Eshkol Nevo - Homesick

It is 1995 and Noa and Amir have decided to move in together. Noa is studying photography in Jerusalem and Amir is a psychology student in Tel Aviv, so they choose a tiny flat in a village in the hills, between the two cities. Originally called El-Kastel, the village was emptied of its Arab inhabitants in 1948 and is now the home of Jewish immigrants from Kurdistan. Noa and Amirs flat is separated from that of their landlords, Sima and Moshe Zakian, by a thin wall, but on each side we find a completely different world. Next door lives a family grieving for their eldest son, killed in Lebanon. His younger brother, Yotam, forgotten by his parents, turns to Amir for friendship. And further down the street, as he works at the building site, Saddiq watches the house

In this enchanting and irresistible novel, the narrative moves from character to character offering us glimpses into their lives. Each of them comes from somewhere different but theres much about them thats the same. Homesick is a beautiful, clever and moving story about history, love, family and the true meaning of home.

Eshkol Nevo was born in Jerusalem in 1971. He spent his childhood years in Israel and America and studied copywriting at the Tirza Granot School and psychology at Tel Aviv University. For eight years he worked as a copywriter and then began writing short stories. He now teaches creative writing. Nevo has published a collection of stories, a work of non-fiction and this first novel was awarded the Book Publishers Associations Golden Book Prize (2005). His second novel was a number one bestseller in Israel.

In the end, he put all the remaining furniture out on the street. A friend was supposed to come with a van and pick it up. So he waited there. Sat down in an armchair and nibbled on a pear. A neighbour was washing his car, a hose in his hand. He remembered that when he was a child, he used to watch the streams of water running off the cars to see which would be the first to land. Now he looked at the time. Half-past eight. His friend was fifteen minutes late. That wasnt like him. Maybe, in the meantime, he should arrange the furniture the way it would be in a living room. Maybe not.

A woman whose bags he once carried from the shops made her way between the sofas and smiled at him as if she had something to say.

Another woman stumbled against the cabinet and grumbled: youre blocking the way.

TOPOGRAPHICALLY, WERE TALKING about a saddle. Two humps, and between them a shopping mall thats common ground for all. The hump where the Ashkenazim live is a well-tended town called Mevasseret. It has an air of optimism and the residents share it. The other, once a transit camp for new immigrants from Kurdistan, is a welter of shacks and villas, daisies and debris, tree-lined lanes and dirty streets. Its official name: Maoz Ziyon. Unofficially, its called Castel, after the old army post on the top of the hill where soldiers fell during the War of Independence. Now its a memorial site visited by their descendants. When you get there, right after the traffic lights, youll find Doga and Sons. A small market with not much to it. But if you have a question to ask, thats where to do it.

*

A random sampling of announcements posted on the noticeboard next to Doga and Sons: Course in practical Cabbala, call now and get a discount. New date set for the Boy Scout ceremony that was rained out. House calls by a certified cosmetician. Private maths lessons given by a qualified mathematician. Find your religious roots with Rabbi Itzhak Fein. The event will take place, rain or shine.

*

The man they asked at Doga made a mistake, and though theyd turned the right number of corners, Amir and Noa didnt find the apartment that was for rent, but ended up instead in a house of mourners. A large woman wept endlessly. Other women passed around trays of pastries and tea. No one noticed Noa and Amir, but they didnt feel right about leaving once they were there. Squeezed into a corner of the sofa, they listened to stories about the son killed in Lebanon and sneaked glances at their watches, wanting to be gone. Amir clasped his hands and thought: this is my chance to be really sad. Here I can stop trying to be happy and let the black squid ink of sadness flow through me freely. Noa played with her hair and thought: I have to pee. Funny how grief makes people want to eat.

An hour later, they stood up, nodded to the large weeping woman, made their way past knees and chairs to the door and went to find the apartment theyd been looking for.

But their passion in the search was gone, and they didnt feel the same urgency any more.

*

The apartment had two rooms. A living room the size of a kitchen. A kitchen the size of a bathroom. A bathroom with a squeegee to mop up the water that sprayed on to the floor from the shower. But none of that bothered them at all. And they didnt care that the landlord lived on the other side of the wall. Or that theyd lie in their bed with only an asbestos roof overhead. Theyd decided to live together; nothing would stop them. Even though he was studying psychology in Tel Aviv and she photography in Jerusalem. Mevasseret is a good compromise, she said. Tel Aviv isnt so far, considering you have a car. And I love the light here, she added, its so bright, so clear. He took her hand, led her to the window and said: We can plant a garden over there. The landlord, sensing he was about to clinch the deal, said: Its not like the city. Theres parking everywhere.

*

A month earlier, when we were still trying to decide, I had a dream. Im pushing a heavy truck up the road to Jerusalem, pushing it from behind like Superman: from Lod to Modiin, from Modiin to Latrun, from Latrun onward. At first, Im running effortlessly, the truck is flying forward and the wind is scattering my worries. But after the entrance to Shaar Hagai, when the road gets steeper, I suddenly start sweating and panting in an extremely un-Supermanly way. On the level section before the sheer climb up to the Castel, I can barely breathe and the truck is barely moving. Cars honk at me, children looking out of windows point at me and laugh, but still I continue, loyal to some demanding internal command, and with my last ounce of strength I manage to roll the truck to the top, to the Mevasseret bridge. And then, when I stop to catch my breath and take my hand off the truck for a minute to wipe the sweat off my forehead, it starts rolling backwards. On to me. I try to stop it, lean the entire weight of my body against it, but that doesnt help. My Supermanly strength is suddenly all gone, and now Im just someone trying to stop a truck that weighs a hundred times more than I do. Its moving faster by the second. Shocked cars veer away from it at the last minute. A bus-stop support bends under it. And Im running backwards, trying to slow it down by giving it small shoves and sticking a leg out in front of me, the way you do when you want to stretch your muscle. Despite my ridiculous efforts, the catastrophe and this is clear to me in the dream too is inevitable. And sure enough, at the bottom of the slope, a little before Abu Gosh, it happens. The truck hits a car that hits a car that hits a dividing wall. Twisted iron. Twisted limbs. A mosaic of glass and blood. The end.

When I woke up, filled with terror, I thought I understood the dream.

I called Noa and told her: Live together, yes. Closer to Jerusalem, yes. But not past Mevasseret.

*

Ah, yes, theres something else, the landlord said just as they were about to sign. Noa thought he was going to talk to them about the property tax or something like that. The neighbours over there, he said, lowering his voice a little and pointing to the house across the way, their son was just killed in Lebanon. So if you want to listen to music, try to keep the volume down. Of course, Amir said, no problem. We wont bother them, youll see. And besides, Mr Zakian, Noa added, you dont know us yet, but were a quiet couple. As quiet as can be.