Chapter One
A cat
Not far from the sea, Mr. Albert Danonlives in Amirim Street, alone. He is fondof olives and feta; a mild accountant, he losthis wife not long ago. Nadia Danon died one morningof ovarian cancer, leaving some clothes,a dressing table, some finely embroideredplace mats. Their only son, Enrico David,has gone off mountaineering in Tibet.
Here in Bat Yam the summer morning is hot and clammybut on those mountains night is falling. Mistis swirling low in the ravines. A needle-sharp windhowls as though alive, and the fading lightlooks more and more like a nasty dream.
At this point the path forks:one way is steep, the other gently sloping.Not a trace on the map of the fork in the path.And as the evening darkens and the wind lashes himwith sharp hailstones, Rico has to guesswhether to take the shorter or the easier way down.
Either way, Mr. Danon will get up nowand switch off his computer. He will goand stand by t
Chapter One
A cat
Not far from the sea, Mr. Albert Danonlives in Amirim Street, alone. He is fondof olives and feta; a mild accountant, he losthis wife not long ago. Nadia Danon died one morningof ovarian cancer, leaving some clothes,a dressing table, some finely embroideredplace mats. Their only son, Enrico David,has gone off mountaineering in Tibet.
Here in Bat Yam the summer morning is hot and clammybut on those mountains night is falling. Mistis swirling low in the ravines. A needle-sharp windhowls as though alive, and the fading lightlooks more and more like a nasty dream.
At this point the path forks:one way is steep, the other gently sloping.Not a trace on the map of the fork in the path.And as the evening darkens and the wind lashes himwith sharp hailstones, Rico has to guesswhether to take the shorter or the easier way down.
Either way, Mr. Danon will get up nowand switch off his computer. He will goand stand by the window. Outside in the yardon the wall is a cat. It has spotted a lizard. It will not let go.
A bird
Nadia Danon. Not long before she died a birdon a branch woke her.At four in the morning, before it was light, nariminarimi said the bird.
What will I be when I'm dead? A sound or a scentor neither. I've started a mat.I may still finish it. Dr. Pintois optimistic: the situation is stable. The left oneis a little less good. The right one is fine. The X-rays are clear. Seefor yourself: no secondaries here.
At four in the morning, before it is light, Nadia Danonbegins 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 shadowof the mountains spreading over the plain, nariminarimi the bird sang there. I'll sit here and sew.I'll be finished by morning.
Details
Rico David was always reading. He thought the worldwas in a bad way. The shelves are covered with piles of his books,pamphlets, papers, publications, on all sortsof wrongs: black studies, women's studies,lesbians and gays, child abuse, drugs, race,rain forests, the hole in the ozone layer, not to mention injusticein the Middle East. Always reading. He read everything. He wentto 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 making him feel guilty;after all, it's not his fault she's dead. He has a rightto 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 leftalone. I'm not much for this trip to Tibeteither, but still, he's entitled to try to find himself. Especially afterlosing his mother. He'll be back, Mr. Danon, but don't hang aroundwaiting for him. Do some work, get some exercise, whatever. I'll drop bysometime.
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 mightcall her tomorrow. But Rico forgot to leave her numberand there are dozens of Inbars in the phone book.
Later, in Tibet
One summer morning, when he was young, he and his mother took the busfrom Bat Yam to Jaffa, to see his Aunt Clara.The night before he refused to sleep: he was afraid the alarm clockwould stop in the night, and he wouldn't wake. And what ifit rains, or if we are late.
Between Bat Yam and Jaffa a donkey carthad overturned. Smashed watermelons on the asphalt,a blood bath. Then the fat driver took offenseand shouted at another fat man, with greased hair. An old ladyyawned 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, wearinghis jacket over his knees. He wouldn't board the bus.Waved it on. Maybe he was waitingfor another bus. Then they saw a squashed cat. His motherpressed his head to her tummy: don't look, you'll cry out againin your sleep. Then a girl with her head shaved: lice? Her crossed legalmost 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.The smell of fried fish. And between two wallsa sail and a sea rocking.
Then an orchard, a convent, palm trees,date palms perhaps, and shattered buildings; if you continuealong this road you eventually reachsouth Tel Aviv. Then the Yarkon.Then citrus groves. Villages. And beyondthe mountains. And after that it is alreadynight. 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 upwe've had it. We'll be late. In the snow in the tent in the sleeping-baghe stretches to press his head to her tummy.
Calculations
In Amirim Street Mr. Danon is still awake.It's two in the morning. On the screen before himthe figures don't add up. Some companyor other. A mistakeor a fraud? He checks. Can't spot anything. On an embroidered matthe tin clock ticks. He puts on his coat and goes out. It's six nowin Tibet. A smell of rain but no rain in the street in Bat Yam.Which is empty. Silent. Blocks of flats. A mistakeor a fraud. Tomorrow we'll see.
A mosquito
Dita slept with a good friendof Rico's, Giggy Ben-Gal. He got on her nerveswhen he called screwing intercourse. He disgusted herby asking her afterwards how good it had beenfor her on a scale of nought to a hundred. He had an opinionabout everything. He started yammering on about the female orgasmbeing less physical, more emotional. Then he discovereda fat mosquito on her shoulder. He squashed it, brushed it off, rustledthe local paper and fell asleepon his back. Arms spread out in a cross.Leaving no room for her. His cock shrivelled tooand went to sleep with a mosquito on it: blood vengeance.
She took a shower. Combed her hair. Put on a black T-shirt that Ricohad 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 squashedcan't be unsquashed. I ought to go and see how the old man's doing.
Excerpted from The Same Sea by AMOS OZ. Copyright © 1999 by Amos Oz and Keter Publishing House Ltd.. Excerpted by permission. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Copyright © 1999 by Amos Oz and Keter Publishing House Ltd.. All rights reserved.
