David Grossman - A Horse Walks into a Bar

The setting is a comedy club in a small Israeli town. An audience that has come expecting an evening of amusement instead sees a comedian falling apart on stage; an act of disintegration, a man crumbling, as a matter of choice, before their eyes. They could get up and leave, or boo and whistle and drive him from the stage, if they were not so drawn to glimpse his personal hell. Dovaleh G, a veteran stand-up comic charming, erratic, repellent exposes a wound he has been living with for years: a fateful and gruesome choice he had to make between the two people who were dearest to him.

A Horse Walks into a Bar is a shocking and breathtaking read. Betrayals between lovers, the treachery of friends, guilt demanding redress. Flaying alive both himself and the people watching him, Dovaleh G provokes both revulsion and empathy from an audience that doesnt know whether to laugh or cry and all this in the presence of a former childhood friend who is trying to understand why hes been summoned to this performance.

David Grossman is the bestselling author of numerous works, which have been translated into thirty-six languages. His most recent novels were To the End of the Land, described by Jacqueline Rose as without question one of the most powerful and moving novels I have ever read, and Falling Out of Time. He is the recipient of the French Chevalier de lOrdre des Arts et des Lettres and the 2010 Frankfurt Peace Prize.

FICTION

The Smile of the Lamb

See Under: Love

The Book of Intimate Grammar

The Zigzag Kid

Be My Knife

Someone to Run With

In Another Life

Her Body Knows

To the End of the Land

Falling Out of Time

NON-FICTION

The Yellow Wind

Sleeping on a Wire: Conversations with Palestinians in Israel

Death as a Way of Life: Israel Ten Years After Oslo

Writing in the Dark: Essays on Literature and Politics

GOOD EVENING! GOOD evening! Good evening to the majestic city of Caesariyaaaaaah!

The stage is empty. The thundering shout echoes from the wings. The audience slowly quietens down and grins expectantly. A short, slight, bespectacled man lurches onto the stage from a side door as if hed been kicked through it. He takes a few faltering steps, trips, brakes himself on the wooden floor with both hands, then sharply juts his rear-end straight up. Scattered laughter and applause from the audience. People are still filing in to the club, chatting loudly. Ladies and Gentlemen, announces a tight-lipped man standing at the lighting console, put your hands together for Dovaleh G! The man on stage still crouches like a monkey, his big glasses askew on his nose. He slowly turns to face the room and scans it with a long, unblinking look.

Oh, wait a minute, he grumbles, this isnt Caesarea, is it? Sounds of laughter. He slowly straightens up and dusts his hands off. Looks like my agent fucked me again. A few audience members call out, and he stares at them in horror: Say what? Come again? You, table seven, yeah, with the new lips they look great, by the way. The woman giggles and covers her mouth with one hand. The performer stands at the edge of the stage, swaying back and forth slightly. Get serious now, honey, did you really say Netanya? His eyes widen, almost filling the lenses of his glasses: Let me get this straight. Are you going to sit there and declare, so help you God, that I am actually in Netanya at this very minute, and Im not even wearing a flak jacket? He crosses his hands over his crotch in terror. The crowd roars with joy. A few people whistle. Some more couples amble in, followed by a rowdy group of young men who look like soldiers on leave. The small club fills up. Acquaintances wave to each other. Three waitresses in short shorts and neon-purple tank tops emerge from the kitchen and scatter among the tables.

Listen, Lips, he smiles at the woman at table seven, were not done yet. Lets talk about it. I mean, you look like a pretty serious young lady, I gotta say, and you certainly have an original fashion sense, if Im correctly reading the fascinating hairdo that must have been done by let me guess: the designer who gave us the Temple Mount mosque and the nuclear reactor in Dimona? Laughter in the audience. And if Im not mistaken, I detect the faint whiff of a shitload of money emanating from your direction. Am I right or am I right? Heh? Eau de one per cent? No? Not at all? Im asking because I also note a magnificent dose of Botox, not to mention an out-of-control breast reduction. If you ask me, that surgeon should have his hands cut off.

The woman crosses her arms over her body, hides her face and lets out shrieks of delight through her fingers. As he talks, the man strides quickly from one side of the stage to the other, rubbing his hands together and scanning the crowd. He wears platform cowboy boots and as he moves the heels make a dry tapping sound. What Im trying to understand, honey, he yells without looking at her, is how an intelligent lady like yourself doesnt realize that this is the kind of thing you have to tell someone carefully, judiciously, considerately. You dont just slam someone with Youre in Netanya. Bam! Whats the matter with you? You gotta give a guy some preparation, especially when hes so skinny. He lifts up his faded t-shirt and a gasp passes through the room. Aint it so? He turns his bare chest to the people sitting on either side of the stage and flashes a big grin. See this? Skin and bones. Mostly cartilage. I swear to God, if I was a horse Id be glue by now, you know what Im saying? Embarrassed giggles and repulsed exhalations in response. All Im saying, sister, he turns back to the woman, is next time, when you give someone this kind of news, you need to do it carefully. Anaesthetize him first. Numb him up, for Gods sake. You gently numb his earlobe, like this: Congratulations, Dovaleh, O handsomest of men, youve won! Youve been chosen to take part in a special experiment in the Coastal Plains region, nothing too long, ninety minutes, at most two hours, which has been determined to be the maximum permissible time for non-hazardous exposure to this location for the average person.

The audience laughs and the man is surprised: Why are you idiots laughing? That joke was about you! They laugh even harder. Wait a minute, just so were clear, did they already tell you youre just the opening audience, before we bring in the real one? Whistles, snorts of laughter, a few boos from some parts of the room, a couple of fists thumping on tables, but most of the crowd is amused. A tall, slender couple comes in, both with soft golden locks falling over their foreheads. Theyre a young boy and girl, or maybe two boys, clad in shiny black, with motorcycle helmets under their arms. The man on stage glances at them and a little wrinkle arches above his eye.

He moves constantly. Every few minutes he launches a quick punch into the air, then dodges his invisible opponent, deceptive and swift like a skilled boxer. The audience loves it. He tents his hand over his eyes and scans the darkened room.

Im the one hes looking for.

Between you and me, pals, I should be putting my hand to my heart now and assuring you that Im crazy I mean crazy! about Netanya, right? Right! a few young audience members shout. I should be explaining how Im just so into being here with you on a Thursday evening in your charming industrial zone, and not just that but in a basement, practically touching the magnificent radon deposits while I pull a string of jokes out of my ass for your listening pleasure correct? Correct! the audience yells back. Incorrect, the man asserts and rubs his hands together gleefully. Its all a crock, except the ass bit, because Ive gotta be honest with you, I cant stand your city. I get creeped out by this Netanya dump. Every other person on the street looks like hes in the witness protection programme, and every