A Pigeon and a Boy Read Online Free PDF

it—unlike that blue-bound book—is still in existence and in my possession, and can be opened and viewed.
    There are times when I am capable of astonishing speed and resolve, in contrast to my personality and my shape. So it was that day, the day of her death. While the news was just spreading, taking root, showing no signs of change or remorse, and while the doorbell and the telephone rang incessantly and Yordad wandered aimlessly, banging into the walls, and Benjamin, as always, was late or busy I rushed to take that Family Constitution of ours and I hid it away in one of the equipment compartments of Behemoth. It has been in my possession ever since. Here it is: written on thin, light blue letter paper, with your distinctive Hebrew lettering: the potbellied
pe,
the dandified
beth.
Here, your cranelike
kaph-sophit,
the
samekh
so tiny it looks like a dot.
    Here, I say to myself over my small treasure each time I remove it from its hiding place—here, over this light blue, your hand hovered, hovered and wrote: “The children will tidy their rooms, dry the dishes, and take out the rubbish.” “The children will tell their mother stories and on Saturday mornings will shine the shoes of all members of the family” “The children will see to watering Mother’s parsley plant in the kitchen.” “The parents will clothe, feed, teach, caress, and hug the children and will bring no more of them into the world.”
    And on and on, here. Right over this very paper. Your hand. Hovering, almost landing, warm and alive.
3
    S HE WAS AN EASYGOING, pleasant mother and her anger seldom flared: only when Yordad called her Mother instead of Raya, her name, or when her sons referred to her as “she” instead of “Mother,” or when they disturbed her as she painted the house, or when we answered “Not true!” to something she said.
    Once, however, she did something that I understood only years later. It happened on the Day of Atonement, Yom Kippur, five years after we had moved from Tel Aviv to Jerusalem. Benjamin was eleven and I was thirteen. On the eve of the holiday we put on white shirts and sneakers and went to the neighborhood synagogue. Usually Yordad did not permit us to wear sneakers, specifically because he was worried about thedevelopment of our feet and generally about all our bones. But for some reason the holiday customs, including the prohibition against wearing leather shoes, touched his heart. He even fasted, despite the fact that he normally did not keep a single one of the Jewish laws.
    “In my father’s memory” he announced, the expression on his face sanctimoniously festive, a look we never saw on any other day of the year.
    My mother, brother, and I did not fast, but according to his wish we refrained from eating anything that would waft aromas through the window, outside. “This is Jerusalem,” he said, “not Tel Aviv. We must be considerate of our neighbors.”
    After breakfast my mother wished to listen to music on our gramophone, but Yordad restated his demand.
    “We’ll listen quietly,” my mother said. “And you needn’t remind me all the time that this is Jerusalem and not Tel Aviv; I’m only too aware of that.”
    “I beg you, Raya,” Yordad said, “do not listen to music on Yom Kippur here.” He pronounced her name the proper, official way, Ra-a-
ya,
instead of
Raya.,
the way everyone—including him—called her on the nonatonement days of the year.
    My mother buckled her sandals and put on her wide-brimmed straw hat, the yellow weave blending with her hair, the blue ribbon crowning the angry blush on her face.
    “Come,” she said, “let’s go breathe some air outside, because suddenly we’ve sprouted a pope. A person could choke on all the righteousness and incense around here.”
    Astonished and obedient—when referring to us and her, “astonished and obedient” was the way to describe our ongoing situation, apart from a few controlled mutinies staged by Benjamin—we