himself and asked shyly if he could rent a room. Well, not exactly rent. And not exactly a room. A couple of years ago, Danny of blessed memory, what a wonderful man he was, had offered Adel's father to put up his son in one of the farm outbuildings, because the farm was no longer a working one and the sheds and outhouses were all standing empty. He had come now to inquire if the offer made two years ago was still valid. That is, if there was still a shed free for him right now. In return he was willing, for example, to weed the yard or help with household chores. It was like this: he had taken a year off his course at university and was planning to write a book. Yes, something about life in a Jewish village compared to life in an Arab village, a scholarly study or a novel, he hadn't yet decided for sure, and so he needed—it would suit him well—to live on his own for a while on the edge of Tel Ilan. He remembered the village, with its vineyards and fruit orchards and the view of the Manasseh Hills, from a single visit he had paid, with his father and his sisters when he was a child, to Danny of blessed memory. Danny of blessed memory had invited them to come and spend a whole day here, maybe Rachel could remember that visit? No? Of course she didn't, there was no particular reason why she should. But he, Adel, had not forgotten it and never would. He had always hoped someday to return to the village of Tel Ilan. To return to this house next to the tall cypresses of the cemetery. "It's so peaceful here, much more peaceful than our village, which has grown so much it isn't a village anymore, it's a small town now, full of shops and garages and dusty parking lots." It was because it was so beautiful that he had dreamed of returning. And because of the peace and quiet. And because of something else that he couldn't define but that he might succeed in describing in the book he wanted to write. He would write about the differences between a Jewish village and an Arab village. "Your village was born out of a dream and a plan, and our village was not born, it's always been there, but still they do have something in common. We have dreams, too. No, comparisons are always false. But the thing that I love here, that isn't false. I can pickle cucumbers, too, and make jam. Only if there's a need for such things here, of course. And I have some experience of painting, and mending roofs. And keeping bees, too, if by any chance you feel like renewing your days as of old, as you Jews say, and having a few beehives. I won't make any noise or leave any mess. And in my spare time I'll prepare for my exams and start writing my book."
8
ADEL WALKED WITH a stoop. He was a shy yet talkative young man, and wore glasses that were too small for him, as though he had taken them from some child or had kept them from his own childhood. They were secured by a string and had a tendency to mist up, so that he had to keep wiping them with the tail of the shirt that he always wore outside his threadbare jeans. He had a dimple in his left cheek that also gave him a shy, childlike look. He shaved only his chin and sideburns; the rest of his face was smooth and hairless. His shoes looked too big and too coarse for him, and they left strange, menacing footprints on the dusty courtyard. When he watered the fruit trees they made puddles in the mud. He bit his fingernails, and his hands were red and rough as if from the cold. He was fine-featured, apart from his thick lower lip. When he smoked he sucked so hard on the cigarette that his cheeks caved in and for a moment the outline of his skull seemed to be revealed beneath his skin.
Adel walked around the yard wearing a Van Gogh straw hat and an expression of wonderment and longing. His shoulders were always covered with a powdering of dandruff. He had an absent-minded way of smoking: he would light a cigarette, draw on it three or four times, sucking his cheeks right in, then put it down on the fence or the windowsill, forget the lit cigarette and light another one. A reserve cigarette was always tucked