The Seven Good Years by Etgar Keret Page B

become phosphorescent poop later that evening, Winehouse let us and another thousand or so desperate families in, and we all lunged at the rides. My peacenik wife, in her desire to avoid trampling a crying baby, briefly stepped aside, costing us another twenty minutes’ wait for the Dumbo carousel. The line seemed very short when we were standing in it. That, perhaps, is the true genius of the place: the ability to snake the lines around in a way that always makes them look short. While we were waiting, I read a few interesting tidbits about Walt Disney on my iPhone. The site I was on claimed that, contrary to urban legend, Disney wasn’t really a Nazi but just a regular anti-Semite who hated Communists and was overly fond of Germans.
    Scattered around us in the confusing labyrinth of lines were some ornamental stone posts sprouting tiny plants. Lev complained that the miniature trees stank. At first I told him he was just imagining it, but after I saw the third father hold his son up above a post so he could pee on it, I realized that the same god who had blessed the park’s designers with transcendental architectural wisdom had also blessed my son with keen senses. It was a little warmer by now, and Lev’s snot was liquid again. My wife sent me off to find a tissue. On my quick excursion I discovered that anything you can buy with money could be easily obtained in the park, but unprofitable items such as bathrooms, straws, or napkins were virtually impossible to find. By the time I got back to my family, Lev was gleefully climbing off the Dumbo carousel. He ran over and hugged me.
    â€œDad! That was fun!” As if on cue, a huge Mickey Mouse appeared and started chatting with the visitors.
    â€œTell Mickey,” Lev instructed me, “that we want to open up a Shekel Disney just like this one in Israel.”
    â€œWhat’s a Shekel Disney?” I asked.
    â€œIt’s like here, but instead of taking euros from people, we’ll take shekels,” explained my financial midget.
    Mickey came closer. Now he was within touching distance. I threw out a
“Bonjour”
in his direction, hoping to break the ice. “Welcome to Disneyland Paris!” Mickey replied, waving at us with a white-gloved, four-fingered hand.

Year Six

Ground Up
    I have a good dad. I’m lucky, I know. Not everyone has a good dad. Last week, I went to the hospital with him for a fairly routine test, and the doctors told us that he was going to die. He has an advanced stage of cancer at the base of his tongue. The kind you don’t recover from. Cancer had visited my father a couple of years earlier. The doctors were optimistic then and he really did beat it.
    The doctors said there were several options this time. We could do nothing and my father would die in a few weeks. He could undergo chemotherapy, and if it worked it would give him another few months. They could give him radiation treatment, but chances were, that would hurt more than it would help. Or they could operate and remove his tongue and his larynx. It was a complicated surgery that would take more than ten hours, and, considering my father’s advanced age, the doctors didn’t think it was a viable option. But my dad liked the idea. “At my age, I don’t need a tongue anymore, just eyes in my head and a heart that beats,” he told the young oncologist. “The worst that can happen is that instead of telling you how pretty you are, I’ll write it down.”
    The doctor blushed. “It’s not just the speech, it’s the trauma of the operation,” she said. “It’s the suffering and the rehabilitation if you survive it. We’re talking here about an enormous blow to your quality of life.”
    â€œI love life.” My dad gave her his obstinate smile. “If the quality is good, then great. If not, then not. I’m not picky.”
    In the taxi on our way back from the hospital my dad