Rhyming Life and Death Read Free

new this evening? Will he manage to explain to us how we got into this state of affairs, or what we have to do to change it? Can he see something that we haven’t seen yet?
    *
    Some have brought along the book that is the subject of this evening’s event, and are using it – or a newspaper – to fan themselves. There’s a delay and still no sign of the Author. The programme includes words of welcome, a lecture by a literary critic, a reading of short extracts from the new work, the writer’s talk, questions and answers, summing up, and closing remarks. Admission is free, and people are curious.
    And here he is, at last, the writer.
    The venue’s cultural administrator has been waiting for him outside, at the foot of the stairs, for the past twenty minutes. He is a positive, affable man of about seventy-two, ruddy and round, with a face thatreminds you of an apple that has been left too long in the fruit bowl until it turns wrinkly. Unhealthy-looking blue veins criss-cross his cheeks. His spirit, though, is as lively as ever, like a fireman’s hose aiming jets of enthusiasm and social commitment in every direction. But an acrid wave of body odour can be sensed from a handshake away. He wastes no time in starting to forge with the Author, who is thirty years his junior, bonds of affection erupting to mingle with big-hearted admiration, like the intimacy between two veteran guerrilla fighters: You and I, after all, struggle tirelessly, each in our own battle zone, for the promotion of values, of culture and of ideas, and to strengthen the ramparts of civilisation. That is why we can permit ourselves, in private here, behind the scenes, a couple of minutes of light-hearted banter before we put on appropriately serious faces when we walk into the hall and take our places on the dais.
    *
    Well, well, well, welcome, my young friend, welcome, we’ve been waiting for you here like a bridegroom, hee-hee, you are, how can I put it, a little on the late side. What? You were held up ina cafe? Well, it’s not the end of the world, everyone’s always late here. Maybe you’ve heard the joke about the circumciser who was late for a circumcision? No. I’ll tell you. Later. It’s rather a long story, which by the way you can also find in Druyanov, you must be familiar with Druyanov? No? How so? And you a Jewish writer! Druyanov, Rabbi Alter Druyanov, the author of
The Book of Jokes and Witticisms
! But it’s a veritable gold mine for any Jewish writer! Well, never mind. They’re all out there waiting impatiently for us. We’ll talk about Druyanov later. Definitely. But don’t forget to remind me, I have a little thought of my own about the essential difference between a joke and a witticism. All right then, later. After all, you were a little late, my friend, never mind, it’s not the end of the world, only we’d begun to fear that the muses had driven us out of your mind. But we didn’t give up hope! No indeed, my dear friend! We are made of sterner stuff!
    The Author, in his turn, apologises for his lateness and murmurs a little witticism of his own: You could always have started without me. Hee-hee-hee. Without you! That’s funny! The old culture-monger bursts out laughing, and his body odour is like thesmell of fruit that is past its sell-by date. But, with all due respect, you could have started without us, too, in some other place. And by the way (both are out of breath as they climb the stairs), what do you think those American foxes will get out of their Arab friends? Will they manage to buy us a little peace and quiet at last? At least for a year or two?
    He answers his own question: They won’t get anything out of it. They’ll only bring us more troubles. As if the old ones weren’t bad enough! Some juice? Lemonade? Maybe something fizzy? Be quick, though. Here, I’ll choose for you – now, let’s hope you’ll give us a