Not far from the sea, Mr Albert Danon

lives in Amirim Street, alone. He is fond

of olives and feta; a mild accountant, he lost

his wife not long ago. Nadia Danon died one morning

of ovarian cancer, leaving some clothes,

a dressing table, some finely embroidered

tablemats. Their only son, Enrico David,

has gone off mountaineering in Tibet.

Here in Bat Yam the summer morning is hot and clammy

but on those mountains night is falling. Mist

is swirling low in the ravines. A needle-sharp wind

howls as though alive, and the fading light

looks more and more like a nasty dream.

At this point the track forks:

one way is steep, the other gently sloping.

Not a trace on the map of the fork in the track.

And as the evening darkens and the wind lashes him

with sharp hailstones, Rico has to guess

whether to take the shorter or the easier way down.

Either way, Mr Danon will get up now

and switch off his computer. He will go

and stand by the window. Outside in the yard

on the wall is a cat. It has spotted a lizard. It will not let go.

Nadia Danon. Not long before she died a bird

on a branch woke her.

At four in the morning, before it was light, narimi

narimi said the bird.

What will I be when I’m dead? A sound or a scent

or neither. I’ve started a mat.

I may still finish it. Dr Pinto

is optimistic: the situation is stable. The left one

is a little less good. The right one is fine. The X-rays are clear. See

for yourself: no secondaries here.

At four in the morning, before it is light, Nadia Danon

begins to remember. Ewes’ milk cheese. A glass of wine.

A bunch of grapes. A scent of slow evening on the Cretan hills,

the taste of cold water, the whispering of pines, the shadow

of the mountains spreading over the plain, narimi

narimi the bird sang there. I’ll sit here and sew.

I’ll be finished by morning.

Rico David was always reading. He thought the world

was in a bad way. The shelves are covered with piles of his books,

pamphlets, papers, publications, on all sorts

of wrongs: black studies, women’s studies,

lesbians and gays, child abuse, drugs, race,

rain forests, the hole in the ozone layer, not to mention injustice

in the Middle East. Always reading. He read everything. He went

to a left-wing rally with his girlfriend Dita Inbar.

Left without saying a word. Forgot to call. Came home late. Played his guitar.

Your mother begs you, his father pleaded. She’s not feeling too—

and you’re making it worse. Rico said, OK, give me a break.

But how can anyone be so insensitive? Forgetting to switch off.

Forgetting to close. Forgetting to get back before three in the morning.

Dita said: Mr Danon, try to see it his way.

It’s painful for him too. Now you’re giving him guilt feelings;

after all, it’s not his fault she’s dead. He has a right

to a life of his own. What did you expect him to do? Sit holding her hand?

Life goes on. One way or another everyone gets left

alone. I don’t go much on this trip to Tibet

either, but still, he’s entitled to try to find himself. Specially after

losing his mother. He’ll be back, Mr Danon, but don’t hang around

waiting for him. Do some work, get some exercise, whatever. I’ll drop by

sometime.

And since then he goes out to the garden at times. Prunes the roses.

Ties up the sweet peas. Inhales the smell of the sea from afar,

salt, seaweed, the warm dampness. He might

call her tomorrow. But Rico forgot to leave her details

and there are dozens of Inbars in the phone book.

One summer morning, when he was young, he and his mother took the bus

from Bat Yam to Jaffa, to see his Aunt Clara.

The night before he refused to sleep: he was afraid the alarm clock

would stop in the night, and we wouldn’t wake. And what if

it rains, or if we are late.

Between Bat Yam and Jaffa a donkey cart

had overturned. Smashed watermelons on the asphalt,

a blood bath. Then the fat driver took offence

and shouted at another fat man, with greased hair. An old lady

yawned at his mother. Her mouth was a grave, empty and deep.

On a bench at a stop sat a man in a tie and white shirt, wearing

his jacket over his knees. He wouldn’t board the bus.

Waved it on. Maybe he was waiting

for another bus. Then they saw a squashed cat. His mother

pressed his head to her tummy: don’t look, you’ll cry out again

in your sleep. Then a girl with her head shaved: lice? Her crossed leg

almost revealed a glimpse. And an unfinished building and dunes of sand.

An Arab coffee house. Wicker stools. Smoke,

acrid and thick. Two men bending forward, heads almost touching.

A ruin. A church. A fig tree. A bell.

A tower. A tiled roof. Wrought-iron grilles. A lemon tree.

A smell of fried fish. And between two walls

a sail and a sea rocking itself.

Then an orchard, a convent, palm trees,

date palms perhaps, and shattered buildings; if you continue

along this road you eventually reach

south Tel Aviv. Then the Yarkon.

Then citrus groves. Villages. And beyond

the mountains. And after that it is already

night. The uplands of Galilee. Syria. Russia.

Or Lapland. The tundra. Snowy steppes.

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. It’s 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 nought 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

the 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 it: 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 ought to 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

in 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 passed away 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. It’s 400 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

it’s 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 yourself 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, it’s nice here, high and bright,

the snow reminds me of Bulgaria in the bedtime stories Mum used to tell me

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

it 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. Lightfooted, 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 more and more naked. But she’s so young. Still a child. Hurriedly 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,

these 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 snatching 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.

For sometimes the taste of these strong olives pickled slowly in oil

with cloves of garlic, bayleaves 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, it’s 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 to rest, 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 womb-like 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

Narimi narimi

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.