Abahn Sabana David Read Online Free PDF Page A

Jew.
    â€œYes.”
    â€œDesperation,” repeats Sabana.
    She falls silent. And then:
    â€œAnd since you came to Staadt?”
    â€œIt’s been bearable.”
    â€œBearable even with the danger?”
    â€œYes.”
    He paces still. She watches him.
    â€œWhere you’re always about to leave?”
    â€œWherever you are, I think, you are on your way.”
    Silence.
    â€œI’m cold,” says Sabana. “Afraid.”
    â€œWe are afraid,” says the Jew.
    â€œOf death.”
    â€œOf life.”
    Silence. The Jew walks. Paces.
    And then, while walking, right here, he calls out to David.
    â€œDavid. David.”
    First quietly, and then louder and louder, he calls to David.
    David sleeps. His lips are gently parted. His face captured in the lamp light turned on by the Jew.
    â€œDavid.”
    He sleeps.
    â€œDavid.”
    The Jews stops, waits. He sleeps still. The Jews begins pacing once more.
    Sabana is silent.
    â€œDavid. David.”
    Again he stops, the Jew. He stands still. Sabana struggles to discern him in the half-lit room. She hesitates, waiting. He paces away and then back. Sabana’s eyes are two gray slashes devoid of light. He paces. He calls out. He stops again. They wait.
    â€œDavid.”
    They wait. The cold grows in their hearts, in their wakes, a frozen climax. David’s voice rises up in the silence.
    â€œYes, I hear you. What?”
    His voice is quiet, peaceful.
    The Jew has stopped. They hear a dull cry. It is not David. Another cry. The dogs howl out in response. The howling dies down. The silence freezes over, muffles it. The silence drags forth a sob from David’s chest. Sabana’s face contorts in pain. She says:
    â€œIt looks like he’s suffering.”
    â€œWho?” asks the Jew.
    She moves. She rises up and goes to the window. She passes by the Jew, she does not look at him, she is at the window, facing the empty street, lingering there.
    â€¢
    T he only sound is David’s breathing, which occasionally stops as if bumping up against some barrier, and then begins again, longer, deeper.
    â€œHe’s dreaming,” says Sabana.
    â€œOf what?”
    â€œCement. And dogs.”
    The Jew draws close to David. Sabana goes with him. They watch David.
    â€œA thousand years?” the Jew says to David.
    The hands of David flutter lightly.
    â€œA thousand years,” repeats David.
    He sleeps.
    His hands fall back to his body. The effort of articulating the words makes them tremble.
    He is sleeping. He sleeps. His hands, his wounded hands, rest again on the arms of the chair. The eyes of the Jew are focused on the sleeping hands.
    â€œA thousand thousand years?” the Jew continues.
    It seems that David will speak.
    No.
    â€œA thousand thousand years?” continues the Jew.
    A light tremor passes through David’s body.
    â€œA thousand thousand years,” repeats David.
    David’s breath grows faster. Then stops. He does not take another.
    The silence grows. It blinds. It sharpens to a peak. Spreads out. Spreads to the chink in the wall of slumber, a dull stone, a clamor, brief and strange.
    David has cried out.
    Having cried out, David thrashes in sleep, he lifts his head, his eyes open, he sees nothing, his head falls back, he speaks:
    â€œLeave me alone,” he begs.
    In the silence that follows comes Sabana’s rough voice:
    â€œDavid.”
    And the voice of the Jew, the same:
    â€œDavid.”
    Silence.
    Abahn rises. He turns to face the dark road, his back turned to them. He says:
    â€œAnd now falls the night.”
    â€¢
    T he Jew walks away from Sabana and David. He once more resumes his pacing through the house.
    The wide stride of the Jew appears and disappears from the gaze of Sabana and Abahn.
    Eyes closed, the Jew walks and talks to David.
    â€œA thousand years? That’s it? And it goes on?”
    He speaks loudly. His voice echoes off the walls. Sabana stands