think there were so many babies born after the Yom Kippur or Six Day War? It’s genetic programming. People want to procreate when their survival is threatened, so they start having sex and shit. It’s the best time to get laid.”
Uri thought of his father and how he seemed to be in a better mood these past couple of weeks. Twice the widow had dropped by with cookies and lasagna, dressed in revealing blouses, her hair blow-dried in waves, her pink lips puckered like a closed tulip.
One evening, he came home to find a book of poetry from the library on his desk. A poet by the name of Roni Someck. Uri flipped through it: the pages were worn out and dog-eared, some darkened with oily stains. That night, he lay in bed, mouthing the poems to himself. He had never read poetry like that, hadn’t known it existed: the verse written in an easy, fluid language, sometimes even slang, and often about everyday things. Yet it was beautiful, haunting, filled with such passion that Uri felt seized by it himself, unable to put the book down, too wired to fall asleep. The back of the book said that Someck was born in Baghdad—an Iraqi poet!—and lived in Ramat Gan, which both pleased and stunned Uri, the idea that a real poet lived and walked and found inspiration in these dull suburban streets. He studied his picture on the back, a young man with a broad forehead and dark olive-pit eyes, and wondered if maybe he’d seen him somewhere, in the supermarket, on the number 61 bus, if his house was visible from Uri’s apartment, if his was one of the windows that stayed lit late at night.
At first, Uri only wrote in the shelter, sitting in the corner with a school notebook, filling pages upon pages with new poems whileYasmin slept, snoring lightly, and his dad and the widow laughed inside their gas masks, her hand on his knee. Then he bought a small spiral-bound notebook that fit in his back pocket for when he went skateboarding in the afternoons, and when poems tugged at him—sometimes just fleeting images, other times words, full sentences—he pulled the notebook from his pocket, sat down on a park bench, a curb, a stone fence, and wrote.
On Purim morning, six weeks after the war had started, Uri’s father woke him up to tell him it was over. Saddam had withdrawn from Kuwait; a ceasefire was being negotiated. Just in time for the holiday. His dad took photos as Uri and Yasmin ripped the duct tape off the glass, flung the plastic sheets into a heap on the floor, slid open the windows to clear the room of its stale air of anxiety.
Outside, the sky was the rich, promising blue of spring. The streets were teeming with children in costumes, hundreds of Saddam Husseins competing with the usual cowboys and Supermen, Queen Esthers and Disney princesses. Uri and Nadav skateboarded through town, feeling free without their gas masks. They checked out the girls parading by in their costumes, some wearing sandals and short skirts, revealing secret winter skin. The wind tasted sweet on Uri’s tongue, and as he skated down the steep, windy Arlozorov Street, he opened his mouth and drank it in, feeling invincible, more mature somehow.
When he came home that evening—legs achy from skating, eyes and throat irritated from the wind, dust and car exhaust—he found Yasmin bundled in a blanket by the kitchen window, a dark silhouette against the silvery moonlit sky, smoking into an overflowing ashtray. Her eyes were swollen and her face drawn. Shekept biting her lip ring, rolling it forward and backward. “Tatagat left,” she said. “He went back to India.”
Uri joined her by the window. His father was working late again. The city was abuzz with party preparations. The smell of meals rose from apartments below, mixing with the sharp, fresh scent of night. Yasmin shuffled to the fridge and grabbed a bottle of beer. She threw herself back on the chair, folded her knees up, tightened the blanket over her shoulders. “Every time I think I know
Uri thought of his father and how he seemed to be in a better mood these past couple of weeks. Twice the widow had dropped by with cookies and lasagna, dressed in revealing blouses, her hair blow-dried in waves, her pink lips puckered like a closed tulip.
One evening, he came home to find a book of poetry from the library on his desk. A poet by the name of Roni Someck. Uri flipped through it: the pages were worn out and dog-eared, some darkened with oily stains. That night, he lay in bed, mouthing the poems to himself. He had never read poetry like that, hadn’t known it existed: the verse written in an easy, fluid language, sometimes even slang, and often about everyday things. Yet it was beautiful, haunting, filled with such passion that Uri felt seized by it himself, unable to put the book down, too wired to fall asleep. The back of the book said that Someck was born in Baghdad—an Iraqi poet!—and lived in Ramat Gan, which both pleased and stunned Uri, the idea that a real poet lived and walked and found inspiration in these dull suburban streets. He studied his picture on the back, a young man with a broad forehead and dark olive-pit eyes, and wondered if maybe he’d seen him somewhere, in the supermarket, on the number 61 bus, if his house was visible from Uri’s apartment, if his was one of the windows that stayed lit late at night.
At first, Uri only wrote in the shelter, sitting in the corner with a school notebook, filling pages upon pages with new poems whileYasmin slept, snoring lightly, and his dad and the widow laughed inside their gas masks, her hand on his knee. Then he bought a small spiral-bound notebook that fit in his back pocket for when he went skateboarding in the afternoons, and when poems tugged at him—sometimes just fleeting images, other times words, full sentences—he pulled the notebook from his pocket, sat down on a park bench, a curb, a stone fence, and wrote.
On Purim morning, six weeks after the war had started, Uri’s father woke him up to tell him it was over. Saddam had withdrawn from Kuwait; a ceasefire was being negotiated. Just in time for the holiday. His dad took photos as Uri and Yasmin ripped the duct tape off the glass, flung the plastic sheets into a heap on the floor, slid open the windows to clear the room of its stale air of anxiety.
Outside, the sky was the rich, promising blue of spring. The streets were teeming with children in costumes, hundreds of Saddam Husseins competing with the usual cowboys and Supermen, Queen Esthers and Disney princesses. Uri and Nadav skateboarded through town, feeling free without their gas masks. They checked out the girls parading by in their costumes, some wearing sandals and short skirts, revealing secret winter skin. The wind tasted sweet on Uri’s tongue, and as he skated down the steep, windy Arlozorov Street, he opened his mouth and drank it in, feeling invincible, more mature somehow.
When he came home that evening—legs achy from skating, eyes and throat irritated from the wind, dust and car exhaust—he found Yasmin bundled in a blanket by the kitchen window, a dark silhouette against the silvery moonlit sky, smoking into an overflowing ashtray. Her eyes were swollen and her face drawn. Shekept biting her lip ring, rolling it forward and backward. “Tatagat left,” she said. “He went back to India.”
Uri joined her by the window. His father was working late again. The city was abuzz with party preparations. The smell of meals rose from apartments below, mixing with the sharp, fresh scent of night. Yasmin shuffled to the fridge and grabbed a bottle of beer. She threw herself back on the chair, folded her knees up, tightened the blanket over her shoulders. “Every time I think I know
Similar Books
