Scenes From Village Life - Amos Oz [40]
The song somehow suited the house we were in, and it specially suited the cellar and Yardena, who kept pushing me gently around the cellar, occasionally stroking my head and my face and softly touching my lips till I really did begin to feel a pleasant tiredness spreading through my body and I nearly closed my eyes, except that some sense of danger pierced the drowsiness and stopped me falling asleep. My chin fell onto my chest and my mind wandered to that strange woman who had appeared to me beside the statue in the out-of-the-way Memorial Garden behind the Village Hall, with her Alpine hiking outfit and her hat with its buckles and brooches, and I recalled how she had fixed me with a scornful gaze and then, as I had walked away and turned my head, suddenly faded as if she had never existed. I would buy this house whatever the price, I decided, swathed in sweet sleepiness, and I would raze it to the ground though I had grown fond of it. Somehow I felt a certainty that the house had to be demolished, even if it was virtually the last one, and soon there would be no building left standing in Tel Ilan from the days of the first settlers. Barefoot Yardena kissed me on the head and left me in the wheelchair as she tiptoed away like a dancer and went up the steps with the flashlight and closed the door behind her, leaving me in the wheelchair, sunk in a deep repose. And I knew that everything was all right and there was no hurry.
Waiting
1
TEL ILAN, A PIONEER village, already a century old, was surrounded by fields and orchards. Vineyards sprawled down the east-facing slopes. Almond trees lined the approach road. Tile roofs bathed in the thick greenery of ancient trees. Many of the inhabitants still farmed, with the help of foreign laborers who lived in huts in the farmyards. But some had leased out their land and made a living by letting rooms, by running art galleries or fashion boutiques or by working outside the village. Two gourmet restaurants had opened in the middle of the village, and there was also the winery and a shop selling tropical fish. One local entrepreneur had started manufacturing reproduction antique furniture. On weekends, of course, the village filled with visitors who came to eat or to hunt for a bargain. But every Friday afternoon its streets emptied as the residents rested behind closed shutters.
Benny Avni, the village mayor, was a tall, thin, sloppily dressed man with drooping shoulders. His habit of wearing a pullover that was too big for him lent him an oafish air. He had a determined way of walking, his body bent forward as though he were walking into a wind. His face was pleasant, with a high brow, delicate lips and an attentive, curious look in his brown eyes, as if to say, "I like you, and I wish you'd tell me more about yourself." Yet he also had the knack of refusing a request without appearing to do so.
At one o'clock on a Friday afternoon in February, Benny Avni was sitting alone in his office, replying to letters from local residents. All the council workers had already gone home, because on Fridays the offices closed at twelve. It was Benny Avni's custom to stay late on Fridays to write personal replies to letters he had received. He had only a few more letters to write, and then he planned to go home, have his lunch, shower and take a siesta. Later, he and his wife, Nava, were invited to a communal singing evening at the home of Dalia and Avraham Levin at the end of Pumphouse Rise.
He was still writing when