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By Root 265 0

this time he should talk to her about loneliness. But she might form the impression that he was referring to her divorce, and she might be offended or hurt. The last time, she had told him about her love for the Bible, and how she read a chapter every night before she went to sleep. So maybe this time he should start by talking about biblical love stories. About David, and his love for Saul's daughter Michal. Or about the Song of Songs. But his knowledge of the Bible was limited, and he was afraid that Ada might despise him if he started talking about a subject he did not understand. Better to talk to her about animals: he loved animals and felt an affinity with them. For example, he might talk about the mating habits of certain songbirds. Maybe he could use the songbirds to hint at his own feelings. But what chance did a seventeen-year-old boy have with a woman in her thirties? At best he might manage to stir a certain pity. And the distance from pity to love was like the distance from the moon reflected in a puddle to the moon itself.

Meanwhile, the light was fading. A few old folks were still sitting on their chairs in front of their doors, dozing or staring in front of them, but most had folded their chairs and gone indoors. The street was emptying. Jackals howled in the vineyards on the hills around the village, and the village dogs answered them with frenzied barking. A single, distant shot disturbed the darkness, followed by the sweeping torrent of the crickets' chirping. Just a few more minutes and she'll come out, lock the post office and set out for the library. You will appear out of the shadows and ask, like the two previous times, if you can walk with her.

He had not yet finished reading the book that she loaned him last time, Mrs. Dalloway, but he wanted to ask her for another one, because he planned to spend the whole weekend reading. "Haven't you got any friends? Don't you have plans to go out?" No, the plain truth was that he had no friends, and no plans. He preferred to stay in his room, reading or listening to music. His school friends enjoyed making noise, being surrounded by noise, whereas he preferred silence. That's what he'd tell her this time. And she'd see for herself that he was different. Special. "Why the hell do you always have to be different from everyone else?" his father kept saying to him. "You should get out, do some sports." His mother came into his room every evening to check if he had clean socks to put on. One evening he locked himself in. The next day his father confiscated the key.

He scratched at the whitewashed bark of the eucalyptus with his stick and then felt his chin to check how the shave administered two hours earlier was holding up. From his chin he passed his fingers over his cheek and forehead, imagining that his fingers were her fingers. The bus from Tel Aviv arrived shortly before seven and pulled up in front of the council offices. From his hiding place behind the eucalyptus Kobi saw people getting off carrying bags and packages. Among them he identified Dr. Steiner and also his teacher, Rachel Franco. They were talking about Rachel's old father, who had gone out to buy a newspaper and forgotten the way home. Their voices reached him, but he could not make out the thread of their conversation, nor did he want to. As the passengers dispersed, their voices faded in the distance. And the crickets' chirping could be heard again.

Ada Dvash came out of the post office at seven precisely. She locked the door, locked the heavy padlock too, checked that it was properly fixed and crossed the empty street. She was wearing a loose-fitting summer blouse and a full, light skirt. Kobi Ezra emerged from his hiding place and said softly, as if afraid to startle her:

"It's me again. Kobi. May I walk with you?"

"Good evening," said Ada Dvash. "How long have you been standing here?"

Kobi was about to lie, but for some reason the truth came out instead:

"I've been waiting for you for half an hour. Even a bit more."

"Why were you waiting for me?"

"No special reason."

"You could