and on toward Bengal. There, in the
center of Dacca, in a corner of Cafe Mondial, Rico is waiting for two of the
Dutchmen whom he arranged to meet up with here when he last saw them
in Tibet. How is he to know that they've been in the Hague since the day
before yesterday? This coffee table, the chairs, the armchair, the sideboard,
were all made by Elimelech the carpenter some twenty years ago for a song
because he and Albert both came from Sarajevo, they were vaguely related
and had been school friends. Albert checked the carpenter's accounts
every year and filled out his tax return. That is an old story, long since over.
Giggy Ben-Gal now makes a suggestion: What this story needs, apart from
Nirit and her hermit who lives on the edge of a village, is another twist, like
a one-night stand with an Arab farmhand, or lets say a little lesbian scene
with a neighbor. Bettine suggests finishing with the bit where Nirit and
the man are feeding the pigeons, because what comes afterward,
the traveller, the dead fox, seems too morbid to her and overly
symbolic. Dubi considers that the traveller definitely adds a deep mystical
element to the ending. As for the Narrator, he recommends deleting several
of the long silences which he regards as a bit of an affectation. Dita says
nothing. Albert hesitantly apologizes and remarks that silences can actually
sometimes express what words cannot. Meanwhile Bettine stands up, clears
away the cups and plates, and stops on her way to the kitchen to open
the curtains wide. The sight of the wintry sea which is now a virulent green
makes her think that maybe this whole argument is unnecessary. Wrapped
in the silence of empty spaces the brightly-lit earth floats from darkness to
darkness. More tea? Or some coffee? No thanks—everyone has got
things to do, promises to keep, business to see to, chores that can't be put off.
Thank you. Must say goodbye and be off. It was nice, and as for the project,
the script, it's in excellent hands. There is every reason to hope it
will enjoy enormous success. Were off to a flying start.
Who cares
After that, in the car, the news. A soldier in the South Lebanon Army
has been fatally wounded and two Israelis slightly injured. In
Hazor in Galilee another small business has closed, its nine employees
are on hunger strike. A math teacher in Netanya has been
abusing his daughters for the past six years. A car went off the road
near Betar and ended up in a ravine: a father and mother and
their two sons; a daughter who survived is in a critical condition.
Epidemic and famine in Burundi. A woman in Holon has jumped.
The rain will continue. There is a warning of flooding
in low-lying areas. And a hurricane in the United States.
Who cares about
Nirit's Love.
Little boy don't believe
In the summer of 1946 my mother and father rented a holiday room
in the flat of a tailor in Bat Yam. One night I was woken by a
coughing sound that was not coughing, and that was the first time in my life
that I heard a grown-up stranger crying through the wall. All
the darkness long he cried, and awake and frightened I lay still not to
disturb my parents until when the darkness was weaker I crept out and
saw him on the balcony his shoulders were shaking a bird flew up in the
silence of the dawn and the man pointed to it and said to me Little boy,
don't believe. Fifty years have gone by and the bird is no longer
or the man. Or my parents. Only the sea is still there
and even it has changed from deep blue
to grey. Little boy don't believe. Or do. Believe. Who cares.
Nadia hears
The bird wakes her. Lying on her back with her eyes shut, thinking
What's left apart from the place mat she's started and may still finish.
What's left is a wish that the pain will go away
that it will all go away and stop bending over her.
She lies as though she has left her launching pad and is now
moving along the Milky Way and already the planet
from which she was launched is far off, has shrunk till it can no longer
center of Dacca, in a corner of Cafe Mondial, Rico is waiting for two of the
Dutchmen whom he arranged to meet up with here when he last saw them
in Tibet. How is he to know that they've been in the Hague since the day
before yesterday? This coffee table, the chairs, the armchair, the sideboard,
were all made by Elimelech the carpenter some twenty years ago for a song
because he and Albert both came from Sarajevo, they were vaguely related
and had been school friends. Albert checked the carpenter's accounts
every year and filled out his tax return. That is an old story, long since over.
Giggy Ben-Gal now makes a suggestion: What this story needs, apart from
Nirit and her hermit who lives on the edge of a village, is another twist, like
a one-night stand with an Arab farmhand, or lets say a little lesbian scene
with a neighbor. Bettine suggests finishing with the bit where Nirit and
the man are feeding the pigeons, because what comes afterward,
the traveller, the dead fox, seems too morbid to her and overly
symbolic. Dubi considers that the traveller definitely adds a deep mystical
element to the ending. As for the Narrator, he recommends deleting several
of the long silences which he regards as a bit of an affectation. Dita says
nothing. Albert hesitantly apologizes and remarks that silences can actually
sometimes express what words cannot. Meanwhile Bettine stands up, clears
away the cups and plates, and stops on her way to the kitchen to open
the curtains wide. The sight of the wintry sea which is now a virulent green
makes her think that maybe this whole argument is unnecessary. Wrapped
in the silence of empty spaces the brightly-lit earth floats from darkness to
darkness. More tea? Or some coffee? No thanks—everyone has got
things to do, promises to keep, business to see to, chores that can't be put off.
Thank you. Must say goodbye and be off. It was nice, and as for the project,
the script, it's in excellent hands. There is every reason to hope it
will enjoy enormous success. Were off to a flying start.
Who cares
After that, in the car, the news. A soldier in the South Lebanon Army
has been fatally wounded and two Israelis slightly injured. In
Hazor in Galilee another small business has closed, its nine employees
are on hunger strike. A math teacher in Netanya has been
abusing his daughters for the past six years. A car went off the road
near Betar and ended up in a ravine: a father and mother and
their two sons; a daughter who survived is in a critical condition.
Epidemic and famine in Burundi. A woman in Holon has jumped.
The rain will continue. There is a warning of flooding
in low-lying areas. And a hurricane in the United States.
Who cares about
Nirit's Love.
Little boy don't believe
In the summer of 1946 my mother and father rented a holiday room
in the flat of a tailor in Bat Yam. One night I was woken by a
coughing sound that was not coughing, and that was the first time in my life
that I heard a grown-up stranger crying through the wall. All
the darkness long he cried, and awake and frightened I lay still not to
disturb my parents until when the darkness was weaker I crept out and
saw him on the balcony his shoulders were shaking a bird flew up in the
silence of the dawn and the man pointed to it and said to me Little boy,
don't believe. Fifty years have gone by and the bird is no longer
or the man. Or my parents. Only the sea is still there
and even it has changed from deep blue
to grey. Little boy don't believe. Or do. Believe. Who cares.
Nadia hears
The bird wakes her. Lying on her back with her eyes shut, thinking
What's left apart from the place mat she's started and may still finish.
What's left is a wish that the pain will go away
that it will all go away and stop bending over her.
She lies as though she has left her launching pad and is now
moving along the Milky Way and already the planet
from which she was launched is far off, has shrunk till it can no longer
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