Free Scenes from Village Life by Amos Oz Page B

noise of digging. Or they might both have heard in their sleep the sound of the old, worn-out drains that ran under the house.
    One morning, while Adel was doing the ironing in Rachel's bedroom, the old man suddenly pounced on him, with his head thrust forward like a charging bull, and began to interrogate him:
    "So, you're a student, eh? What sort of student are you then?"
    "I'm an arts student."
    "Arts, huh? What art exactly? The art of talking nonsense? The art of deception? The dark arts? And if you are indeed an arts student, then tell me this if you don't mind: what are you doing here, why aren't you at university?"
    "I'm taking a break from university. I'm trying to write a book about you."
    "About us?"
    "About you, and about us. A comparison."
    "A comparison. What sort of a comparison? A comparison to show that we are the robbers and you are the robbed? To reveal our ugly face?"
    "Not ugly, exactly. More like unhappy."
    "And how about your face? Isn't it unhappy? Are you so pretty? Beyond reproach? Saintly and pure?"
    "We're unhappy too."
    "So there's no difference between us? If that's the case, why are you sitting here writing a comparison?"
    "There are some differences."
    "Like what, for example?"
    Adel skillfully folded the blouse he was ironing, carefully laid it on the bed, placed another one on the ironing board and sprinkled some water on it from a bottle before starting to iron.
    "Our unhappiness is partly our fault and partly your fault. But your unhappiness comes from your soul."
    "Our soul?"
    "Or from your heart. It's hard to know. It comes from you. From inside. The unhappiness. It comes from deep inside you."
    "Tell me, please, Comrade Adel, since when do Arabs play the harmonica?"
    "A friend of mine taught me. A Russian friend. And a girl gave it to me as a present."
    "And why are you always playing sad tunes? Are you miserable here?"
    "It's like this: whatever one plays on the harmonica, from a distance it always sounds sad. It's like you, from a distance you seem to be sad."
    "And from close up?"
    "From close up you seem to me more like an angry man. And now, please excuse me, I've finished the ironing and now I need to feed the pigeons."
    "Mister Adel."
    "Yes?"
    "Please tell me, why are you digging under the cellar at night? It is you, isn't it? What are you hoping to find there?"
    "What, do you hear noises at night too? How come Rachel doesn't hear them? She doesn't hear them and she doesn't believe they exist. Doesn't she believe you either?"

15
    RACHEL DID NOT believe in her father's nocturnal imaginings or in Adel's dreams. Both of them probably heard the sounds of milking from one of the neighboring farms, or the army on night maneuvers in the farmland on the slopes of the hills, and translated these sounds in their imaginations into sounds of digging. Nevertheless, she decided to stay awake one night into the early hours so as to hear with her own ears.
    Meanwhile, the last days of the term arrived. The older pupils were busy feverishly studying for exams, while in the middle grades discipline was deteriorating: students were late for class and some were absent, offering various excuses. The classes seemed poorly attended and restless, and Rachel taught her last lessons wearily. Several times she let a class off the last quarter of an hour and sent the pupils out into the playground early. Once or twice, by special request, she agreed to devote class time to a free discussion on a subject suggested by her pupils.
    On Saturdays the narrow lanes of the village filled with visitors' cars, which were parked between fences and blocked the entrances. Crowds of bargain hunters thronged around the homemade cheese stalls, the spice shops and boutique wineries, the farmyards selling Indian furniture and ornaments from Burma and Bangladesh, the stores selling oriental rugs and carpets, the art galleries—all those activities the village had turned to as agriculture was gradually abandoned, though some