Free Limassol by Yishai Sarid

they’re busy with real things, it’s not comfortable for me to show my face now.
    Right after the army, she went to New York, worked in an art gallery, and there she wrote her first book. From a distance, things look clearer, she said to the interviewer in Yediot . Two years later, she returned to Israel and started studying literature at the university. Then came the excellent reviews, Dan Meron wrote warmly about her, a strong new female voice in Hebrew literature. After the book was translated into French, she went to Paris for a book tour, and stayed there a few months. Somewhere there was a recording of an interview with her on the French cultural television program, from the early days of video. She had studied French in high school, and her mother had also brought remnants of culture from Europe.
    In Paris, I read after lunch, she met Avital Ignats, grandson of the distinguished professor Martin Ignats, one of the founders of Hadassah Hospital and the medical union. At that time, Avital’s premiere film was screened at the cinematèques in Paris and Lyon. The film was set in a workers’ neighborhood in Haifa. In Israel, the film closed after two weeks, even though it was praised by the critics, who mocked the public that didn’t live up to expectations, accusing the audience of provincialism. The film had a foreign flavor, they wrote, lower Haifa looked almost like Naples, Gila Almagor looked like Anna Magnani. They met at an event organized by the Israeli cultural attaché, and moved in together in a garret on a side street on the Left Bank, near the Pantheon. Our reporter in Paris met with them and wrote about two successful young creators who attracted wide attention even abroad.
    Somebody passed by my office on the way to the bathroom and poked his nose in. Suddenly I had become the historian of old gossip columns. Vague childhood memories surfaced from reading, men who had disappeared, black and white television programs, Oprah Hazeh the singer from the Ha-Tikvah neighborhood, a new book by David Avidan. My mother, who was fond of culture, followed from our home what was going on in bohemian circles.
    A picture of them in April 1980, shortly after they returned to Israel to film Ignats’s new movie. The two of them wearing white, in the background the masts of the port of Jaffa. You could smell her fresh scent from the yellowing paper, tanned legs in a mini skirt, clear smile. Soon her second book will be published, Avital directs an Israeli and international cast of actors on a set, wearing sunglasses, like Antonioni . . .
    â€œI see you’re deep into that,” Haim stood in the door and smiled.
    â€œLook what you’ve done to me,” I laughed. “You could have cut off my hand so I couldn’t hit anymore instead.”
    â€œThere were ideas like that,” said Haim. “We got a letter from the association for citizen rights suggesting that, for you, we bring back the guillotine.”
    Haim sat down across from me, his body filling the little room, and said the matter was starting to get urgent, unpleasant information was coming in from army intelligence. “When will the father from Gaza come?” he asked.
    â€œDay after tomorrow,” I said. “Everything’s arranged with the hospital. Everything’s arranged with the lady.”
    â€œEverything went smoothly with her?” asked Haim. “What did she want?”
    â€œShe wants me to save her son.”
    Haim tried to relieve his gimpy leg. “What’s with her son?”
    â€œAll the big problems,” I said. “Drugs mainly. He owes a lot of money to criminals.”
    â€œHow will you save him?” asked Haim.
    â€œNo idea,” I said. “I’ve never seen a junkie who really managed to kick the habit.”
    â€œSo why did you promise her?” the chair creaked beneath him.
    â€œWhen did we start making only those promises we can keep?”