Amos Oz - The Same Sea

One point that was impossible to convey in the translation: the name "Albert"

is pronounced as in French (with a silent t) by everyone except Bettine, who

pronounces it as it is written, with the stress on the second syllable.

Nicholas de Lange

Not far from the sea, Mr. Albert Danon

lives in Amirim Street, alone. He is fond

of olives and feta; a mild accountant, he lost

his wife not long ago. Nadia Danon died one morning

of ovarian cancer, leaving some clothes,

a dressing table, some finely embroidered

place mats. Their only son, Enrico David,

has gone off mountaineering in Tibet.

Here in Bat Yam the summer morning is hot and clammy

but on those mountains night is falling. Mist

is swirling low in the ravines. A needle-sharp wind

howls as though alive, and the fading light

looks more and more like a nasty dream.

At this point the path forks:

one way is steep, the other gently sloping.

Not a trace on the map of the fork in the path.

And as the evening darkens and the wind lashes him

with sharp hailstones, Rico has to guess

whether to take the shorter or the easier way down.

Either way, Mr. Danon will get up now

and switch off his computer. He will go

and stand by the window. Outside in the yard

on the wall is a cat It has spotted a lizard. It will not let go.

Nadia Danon. Not long before she died a bird

on a branch woke her.

At four in the morning, before it was light, narimi

narimi said the bird.

What will I be when I'm dead? A sound or a scent

or neither. I've started a mat.

I may still finish it. Dr. Pinto

is optimistic: the situation is stable. The left one

is a little less good. The right one is fine. The X-rays are clear. See

for yourself: no secondaries here.

At four in the morning, before it is light, Nadia Danon

begins to remember. Ewes' milk cheese. A glass of wine.

A bunch of grapes. A scent of slow evening on the Cretan hills,

the taste of cold water, the whispering of pines, the shadow

of the mountains spreading over the plain, narimi

narimi the bird sang there. I'll sit here and sew.

I'll be finished by morning.

Rico David was always reading. He thought the world

was in a bad way. The shelves are covered with piles of his books,

pamphlets, papers, publications, on all sorts

of wrongs: black studies, women's studies,

lesbians and gays, child abuse, drugs, race,

rain forests, the hole in the ozone layer, not to mention injustice

in the Middle East. Always reading. He read everything. He went

to a left-wing rally with his girlfriend Dita Inbar.

Left without saying a word. Forgot to call. Came home late. Played his guitar.

Your mother begs you, his father pleaded. She's not feeling too

and you're making it worse. Rico said, OK, give me a break.

But how can anyone be so insensitive? Forgetting to switch off.

Forgetting to close. Forgetting to get back before three in the morning.

Dita said: Mr. Danon, try to see it his way.

It's painful for him too. Now you're making him feel guilty;

after all, it's not his fault she's dead. He has a right

to a life of his own. What did you expect him to do? Sit holding her hand?

Life goes on. One way or another everyone gets left

alone. I'm not much for this trip to Tibet

either, but still, he's entitled to try to find himself. Especially after

losing his mother. He'll be back, Mr. Danon, but don't hang around

waiting for him. Do some work, get some exercise, whatever. I'll drop by

sometime.

And since then he goes out to the garden at times. Prunes the roses.

Ties up the sweet peas. Inhales the smell of the sea from afar,

salt, seaweed, the warm dampness. He might

call her tomorrow. But Rico forgot to leave her number

and there are dozens of Inbars in the phone book.

One summer morning, when he was young, he and his mother took the bus

from Bat Yam to Jaffa, to see his Aunt Clara,

The night before he refused to sleep: he was afraid the alarm clock

would stop in the night, and he wouldn't wake. And what if

it rains, or if we are late.

Between Bat Yam and Jaffa a donkey cart

had overturned. Smashed watermelons on the asphalt,

a blood bath. Then the fat driver took offense

and shouted at another fat man, with greased hair. An old lady

yawned at his mother. Her mouth was a grave, empty and deep.

On a bench at a stop sat a man in a tie and white shirt, wearing

his jacket over his knees. He wouldn't board the bus.

Waved it on. Maybe he was waiting

for another bus. Then they saw a squashed cat. His mother

pressed his head to her tummy: don't look, you'll cry out again

in your sleep. Then a girl with her head shaved: lice? Her crossed leg

almost revealed a glimpse. And an unfinished building and dunes of sand.

An Arab coffee house. Wicker stools. Smoke,

acrid and thick. Two men bending forward, heads almost touching.

A ruin. A church. A fig tree. A bell,

A tower, A tiled roof. Wrought-iron grilles. A lemon tree.

The smell of fried fish. And between two walls

a sail and a sea rocking.

Then an orchard, a convent, palm trees,

date palms perhaps, and shattered buildings; if you continue

along this road you eventually reach

south Tel Aviv. Then the Yarkon.

Then citrus groves. Villages. And beyond

the mountains. And after that it is already

night. The uplands of Galilee. Syria. Russia.

Or Lapland. The tundra. Snowy steppes.

Later, in Tibet, more asleep than awake,

he remembers his mother. If we don't wake up

we've had it. We'll be late. In the snow in the tent in the sleeping-bag

he stretches to press his head to her tummy.

In Amirim Street Mr. Danon is still awake.

It's two in the morning. On the screen before him

the figures don't add up. Some company

or other. A mistake

or a fraud? He checks. Can't spot anything. On an embroidered mat

the tin clock ticks. He puts on his coat and goes out. Its six now

in Tibet. A smell of rain but no rain in the street in Bat Yam.

Which is empty. Silent. Blocks of flats. A mistake

or a fraud. Tomorrow we'll see.

Dita slept with a good friend

of Rico's, Giggy Ben-Gal. He got on her nerves

when he called screwing intercourse. He disgusted her

by asking her afterwards how good it had been

for her on a scale of zero to a hundred. He had an opinion

about everything. He started yammering on about the female orgasm

being less physical, more emotional. Then he discovered

a fat mosquito on her shoulder. He squashed it, brushed it off, rustled

die local paper and fell asleep

on his back. Arms spread out in a cross.

Leaving no room for her. His cock shrivelled too

and went to sleep with a mosquito on if blood vengeance.

She took a shower. Combed her hair. Put on a black T-shirt that Rico

had left in one of her drawers. Less. Or more. Emotional. Physical.

Sexy. Bullshit. Sensual. Sexual.

Opinions night and day. That's wrong. That's right. What's squashed

can't be unsquashed. I should go and see how the old man's doing.