Free Rhyming Life and Death by Amos Oz Page A

door opens, probably that of ‘Yaniv Schlossberg lives it up here’, Excuse me, would you mind telling me who you are looking for at this time of night?
    Maybe he will recognise him? From pictures in the papers, or from chat shows on TV? And how can he explain? I’m sorry, I’m Mr Hyde, would you mind letting me ring Dr Jekyll urgently?
    *
    But it is also possible that the Author does not run away when he hears the sound inside the flat but stays rooted to the spot, in paralysed silence, outside Rochele Reznik’s door. After a few moments he decides to leave a note for her, tucked between the door and the door post (or would it be better to leave it downstairs, in the letter box she shares with Joselito?). This is what the note will say: You were magnificent this evening, Rochele, and I came back later on to thank you and also to be certain that you got back safely to your ivory tower and did not fall into the hands of any witch or dragon. And, if you’ll permit me, this note is also to give you a goodnight kiss. (He will sign the note only with his initial. Or better still, he won’t sign it at all – what’s the point?)
    Or perhaps this: just at the moment when the Author turns to flee, Rochele opens the door because she was not asleep, she was sitting on her bed, deep in thought, and she noticed the slight movement of the door handle in the middle of the night, and despite her panic she hurried over to look through the peephole, and when she saw who was there she did not hesitate or wait for him to knock but opened the door at once.
    Rochele, wearing a plain short-sleeved cotton nightdress that reaches almost down to her ankles, buttoned all the way up to her neck. Did she manage to do up the two top buttons while she was peering through the peephole? Or is this the way she always sleeps, with her nightdress buttoned up to the top to protect her against whoever may be planning to sneak into her dreams?
    Rochele Reznik smiles in surprise, with flickers of fear and joy on her squirrel face.
    It’s you? You’ve come back?
    The Author, for his part, is surprised to discover that her night smile is less shy and embarrassed than her rare smiles earlier in the evening. His own embarrassment is so great now that he tries to mumble something, to gain some time, to invent some story, explanation or apology for her, and then turn tail and run.
    His lips speak of their own accord: It’s like this. Rochele. Look. I came back because I found I’d forgotten something. I mean, I’d forgotten something I really wanted to do for you before. And I didn’t do it. See if you can guess. What was it I forgot to do for you?
    She stands beside the door, that she has hastily closed and locked behind him, with her arms firmly crossed over her chest as a barrier, or to hide its flatness under her nightdress. Her voice is quite calm now (perhaps because her embarrassment level has fallen as his has risen, like some experiment in physics): I give up. What was it you wanted to do and forgot?
    Will you hand me your book for a moment?
    My book? What book?
    Your book. I mean my book. The one you read from this evening at the cultural centre, that you read from so beautifully. I just wanted to write a few words in it, a little message for you, but I was so excited I forgot. It was only just now, half an hour ago, that I remembered. So I turned round and came straight back to you.
    *
    From the top of the bookcase a black-and-white cat eyes him with a haughty look, and winks ironically, as though there’s nothing novel about this visitor, as though this is the usual pattern of life up here under the roof, every night, at midnight, some writer or other always turns up, blushing, after rememberingto come and write a personal message to Rochele Reznik on the flyleaf of his latest book.
    Pleased to meet you. You must be Mister Joey? The Author advances, uninvited, into the middle of the room, to the