The Book of Israela. Rena Blumenthal

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СКАЧАТЬ much attention to the details—had thought it all a bit excessive—but was I really to be excluded from my own daughter’s coming-of-age party? Nava was wrong, of course, to order me away, but if I just showed up it might create a scene and ruin the party. The bat mitzvah was only three weeks away—what was I supposed to do?

      I finally decided that if I couldn’t attend the party, at least I could sink my energies into purchasing a special gift—something exotic and personal that would tell Yudit how much I still cared. On Sunday afternoon I took the bus into the center of town full of purpose, but after hours of wandering the eerily empty streets, I realized that I had no idea what Yudit might want. She seemed too young for expensive jewelry, and the books and electronic devices and tchotchkes that overflowed the downtown shops seemed too small for the weight of the task. By dusk I felt exhausted and defeated. I climbed onto the bus for the long journey back to Kiryat Yovel, shutting my eyes to the pink-tinged rush of buildings whizzing by.

      The bus driver had the news turned up high. The IDF had invaded Arafat’s compound, the Security Council was up in arms, and there was fighting in the streets of Ramallah. There was nowhere you could go to escape the unending crush of bad news. When I opened my eyes, having briefly nodded off, I noticed that the bus was winding its way through the narrow streets of an unfamiliar neighborhood. Had I absentmindedly hopped onto the wrong bus, or had I just not noticed this part of the route on the way in? I knew little of Jerusalem outside of downtown, where I’d always worked, and the trendy neighborhoods to the south.

      Two seats ahead of me and across the aisle sat a preteen-aged boy in a thin, nylon jacket with a book bag on his back. From behind, with his swarthy skin and close-cropped hair, he looked like an Arab, but I couldn’t be sure. He was perched at the edge of his seat, motionless but for his right leg tensely shaking up and down, looking out the front window with a blank stare. What was in that backpack that he wouldn’t take it off and let it lie casually by his side? I had always belittled Nava’s fear of taking buses, insisting, with my usual bravado, that life was a crapshoot with or without an intifada. But now suddenly my heart was pounding violently. I looked around me. Besides the boy, there were only two other passengers—an older man absorbed in a newspaper, and a young religious woman rapidly reciting prayers from a tiny, black prayer book. I watched them closely, searching for any trace of the panic that was quickly overwhelming me. Nava was right—no one with any money or sense took the buses anymore, especially during a holiday. How could I have been so stupid? My breathing became tighter; I could feel the sweat beading at my temples. I gripped the handrail tightly, steeling myself for the explosion.

      Impulsively, I pushed the button to signal that I wanted to exit, and as soon as the bus stopped, I jumped off. Gripping the metal frame of the empty bus stop shelter, my heart still pounding, I watched the bus peacefully pull away. It took a few minutes until I was able to breathe normally and my heartbeat slowed, but as it did, I felt a wave of humiliation. The drivers were well trained to recognize suspicious passengers. And anyway, a suicide bomber would have detonated in downtown Jerusalem, not on an empty bus, on an even emptier street. The boy who had sent me into such a panic was just a boy, his backpack just a backpack.

      I took a few deep breaths and looked around. I was on a backstreet of a dilapidated neighborhood. I asked two passersby to direct me to where I might hail a cab, but both of them shrugged and kept walking. I started walking myself, thinking I would surely stumble upon a thoroughfare, but instead found myself ensnared in increasingly narrow, winding streets. Dragging myself along, trying to ignore the blank stares of the beggars who seemed to inhabit every grimy alley, I stumbled upon a corner pub that looked about as sleazy as I felt. The half-burnt-out neon sign brokenly flashed “Soreq’s Pub.” I generally avoided bars, more partial to the solitary nightcap, but my nerves were still frayed from the bus—a quick shot of Scotch might help me recover, I thought.

      The cavernous room, three steps down from the street, was hot, dark, and empty and smelled of stale cigarettes. The bartender, a beefy man with a shiny bald pate, eyed me with open hostility. I hesitated, almost turning around, but the butterflies were still flitting through my chest and the itch for a drink was strong. I ordered a Scotch, downing it quickly, and the bartender refilled my glass without a word. I took it to the far end of the bar and settled uneasily onto a stool.

      As if on cue, a tall young woman with straight blond hair and broad Slavic features emerged from a back corridor. She gave me an indifferent glance, then continued to the front of the bar.

      “I’ll have another,” she said, leaning over the counter, and the bartender, just as silently, poured her a vodka. Glass in hand, she headed to a corner booth on the far side of the room.

      She wore a simple gray dress, with a cheap glittery scarf hanging loosely over her shoulder. Even from the brief glance she had tossed my way, I could see that she had exquisite features, with sharply etched cheekbones. Well, why not? I thought. I had nowhere to go and no one to be with. I downed my drink, allowed the bartender to refill it, and self-consciously walked across the chasm of the room.

      “May I join you?”

      She looked up—from that close, I could see the shadows under her tired blue eyes.

      “We seem to be the only ones here,” I said, as if to excuse my inexplicable rudeness.

      “It’s OK,” she said, in heavily accented Hebrew.

      I sat down. As if in slow motion, she lit a cigarette, and I saw that a thin rope, tattooed in black ink, snaked up her right arm. I glanced back at the bartender, who seemed immersed in a newspaper.

      “That’s an interesting tattoo,” I said.

      She looked at her forearm as if she’d never seen it before, then back at me. She was strikingly beautiful, with a gaze that was neither welcoming nor hostile. I had a hard time looking at her eyes.

      “What’s your name?” I asked.

      “Delia.”

      “Are you Russian?”

      “No, not Russian.”

      “Where are you from, then?”

      “Moldova.”

      “Oh, OK.” I’d heard of it, of course. But where exactly was it?

      She gazed at me flatly. “You have no idea where it is.”

      “I guess that’s true. I’m sorry. It’s somewhere near Russia, no?”

      “You could say that.” She took a long pull on her drink.

      “Have you been in Israel a long time?” I asked.

      “Too long,” she said bitterly.

      “I guess you don’t like it much.”

      She put an elbow on the table, her chin resting on her fist, as if deciding whether engaging me in conversation was worth her time.

      “It’s a hard country to like,” I stammered, unnerved by her silence.

      “Hard to like?” she finally said. “Thinking you will get blown up every time you go to the market? Having everyone talk down at you, like you’re some kind of dumb foreigner?”

      “You speak good Hebrew,” I said. Even to my ear, the compliment sounded lame.

      She shrugged.

      “Why did you come here?” СКАЧАТЬ