Rhyming Life and Death (2 page)

Mr Leon screws up his face and says in a bored tone: ‘Of course. Ovadya Hazzam. I was at his son's wedding. As it happens I am personally acquainted with the case of Ovadya Hazzam. He spent money left and right, both on good causes and just having a good time, he cruised around town all day in a blue Buick with Russian blondes, and he was always looking for investors, entrepreneurs, guarantors, sources of funding, partners. Poor guy. But you know what? For what we were talking about, you'd best forget him: he's not a good example for you. Cancer, my friend, doesn't come from bad habits. Scientists have discovered now that it's caused either by dirt or by nerves.'

*

The Author leaves nearly half his omelette on his plate. He takes a couple of sips of his coffee and finds it tastes of burnt onion and margarine. He glances at his watch. Then he pays, smiles at Ricky as he thanks her for the change, which he hides for her under the saucer. This time he is careful not to stare at her as she walks away, though he does bestow an appreciative parting glance at her back and her hips. He can see through her skirt that the left side of her knickers is slightly higher than the right side. It is hard for him to tear his eyes away. Eventually he gets up to leave, then changes his mind and goes down the two steps to the windowless toilet: the dead light bulb, the peeling plaster and the smell of stale urine in the dark remind him that he isn't prepared for the meeting and has no idea how he will answer the audience's questions.

As he comes up from the toilet he sees that Mr Leon and Shlomo Hougi have moved their chairs closer together and are now sitting shoulder to shoulder, bent over a notepad. The heavy set man runs his thick thumb slowly along the rows of numbers, while he talks in an emphatic whisper,
shaking his head repeatedly, as though ruling something out once and for all, no question of it, while his acquiescent partner nods over and over again.

*

The Author steps out into the street and lights another cigarette. It's twenty past nine. The evening is hot and sticky, the congealed air lies heavy on streets and yards, saturated with soot and burnt petrol. How terrible it must be, he thinks, on such a suffocating evening, to be lying in a critical condition in Ichilov Hospital, pierced with needles and connected up to tubes, between sweaty sheets, to the asthmatic sound of a bank of breathing machines. He pictures Ovadya Hazzam, before he got ill, an active man, always on the move, running all over the place, heavily built but agile, almost with a dancer's movements, driving around town in his blue Buick, always surrounded by helpers, friends, advice-givers, young girls, investors, wheeler-dealers and men on the make, throngs of people with ideas and initiatives, with favours to ask, and all kinds of fixers and meddlers. All day long he slapped people on the back, hugged men and women
alike to his broad chest, punched them playfully in the ribs, gave his word of honour, expressed amazement, burst into roars of laughter, remonstrated, rebuked and cracked jokes, said I am completely stunned, shouted Forget it, what the hell, quoted biblical verses, and sometimes succumbed to a mounting wave of sentiment, and then he would start, with no prior warning, smothering men and women indiscriminately with kisses and eager caresses, almost going down on bended knees, suddenly bursting into tears, grinning shyly and kissing, caressing, hugging and weeping all over again, bowing deeply and promising never to forget, and then off he hurried, breathless, smiling, waving goodbye to you with an open hand that always had the keys to the Buick suspended from one finger.

*

Beneath the window of the terminal ward where Ovadya Hazzam is lying, the evening is punctuated by ambulance sirens, screeching brakes, a brutish babble of full-volume advertising slogans from the blaring radio in the taxi station at the entrance to the hospital. With every breath his lungs are invaded
by a foul cocktail of smells: urine, sedatives, leftover food, sweat, sprays, chlorine, medicines, soiled dressings, excrement, beetroot salad and disinfectant. In vain have all the windows been opened wide in the old cultural centre now renamed for ‘Shunia Shor and the Seven Victims of the Quarry Attack': the air conditioning is out of order and the air is close and suffocating. The audience is drenched with sweat. Some bump into friends and stand chatting in the aisles. Others sit on hard seats, the younger ones on benches at the back because the older regulars have filled the front rows, their clothes sticking to their bodies, exuding their own smell and that of their neighbours into the murky air.

Meanwhile they exchange opinions, about the latest news, the terrible event in Acre, the leaks from the cabinet meeting, the revelations of corruption, the general situation, the air conditioning not working, and the heat. Three weary fans revolve ineffectually and almost unnoticed overhead: it is very hot here. Tiny insects squeeze between your collar and the back of your neck, like tropical Africa. Smells of sweat and deodorant hang in the air.

Outside, three or four streets away, the siren of
an ambulance or fire engine rises and falls, an ominous wail that gradually fades, not so much because of the distance as from failing strength. The night is pierced by the staccato alarm of a parked car struck by sudden panic in the darkness. Will the Author say something new this evening? Will he manage to explain to us how we got into this state of affairs, or what we have to do to change it? Can he see something that we haven't seen yet?

*

Some have brought along the book that is the subject of this evening's event, and are using it – or a newspaper – to fan themselves. There's a delay and still no sign of the Author. The programme includes words of welcome, a lecture by a literary critic, a reading of short extracts from the new work, the writer's talk, questions and answers, summing up, and closing remarks. Admission is free, and people are curious.

And here he is, at last, the writer.

The venue's cultural administrator has been waiting for him outside, at the foot of the stairs, for the past twenty minutes. He is a positive, affable man of about seventy-two, ruddy and round, with a face that
reminds you of an apple that has been left too long in the fruit bowl until it turns wrinkly. Unhealthy-looking blue veins criss-cross his cheeks. His spirit, though, is as lively as ever, like a fireman's hose aiming jets of enthusiasm and social commitment in every direction. But an acrid wave of body odour can be sensed from a handshake away. He wastes no time in starting to forge with the Author, who is thirty years his junior, bonds of affection erupting to mingle with big-hearted admiration, like the intimacy between two veteran guerrilla fighters: You and I, after all, struggle tirelessly, each in our own battle zone, for the promotion of values, of culture and of ideas, and to strengthen the ramparts of civilisation. That is why we can permit ourselves, in private here, behind the scenes, a couple of minutes of light-hearted banter before we put on appropriately serious faces when we walk into the hall and take our places on the dais.

*

Well, well, well, welcome, my young friend, welcome, we've been waiting for you here like a bridegroom, hee-hee, you are, how can I put it, a little on the late side. What? You were held up in
a cafe? Well, it's not the end of the world, everyone's always late here. Maybe you've heard the joke about the circumciser who was late for a circumcision? No. I'll tell you. Later. It's rather a long story, which by the way you can also find in Druyanov, you must be familiar with Druyanov? No? How so? And you a Jewish writer! Druyanov, Rabbi Alter Druyanov, the author of
The Book of Jokes and Witticisms
! But it's a veritable gold mine for any Jewish writer! Well, never mind. They're all out there waiting impatiently for us. We'll talk about Druyanov later. Definitely. But don't forget to remind me, I have a little thought of my own about the essential difference between a joke and a witticism. All right then, later. After all, you were a little late, my friend, never mind, it's not the end of the world, only we'd begun to fear that the muses had driven us out of your mind. But we didn't give up hope! No indeed, my dear friend! We are made of sterner stuff!

The Author, in his turn, apologises for his lateness and murmurs a little witticism of his own: You could always have started without me. Hee-hee-hee. Without you! That's funny! The old culture-monger bursts out laughing, and his body odour is like the
smell of fruit that is past its sell-by date. But, with all due respect, you could have started without us, too, in some other place. And by the way (both are out of breath as they climb the stairs), what do you think those American foxes will get out of their Arab friends? Will they manage to buy us a little peace and quiet at last? At least for a year or two?

He answers his own question: They won't get anything out of it. They'll only bring us more troubles. As if the old ones weren't bad enough! Some juice? Lemonade? Maybe something fizzy? Be quick, though. Here, I'll choose for you – now, let's hope you'll give us a fizzy evening.

Drink up, in your own time, and then we'll go out there and take on our audience. They could do with shaking up, in my humble opinion. You can be as provocative as you like, my dear. Don't spare them! Right, if you've finished your drink, let's be getting out there. They must be cursing us by now.

And so the two of them, the Author and the old culture-merchant, step out of the wings in Indian file and walk towards the front of the stage, looking as solemn and serious as a pair of bailiffs. A rapid flurry of whispers runs round the hall, perhaps because the
Author is wearing a summer shirt, khaki shorts and sandals, and looks less like an artist than a kibbutznik who's been sent into town to organise a peace rally, or like a reserve army officer in mufti. They say that in his private life he's actually quite a simple guy, on a personal level, I mean, someone like you and me, and look what complicated books he comes up with. He probably had a difficult childhood. It would be interesting to know what he's like to live with. Not that easy, to judge by his books. They say he's divorced? Isn't he? Not just once but twice? You can tell from his books: there's no smoke without fire. Anyway, he looks completely different in his pictures. He's aged quite a bit. How old do you think he is? He must be forty-five or so, don't you think? Forty-five at the outside. You want to know the truth, I would have sworn, literally sworn, that he was taller than he is.

*

They put the Author in the middle, between the professional reader, who will read passages aloud from the Author's work, and the literary critic. They shake hands. They nod. Rochele Reznik withdraws her fingers from his clasp quickly, as though she's
been burnt. The Author makes a mental note that the handshake made her slim neck blush more than her cheeks.

The cultural organiser gets to his feet heavily, tries out the microphone, and clears his throat. He starts by welcoming the very mixed and multi-generational audience gathered here this evening, he apologises for the air conditioning not working, quipping that every cloud has a silver lining – the breakdown means that for once we don't have to put up with its infernal humming and so this time we will not miss one word.

Then he lists the programme for this evening, promising the event will conclude with questions and answers, in the form of a no-holds-barred discussion with our guest whom, he declares gleefully, it is truly superfluous to introduce, despite which, to justify his presence, he spends the next ten minutes relating the Author's life story and listing all his books (erroneously attributing to his paternity a famous novel by another writer), and concludes his introductory remarks by repeating to the audience in his high-spirited way the Author's witticism on the staircase just now: our bridegroom of this evening was surprised to learn we had waited for him and not begun the programme without
him, hee-hee! Apropos of which it is not inappropriate to quote the well-known lines of the veteran poet Tsefania Beit-Halachmi, from his book
Rhyming Life and Death
, which goes something like this:

Yes. And now, with your permission, we shall proceed to this evening's programme. Good evening, everyone, and welcome to the monthly meeting of the Good Book Club at the refurbished Shunia Shor and the Seven Victims of the Quarry Attack Cultural Centre. I am very pleased to be able to say that the Good Book Club has been meeting here on a regular basis every month for the past eleven and a half years.

*

The Author, listening to this, decides not to smile. He appears thoughtful, faintly sad. The audience's eyes are on him, but he, apparently paying no attention, deliberately fixes his gaze on the picture of the Labour leader Berl Katznelson on the wall to the right
of the dais. Katznelson looks crafty but kindly, as though he has just pulled off a coup by devious means known only to himself. For now he is a king. A lord, even. And so, belatedly, the Author smiles that faint smile the audience has been waiting for since the cultural commissar's opening speech.

At that moment the Author has a feeling that somebody, somewhere in the furthest recesses of the hall, has sniggered offensively. He scans the hall: nothing. There's no one who looks as though he has just laughed. His ears must have deceived him. So he rests his elbows on the table and his chin on his fists, and affects a modest, faraway look while the literary critic, his freckled bald pate sparkling under the ceiling lights, stands and stridently draws comparisons and parallels between the Author's latest book and works by various contemporaries and writers of previous generations, tracing influences, identifying sources of inspiration, revealing hidden textures, indicating various levels and planes, pointing up unexpected connections, plunging to the lowest depths of the story, digging and burrowing in the ocean floor, then rising breathlessly to the surface to display to the world the treasures he has managed to bring up with him, then
diving once more and rising to the surface again to disclose concealed messages, to reveal the ploys and devices the Author has used, such as the strategy of the double negative, the snares and delusions he has concealed in the lower layers of his plot, and then on to the problem of credibility and reliability, which raises the fundamental question of narrative authority, and, in turn, the dimension of social irony and the elusive boundary between this and self-irony, which brings us to questions about the limits of legitimacy, the classification of conventions, the intertextual context, from where it is but a short step to the formalist aspects, the pseudo-archaic aspects, and the contemporary political aspects. Are these various latent aspects legitimate? Are they even coherent? Are they synchronic or diachronic? Disharmonic or polyphonic? Eventually the critic weighs anchor and sails away boldly onto the open seas of wide-ranging meanings, but not before impressing his listeners with a nimble detour around the fundamental question, what is the actual meaning of the term ‘meaning' in relation to artistic creation in general and literary creation in particular, and of course in relation to the work we are considering this evening?