Gold-fanger’s, but he was too shy to use it with anyone in the building except the Moroccan children. He spoke English with the adults.
Joe pushed the empty wheelchair out of the apartment and out of the building. He parked it under the eucalyptus. He locked its wheel. Then he went back inside. Then he reemerged, walking backward, his hands extended with their palms up. Little Mr. Gold-fanger tottered forward, his palms resting on Joe’s. Mr. Goldfanger’s gaze at first did not stray from his own sneakers, but he gradually lifted his eyes until they met Joe’s. The two proceeded to the waiting chair. They executed a quarter turn, and Joe nodded and Mr. Gold-fanger sat down and Joe settled him and then resettled him and took his own position behind the chair and unlocked the wheel.
“Here I come,” Tamar called from her balcony. She had run upstairs to get a sweater, she said; to grab a book, she said; really to watch the pas de deux from above, like a princess in her box.
Sometimes they walked to the botanical gardens, sometimes to Liberty Bell Park, and most often to the Goldman Promenade, where they gazed across the forested valley at the walls of the Old City.
In English laced with Hebrew they talked about Tamar’s future in television newscasting or video production.
“Of course I will live in Tel Aviv.”
“I have heard of Tel Aviv. The action is there.”
They talked about Joe’s past—his island country.
“Little bits of islands, really. In the shape of the new moon.”
“Connected?” she wondered.
“There are bridges. Sometimes you need a boat.”
“So much water. You must find us dry.”
“Well… I have heard of the Galilee,” he said, respectfully.
“Do you have reptiles?”
“Oh, many lizards.”
“And jungles?”
“And jungles.”
“I’ve never seen a jungle.”
“Before coming here I’d never seen a desert.”
If Mr. Goldfanger were asleep in his chair, they might talk about him. In Joe’s opinion, Mr. Goldfanger, despite or because of his in-articulateness, knew more than most people. “The secrets of plants. The location of water underground.”
“Some ministry would pay for that information.”
“He is like one of our allogs, grown too old for council duty, but still to be revered.”
“Allog?”
Joe thought for a while. “It means a kind of chieftain.”
“Allog, all’gim,” Tamar said, Hebraizing it. Then she turned it into verbs, passive and active and reflexive. Joe listened patiently.
“The elderly allog, the wise one,” he said, “is consulted on great questions.”
“Allog emeritus,” Tamar said.
Joe was silent again. Then: “I think perhaps you are very clever.” Tamar gave an ashamed whinny. “And the young allog—the one who is still in charge?”
“He makes decisions for the group. Also he acts as troubleshooter. And a sort of confessor, since the churches are not very helpful anymore.”
“Is it true that you examine entrails?” she asked quickly.
“That practice died out when the missionaries came.”
“When was that?”
“In the sixteenth century.”
“J OE WAS EDUCATED BY THE J ESUITS ,” the soprano said to Tamar’s grandmother. “Another glass of wine?”
Tamar’s grandmother nodded. “Then he was trained as a paramedic,” she said.
“Pharmacist,” the soprano corrected.
A barbed silence followed, gradually softening into a companionable one. There were few jobs for either paramedics or pharmacists on Joe’s little island, the two women agreed when dialogue resumed. Joe’s wife, a teacher, also could not find employment at home. She worked as a housekeeper in Toronto. Each hoped to be able to send for the other, and for the eight-year-old daughter who had been left in the care of her grandparents and was so unhappy with the arrangement that she refused to go to school. “She is on strike,” Joe had said.
“The classroom,” Tamar’s grandmother observed, “is the crucible of
Joe pushed the empty wheelchair out of the apartment and out of the building. He parked it under the eucalyptus. He locked its wheel. Then he went back inside. Then he reemerged, walking backward, his hands extended with their palms up. Little Mr. Gold-fanger tottered forward, his palms resting on Joe’s. Mr. Goldfanger’s gaze at first did not stray from his own sneakers, but he gradually lifted his eyes until they met Joe’s. The two proceeded to the waiting chair. They executed a quarter turn, and Joe nodded and Mr. Gold-fanger sat down and Joe settled him and then resettled him and took his own position behind the chair and unlocked the wheel.
“Here I come,” Tamar called from her balcony. She had run upstairs to get a sweater, she said; to grab a book, she said; really to watch the pas de deux from above, like a princess in her box.
Sometimes they walked to the botanical gardens, sometimes to Liberty Bell Park, and most often to the Goldman Promenade, where they gazed across the forested valley at the walls of the Old City.
In English laced with Hebrew they talked about Tamar’s future in television newscasting or video production.
“Of course I will live in Tel Aviv.”
“I have heard of Tel Aviv. The action is there.”
They talked about Joe’s past—his island country.
“Little bits of islands, really. In the shape of the new moon.”
“Connected?” she wondered.
“There are bridges. Sometimes you need a boat.”
“So much water. You must find us dry.”
“Well… I have heard of the Galilee,” he said, respectfully.
“Do you have reptiles?”
“Oh, many lizards.”
“And jungles?”
“And jungles.”
“I’ve never seen a jungle.”
“Before coming here I’d never seen a desert.”
If Mr. Goldfanger were asleep in his chair, they might talk about him. In Joe’s opinion, Mr. Goldfanger, despite or because of his in-articulateness, knew more than most people. “The secrets of plants. The location of water underground.”
“Some ministry would pay for that information.”
“He is like one of our allogs, grown too old for council duty, but still to be revered.”
“Allog?”
Joe thought for a while. “It means a kind of chieftain.”
“Allog, all’gim,” Tamar said, Hebraizing it. Then she turned it into verbs, passive and active and reflexive. Joe listened patiently.
“The elderly allog, the wise one,” he said, “is consulted on great questions.”
“Allog emeritus,” Tamar said.
Joe was silent again. Then: “I think perhaps you are very clever.” Tamar gave an ashamed whinny. “And the young allog—the one who is still in charge?”
“He makes decisions for the group. Also he acts as troubleshooter. And a sort of confessor, since the churches are not very helpful anymore.”
“Is it true that you examine entrails?” she asked quickly.
“That practice died out when the missionaries came.”
“When was that?”
“In the sixteenth century.”
“J OE WAS EDUCATED BY THE J ESUITS ,” the soprano said to Tamar’s grandmother. “Another glass of wine?”
Tamar’s grandmother nodded. “Then he was trained as a paramedic,” she said.
“Pharmacist,” the soprano corrected.
A barbed silence followed, gradually softening into a companionable one. There were few jobs for either paramedics or pharmacists on Joe’s little island, the two women agreed when dialogue resumed. Joe’s wife, a teacher, also could not find employment at home. She worked as a housekeeper in Toronto. Each hoped to be able to send for the other, and for the eight-year-old daughter who had been left in the care of her grandparents and was so unhappy with the arrangement that she refused to go to school. “She is on strike,” Joe had said.
“The classroom,” Tamar’s grandmother observed, “is the crucible of
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