moments later.
‘Why not?’
‘One thing leads to another.’
‘Why shouldn’t it?’
‘I’m engaged,’ she said.
‘That’s all right.’
‘My fiancé expects a virgin at marriage.’
This statement, as incendiary as it was unexpected, set me on with greater vigour.
‘I don’t know if you’re expert at judo,’ she said. ‘But from here I could throw you in the lake with no trouble.’
‘Why the hell should you want to?’ I said, shaken.
‘I don’t want to.’
‘How about just relaxing, then?’
‘I’m very relaxed. I don’t want to relax any more.’
‘Okay.’ I said, and after a moment took my arm away. No interloper I, except by invitation. There was also the matter of staying out of the lake. ‘What’s this about judo?’ I said.
‘Any girl of the army can take judo.’
‘Doesn’t that terrify the men of the army?’
‘Some more than others. It’s a brave army,’ she said.
I pondered this, and noticed the tuned-in look had switched on. ‘In your army, I think,’ she said, ‘the officer gives the order Advance. It’s so in every army of the world. In the army of Israel he must order Follow Me. This tells us something, I think, of the quality.’
A certain amount of this had been coming out of her of late, so no particular homily seemed intended. I looked at her curiously all the same.
‘How long have you been in Israel, Shoshana?’
‘Over fifteen years.’ She told me about her family. Her father kept a small shop in Tel Aviv, her mother had a cleaning job, an older brother worked in a road gang, and an elder sister was on a kibbutz.
‘You’re the bright one of the family, then?’
‘It isn’t brightness. Just opportunity,’ she said warmly. ‘I was the only one educated here. The others had no education.’
‘Do they look like you?’
‘There’s a family look.’
‘An Arab look?’
‘It isn’t Arab. There’s Arab blood, of course.’
‘Yes.’ Very complicating. Was it her Arab blood that made her shake her head when she meant yes and nod it when she meant no? And which of her compound linguistic signals were meant to be read – the Arab interrogatives which seemed to advise Come On, or the plain Hebrew words which said Keep Off?
‘What’s your boy-friend like?’ I said distractedly.
She dug in her shoulder bag and produced a photo. An enormous bruiser, somewhat dusky, smiled dourly out of it from behind a bristling moustache.
‘Is he a Yemeni, too?’
‘A Moroccan. His name is Shimshon,’ she said, smiling.
‘Samson. He’s a big fellow, isn’t he?’ I said faintly.
‘One hundred and ninety-eight centimetres.’
I bemusedly worked it out. The monster was six foot six.
‘We aren’t officially engaged,’ she said. ‘I think we will be officially engaged. He can pick me up with one hand.’
‘What else does he do? Professionally.’
‘He’s an army officer. A regular.’
‘In this area?’
‘No, no. In the south. The far south,’ she said, drawing thoughtfully on her cigarette. I looked at her. The downturned face was grave as ever, no particular emotion, sorrowful, gladsome or sportive crossing it.
I said, ‘And are you going to the far south for your week-end ?’
‘Only to Ein Gedi. My sister’s on the kibbutz there. She’s married, with a baby.’
‘Ein Gedi. We can travel down together, then. Have you seen the cave there?’
‘No. They don’t know about it on the kibbutz. It was kept quite secret almost from the start.’
I gave a final glance at the man in the far south and handed him back. I said, ‘Would you like to see it?’
‘Very much,’ she said promptly.
‘All right. We’ll do it.’
‘And would you like – it’s more comfortable on the kibbutz than at Barot, if you’re staying overnight.’
‘Can they put me up there?’
‘I could phone my sister and find out.’
‘Well, do that. We’ll buzz off at mid-day.’
‘Good,’ she said, and looked pleased; but Shimshon and
‘Why not?’
‘One thing leads to another.’
‘Why shouldn’t it?’
‘I’m engaged,’ she said.
‘That’s all right.’
‘My fiancé expects a virgin at marriage.’
This statement, as incendiary as it was unexpected, set me on with greater vigour.
‘I don’t know if you’re expert at judo,’ she said. ‘But from here I could throw you in the lake with no trouble.’
‘Why the hell should you want to?’ I said, shaken.
‘I don’t want to.’
‘How about just relaxing, then?’
‘I’m very relaxed. I don’t want to relax any more.’
‘Okay.’ I said, and after a moment took my arm away. No interloper I, except by invitation. There was also the matter of staying out of the lake. ‘What’s this about judo?’ I said.
‘Any girl of the army can take judo.’
‘Doesn’t that terrify the men of the army?’
‘Some more than others. It’s a brave army,’ she said.
I pondered this, and noticed the tuned-in look had switched on. ‘In your army, I think,’ she said, ‘the officer gives the order Advance. It’s so in every army of the world. In the army of Israel he must order Follow Me. This tells us something, I think, of the quality.’
A certain amount of this had been coming out of her of late, so no particular homily seemed intended. I looked at her curiously all the same.
‘How long have you been in Israel, Shoshana?’
‘Over fifteen years.’ She told me about her family. Her father kept a small shop in Tel Aviv, her mother had a cleaning job, an older brother worked in a road gang, and an elder sister was on a kibbutz.
‘You’re the bright one of the family, then?’
‘It isn’t brightness. Just opportunity,’ she said warmly. ‘I was the only one educated here. The others had no education.’
‘Do they look like you?’
‘There’s a family look.’
‘An Arab look?’
‘It isn’t Arab. There’s Arab blood, of course.’
‘Yes.’ Very complicating. Was it her Arab blood that made her shake her head when she meant yes and nod it when she meant no? And which of her compound linguistic signals were meant to be read – the Arab interrogatives which seemed to advise Come On, or the plain Hebrew words which said Keep Off?
‘What’s your boy-friend like?’ I said distractedly.
She dug in her shoulder bag and produced a photo. An enormous bruiser, somewhat dusky, smiled dourly out of it from behind a bristling moustache.
‘Is he a Yemeni, too?’
‘A Moroccan. His name is Shimshon,’ she said, smiling.
‘Samson. He’s a big fellow, isn’t he?’ I said faintly.
‘One hundred and ninety-eight centimetres.’
I bemusedly worked it out. The monster was six foot six.
‘We aren’t officially engaged,’ she said. ‘I think we will be officially engaged. He can pick me up with one hand.’
‘What else does he do? Professionally.’
‘He’s an army officer. A regular.’
‘In this area?’
‘No, no. In the south. The far south,’ she said, drawing thoughtfully on her cigarette. I looked at her. The downturned face was grave as ever, no particular emotion, sorrowful, gladsome or sportive crossing it.
I said, ‘And are you going to the far south for your week-end ?’
‘Only to Ein Gedi. My sister’s on the kibbutz there. She’s married, with a baby.’
‘Ein Gedi. We can travel down together, then. Have you seen the cave there?’
‘No. They don’t know about it on the kibbutz. It was kept quite secret almost from the start.’
I gave a final glance at the man in the far south and handed him back. I said, ‘Would you like to see it?’
‘Very much,’ she said promptly.
‘All right. We’ll do it.’
‘And would you like – it’s more comfortable on the kibbutz than at Barot, if you’re staying overnight.’
‘Can they put me up there?’
‘I could phone my sister and find out.’
‘Well, do that. We’ll buzz off at mid-day.’
‘Good,’ she said, and looked pleased; but Shimshon and
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