the tin clock ticks. He puts on his coat and goes out. Its six now
in Tibet. A smell of rain but no rain in the street in Bat Yam.
Which is empty. Silent. Blocks of flats. A mistake
or a fraud. Tomorrow we'll see.

Dita slept with a good friend
of Rico's, Giggy Ben-Gal. He got on her nerves
when he called screwing intercourse. He disgusted her
by asking her afterwards how good it had been
for her on a scale of zero to a hundred. He had an opinion
about everything. He started yammering on about the female orgasm
being less physical, more emotional. Then he discovered
a fat mosquito on her shoulder. He squashed it, brushed it off, rustled
die local paper and fell asleep
on his back. Arms spread out in a cross.
Leaving no room for her. His cock shrivelled too
and went to sleep with a mosquito on if blood vengeance.

She took a shower. Combed her hair. Put on a black T-shirt that Rico
had left in one of her drawers. Less. Or more. Emotional. Physical.
Sexy. Bullshit. Sensual. Sexual.
Opinions night and day. That's wrong. That's right. What's squashed
can't be unsquashed. I should go and see how the old man's doing.

With the first rays of dawn he opens his eyes. The mountain range looks like
a woman, powerful, serene, asleep on her side after a night of love.
A gentle breeze, satisfying itself, stirs the flap of his tent.
Swelling, billowing, like a warm belly. Rising and falling.

With the tip of his tongue he touches the dip in the middle of his left hand,
at the innermost point of his palm. It feels
like the touch of a nipple, soft and hard.

An arrow poised on a taut bow: he remembers the line
of the slope of her thigh. He guesses her hips' movement towards him.
He gathers himself. Crawls out of his sleeping-bag. Fills
his lungs with snowy air. A pale, opaline
mist is rolling slowly upwards: a filmy nightdress on the curve
of the mountain.

In Bostros Street in Jaffa there lives a Greek man who reads fortunes in cards.
A sort of clairvoyant. They say he even calls up the dead. Not
with glasses and Ouija boards
but visibly. Only for a moment, though, and in a dim light,
and you can't talk and you can't touch. Then death takes over again.

Bettine Carmel, a chartered accountant, told Albert. She is a deputy inspector
on the Property Tax Board. When she has a moment he is invited to her flat
for herbal tea and a chat, about the children, life,
things in general. He has been widowed since the early summer,
she has been a widow for twenty years now. She is sixty
and so is he. Since his wife died he has not looked
at another woman. But each time they talk
it brings them both a feeling of peace. Albert, she says, why don't you go
and see him some time. It really helped me. It's probably an illusion, but
just for a moment Avram came back. Its four hundred shekels and no
guarantee. If nothing happens, the money's gone. People pay even more
for experiences that touch them much less. No illusions
is a current catchphrase which in my view is just a cliché:
even if you live to be a hundred, you never stop searching
for those long dead.

A framed photograph stands on the sideboard: her chestnut hair
pinned up. Her eyes are a little too round, which is possibly why
her face expresses surprise or doubt, as though asking: What, really?
It's not in the picture, but Albert remembers what pinning
her hair up did to her. It let you observe, if you wished,
the soft, fine, fragrant down on the nape of her neck.

In the photograph hanging in their bedroom Nadia looks
different. More worldly. Fine earrings, a hint of a shy smile
which both promises and asks for
more time: not now. Later, whatever you want.

Kind-heartedness, bitterness, stamina, scorn—these are what Mr. Danon sees
on the face of his son in the photo. Like a double exposure: the clear, open brow and eyes are at odds with the wry,
almost cynical line of the lips. In the picture the uniform broadens the span
of his shoulders, transforming the boy into a tough man. For several years
its been almost impossible to talk to him. What's new? Nothing special.
How are you? Not too bad. Have you eaten? Have you
had a drink? Would you like
a piece of chicken? Give me a break, Dad. I'm all right.
And what do you think about the peace talks? He mumbles some wisecrack,
already halfway out the door. Bye. And don't work too hard.
But still there is a kind of affection, not in the words, not in the photo,
but in between or beside. His hand on my arm: its touch
is calm, intimate yet not really. And now in Tibet
it is almost twenty to three. Instead of investigating further
what's missing from the picture I'll make some toast, drink some tea,
and then get down to work. There's something wrong with this photo.

A postcard arrived, with a green stamp: Hi Dad, its nice here, high and bright,
the snow reminds me of Bulgaria in the bedtime stories Mom used to tell
about villages with wells and forests with goblins (though here there are
almost no trees; only shrubs grow at this altitude, and even they appear to do
so out of sheer stubbornness). I'm fine here, got my sweater and everything,
and some Dutch guys are with me—they're really safety-conscious. And by
the way, the thin air somehow
totally changes every sound. Even the most terrifying shout
doesn't break the silence but instead, how can I put this, joins it. Now
don't you sit up working too late. PS On the other side
you can see a picture of a ruined village. A thousand years or so ago
there was a civilisation here that was lost without trace. Nobody knows
what happened.

Early next evening Dita turned up. Light-footed, out of breath, unannounced
she rang his doorbell, waited. No use, he's not in, just my luck.
When she had given up and was on her way downstairs she met him coming up,
carrying a string bag full of shopping. She grabbed one handle
and so, embarrassed, hands touching, they stood on the stairs. At first
he was a little startled when she tried to take the bag away from him:
for a moment he didn't recognize her, with her
short hair, and her cheeky skirt that almost wasn't there. The reason
I came is that I got a postcard this morning.
He sat her down in the living room. He told her at once
that he too had had a postcard from Tibet. She showed him.
He showed her. They compared. Then she followed him into the kitchen.
Helped him unload the shopping, and put it away. Mr. Danon
put the kettle on. While they waited they sat facing one another
at the kitchen table. One knee over the other, in her orange skirt,
she seemed almost naked. But she's so young. Still a child. Quickly he
averted his gaze. He had trouble asking her whether she and Rico were still
or no longer. He chose his words carefully, tactfully evasive. Dita laughed: I'm
not his, I never was, and he isn't mine, and anyway, you see,
those are just labels. Everyone for themselves. I'm allergic
to anything permanent or fixed. It's better to just let everything flow. Trouble is,
that's a kind of fixed notion too. As soon as you define, it's a mess. Look,
the kettle's boiling. Don't get up, Albert, let me see to it. Coffee or tea?
She stood up, sat down, and saw he was blushing. She found it sweet. She
crossed her legs again, straightened her skirt, more or less. By the way, I need
your advice as a tax consultant. It's like this: I've written a screenplay,
it's going into production, and I've some papers to sign. Don't be mad at me
for taking the opportunity to ask you, just like that. You mustn't feel
obliged. On the contrary, I'll be delighted:
he started to give her a detailed explanation, not as to a client,
more to a daughter. As he clarified things from various angles, his docile body
began suddenly to strain at the bit.

Sometimes the taste of these strong olives cured slowly in oil,
with cloves of garlic, bay leaves and chillies and lemon and salt,
conjures a whiff of a bygone age: rocky crannies,
goats, shade and the sound of pipes,
the tune of the breath of primeval times. The chill of a cave, a hidden cottage
in a vineyard, a lodge in a garden, a slice of barley bread and well water.
You are from there. You have lost your way.
Here is exile. Your death will come, and lay a knowing hand on your shoulder.
Come, its time to go home.

There is a village in a valley. Twenty flat-roofed huts. Mountain light,
sharp and intense. In a bend in the stream the six climbers, mostly Dutchmen,
are sprawled on a groundsheet, playing cards. Paul cheats a little, and Rico,
who is out, retires, swaddled in anorak and scarf, slowly inhaling
the crisp mountain air. He lifts up his eyes: sharp sickle peaks.
A couple of cirrus clouds. A redundant midday moon.
And if you lose your footing, the chasm has a womblike smell.
His knee aches and the sea is calling.

Stavros Evangelides, an eighty-year-old Greek wearing a crumpled brown suit
with a stain above the left: knee, has a bald brown head patterned with wrinkles,
moles and grey bristles, and a prominent nose, but perfect, young teeth,
and large, joyful eyes: guileless eyes, which seem to see only good. His room
is shabby. The curtains are faded. There's a crooked wooden shutter
secured on the inside with a bar. And a thick blend
of sepia smells heavily overlaid with incense. The walls are covered
with icons, and an oil lamp illuminates a Crucifixion with a very young
Christ, as though the painter has brought Golgotha forward,
so that the miracle of the loaves and the fishes, and the raising of Lazarus
must have occurred after the Resurrection. Mr. Evangelides is
a slow man. He seats his visitor, goes out and comes back twice,
the second time bringing a glass of water
lukewarm. First he collects his fee, in cash, counting the money methodically,
and enquires politely who it was in fact
who recommended the gentleman to him. His Hebrew is simple but correct,
with a slight Arab accent. Are his perfect teeth his own?
Impossible to tell for the moment. Then he asks a few general questions
about life, health and so on. He takes an interest
in Albert's family and country of origin. He maintains that the Balkans belong
both to the west and to the east. He writes all the answers down in detail
in a notebook. He wants to know about those who have gone before,
who and how and when. And who is the deceased who has brought you here
this evening, sir? Then he ponders. Digests. Studies his fingers
for a while, as though mentally checking to make sure they are all present
and correct. He explains modestly that he cannot guarantee
results. A man and a woman, you must surely know, sir,
are a mysterious union: one day they are close, the next
they turn their backs. I must ask you to breathe normally, sir.
Palms up. Clear your mind. That's right. Now we can begin.
The visitor closes his eyes to remember.
Narimi narimi
the bird said to her.
Then he reopens them. The room is empty.
The light is grey-brown. For a moment he fancies he can make out
an embroidered pattern in the folds of the curtains.

Some time later Mr. Evangelides came back into the room. Tactfully
he refrained from asking how it went. He brought
another glass of water, this time cool and fresh. A pleasant, soothing light
shone from his smiling eyes between the brown wrinkles, the smile
of a bright child displaying milk-white teeth. Treading softly
he saw his visitor to the door. The following day over herbal tea at the office
Bettine said to him, Albert, don't take it to heart, one way or another
almost everybody ends up disappointed. That's the way it is.
He was in no hurry to reply. For some time he studied
his fingers. After I left, he said, just like that in the middle of the street
I saw someone who looked a bit like her. From behind.

Bettine sits alone at home after midnight in an armchair reading a novel
about loneliness and wrongdoing. Someone, a secondary character, dies
because of a misdiagnosis. She lays the book
face down in her lap, and thinks about Albert: Why
did I send him to the Greek? I caused him unnecessary pain. And yet
we have nothing to lose, after all. He is living all by himself now,
and I am on my own too. You can hear the sea out there.

Vague rumors abound, and half-testimonies too, concerning a gigantic,
almost human creature, that roams alone in the Tibetan mountains.
Single and free. Footprints have been photographed in the snow
once or twice
in
inaccessible places where even the most intrepid
mountaineer would hardly dare venture. Almost certainly
it is nothing but a local legend. Like the Loch Ness monster
or the ancient Cyclops. His mother, who sat embroidering
almost to the hour of her death, his sad, withdrawn father
who sits night after night at his computer looking for loopholes
in the tax laws, everyone in fact, is condemned to wait
for their own death locked in a separate cage. You too, with your travelling,
your obsession to go further and further away and hoard more
and more experiences, are carting your own cage around with you
to the outer edge of the zoo. Everyone has their own captivity. The bars
separate everyone from everyone else. If that solitary snowman really exists,
without sex or partner, without birth or progeny or death,
roaming these mountains for a thousand years,
light and naked, how it must laugh as it moves among the cages.