Scenes From Village Life - Amos Oz [60]
At that instant I had a sudden feeling that I had to go at once to the room where I had left my coat on the pile of other coats and get something from one of the pockets. It seemed to be very urgent, but I couldn't remember what it was. Nor could I make out who was apparently calling me again: the thin woman sitting next to me was busy singing, while Avraham, on his stool by the kitchen door, had closed his eyes and was leaning against the wall, not joining in the singing.
My thoughts strayed to the empty streets of the village lashed by the rain, the dark cypresses swaying in the wind, the lights going out in the little houses, the drenched fields and bare orchards. I had the sensation at that moment that something was going on in some darkened yard and that it concerned me and I ought to be involved with it. But what it was I had no idea.
The group was now singing "If you want me to show you the city in gray," and Yohai Blum had stopped playing his accordion to make way for the three recorders, which played in unison now and without any dissonance. Then we sang "Where has your beloved gone, O most beautiful among women?" What was it that I had wanted to check so urgently in the pocket of my overcoat? I could not find an answer, so I suppressed the urge to go to the other room and joined in the singing of "The pomegranate wafts its scent" and "My white-throated beloved." In the interval before the next song I leaned over and in a whisper asked Dafna Katz, with the thin hands, who was sitting next to me, what these songs reminded her of. She seemed surprised by my question, and answered, "Nothing in particular." Then she thought again and said, "They remind me of all sorts of things." I leaned toward her again and was about to say something about memories, but Gili Steiner shot us a dirty look to stop us whispering, so I gave up and went on singing. Dafna Katz had a pleasant alto voice. Dalia Levin was an alto, too. Rachel Franco was a soprano. And from across the room burst Almoslino's low, warm bass. Yohai Blum played his accordion and the three recorders wound round his playing like climbing plants. We felt good sitting in a circle on a rainy, stormy night singing old songs from the days when everything had seemed so clear and bright.
Avraham Levin got up wearily from his stool and put another log in the stove, which warmed the room with a pleasant, gentle flame. Then he sat down on the stool and closed his eyes, as though once more he had been given the task of spotting anyone who was singing out of tune. Outside, the rolls of thunder may have been rumbling on, or it may have been the air force planes flying low overhead on their way back from bombing enemy targets, but because of the singing and the music we could hardly hear them inside the room.
5
AT TEN O'CLOCK Dalia Levin announced the break for the buffet, and we all got up and started moving toward the corner of the room nearest the kitchen. Gili Steiner and Rachel Franco helped Dalia to get the pies and quiches out of the oven and to take the pots of soup off the stove, and people crowded around the table and helped themselves to cups and paper plates. The conversations and arguments resumed. Somebody said that the council workers were right to strike, and someone replied that with all these justifiable strikes we would end up with the government printing more money again and we'd be back to the merry old days of galloping inflation. Yohai Blum, the accordionist, commented that it was wrong to blame the government for everything—ordinary citizens must also share the blame, and he didn't exclude himself.
Almoslino was holding a bowl of steaming soup and eating it standing up. The steam was misting up