quietly as I could and stood pressed against the door in the darkness, almost hugging it while holding my breath, just like in one of those thrillers, until I heard faint steps and realized that he was coming to the door, that he was standing right on the other side of it. And then, in this soft, friendly voice that wouldnât scare him, I said, âItâs me, Mr. Mani, Iâve brought you an important message from your son Efiââat which point he had to open up...
âJust a minute. Listen...
âWill you wait one minute!
âNot at all, Mother. Heâs only your age, maybe even a little younger, somewhere in his middle forties. He could look pretty good if he wanted to. But when he opened the door that evening he was scary-looking, like some kind of depressed animal coming out from deep in its burrow, with this month-old mournerâs beard and a raggedy old bathrobe, all red-eyed and wild-haired. He was in his socks, and the apartment behind him was dark but heated like a furnace, and he seemed so surprised and upset by my having gotten him to open the door that all he could do was stand there blocking it and looking hostile. I could see there was no point in reminding him who I was, or in telling him I had been in his apartment a month ago on a condolence call, because he was so into himself that a month might have seemed to him like a hundred years or more. And so I just mentioned Efi again and gave him the message as quickly as I could before the door was shut in my face, and he stood there listening without a word, just shaking his head absentmindedly while beginning to close the door. But as luck would have it, Mother, just then the telephone rangâyou would have thought that part of myself had stayed behind in Tel Aviv to keep on dialing. He looked around as if pretending not to notice it, or at least hoping I would go away so he could answer, but when he saw I had no intention of doing that and that the telephone wasnât stopping, he went to pick it up in the living roomâand then, Mother, perhaps because of the book I was in now, or because I knew Iâd be protected by the photographer and the director and the whole camera team that was following my every movement, I decided not to take that head shake of his for an answer and I slipped inside uninvited, because I knew I had to find out what was going on in there...
âBecause there must have been something if he was that determined to keep me out when I had come all the way from Tel Aviv with a message from his son and was standing there on the landing, soaking wet and half-frozen...
âYou donât say! I was waiting for that, Mother.
âI was waiting for it. I was wondering when youâd get around to that, so why donât you just spill it all now ... Iâve been expecting it for the last quarter of an hour, so if you must say it, this is the time...
âYes, yes, why donât you say it, go right ahead.
There goes our Hagar looking for a father figure again ... as usual, sheâs latched onto some older man ...
I know that routine by heart ... every time I would tell you when I was in the army about some officer a little older than me whom I happened to like, youâd get that pitying smile of yours right away...
âYes, I know you didnât, but itâs what you wanted to say, why not admit it, goddamn it? It follows logically from all those trite, pathetically shallow clichés youâve been taught about the psychology of orphans...
âYou mean thereâs no special field of Orphan Psychology?
âHow come?
âWell, you can be sure theyâll invent it soon...
âNo, I already know all that...
âJust a minute. Listen...
âBut thatâs what you want to say, I know you do, so say it...
âSay it ... whatâs stopping you?
âIâm not angry.
âBecause the truth may be very different. So why donât you try, Mother, for
âJust a minute. Listen...
âWill you wait one minute!
âNot at all, Mother. Heâs only your age, maybe even a little younger, somewhere in his middle forties. He could look pretty good if he wanted to. But when he opened the door that evening he was scary-looking, like some kind of depressed animal coming out from deep in its burrow, with this month-old mournerâs beard and a raggedy old bathrobe, all red-eyed and wild-haired. He was in his socks, and the apartment behind him was dark but heated like a furnace, and he seemed so surprised and upset by my having gotten him to open the door that all he could do was stand there blocking it and looking hostile. I could see there was no point in reminding him who I was, or in telling him I had been in his apartment a month ago on a condolence call, because he was so into himself that a month might have seemed to him like a hundred years or more. And so I just mentioned Efi again and gave him the message as quickly as I could before the door was shut in my face, and he stood there listening without a word, just shaking his head absentmindedly while beginning to close the door. But as luck would have it, Mother, just then the telephone rangâyou would have thought that part of myself had stayed behind in Tel Aviv to keep on dialing. He looked around as if pretending not to notice it, or at least hoping I would go away so he could answer, but when he saw I had no intention of doing that and that the telephone wasnât stopping, he went to pick it up in the living roomâand then, Mother, perhaps because of the book I was in now, or because I knew Iâd be protected by the photographer and the director and the whole camera team that was following my every movement, I decided not to take that head shake of his for an answer and I slipped inside uninvited, because I knew I had to find out what was going on in there...
âBecause there must have been something if he was that determined to keep me out when I had come all the way from Tel Aviv with a message from his son and was standing there on the landing, soaking wet and half-frozen...
âYou donât say! I was waiting for that, Mother.
âI was waiting for it. I was wondering when youâd get around to that, so why donât you just spill it all now ... Iâve been expecting it for the last quarter of an hour, so if you must say it, this is the time...
âYes, yes, why donât you say it, go right ahead.
There goes our Hagar looking for a father figure again ... as usual, sheâs latched onto some older man ...
I know that routine by heart ... every time I would tell you when I was in the army about some officer a little older than me whom I happened to like, youâd get that pitying smile of yours right away...
âYes, I know you didnât, but itâs what you wanted to say, why not admit it, goddamn it? It follows logically from all those trite, pathetically shallow clichés youâve been taught about the psychology of orphans...
âYou mean thereâs no special field of Orphan Psychology?
âHow come?
âWell, you can be sure theyâll invent it soon...
âNo, I already know all that...
âJust a minute. Listen...
âBut thatâs what you want to say, I know you do, so say it...
âSay it ... whatâs stopping you?
âIâm not angry.
âBecause the truth may be very different. So why donât you try, Mother, for
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