The Same Sea Read Free

him
    Rebellious son. Stubborn son. I am asleep
but my heart is awake. My heart is awake
and makes lament,
the smell of my son is like the smell of a harlot.
There is no peace for my bones
on account of your wanderings.
How long?

But his mother defends him
    His mother says:
My view is different
Wandering is fitting
for those who have lost their way.
Kiss the feet my son
of the woman Maria
whose womb, for an instant,
returned you to mine.

Bettine breaks
    —But what more is going to happen between you and me, Albert? Here
we are again on your balcony in the evening. Under the neon light It's not
you and another woman, it's not me and another man,
and it's not two other people either.
Herbal tea. Watermelon. Cheese. It's very nice of you
to buy me a present A silk square. Can you really see me wearing
a thing like this? Round my neck? On my head? I've bought you a present too,
it's a scarf Look: it's pure, soft Welsh wool. Good for the winter. Blue.
Checks. You sit facing me with your legs crossed, talking good sense
about Rabin and Peres. But you never mention her. Heaven forbid. So no one
gets upset.
    But who will get upset if you do speak for once, Albert?
Are you worried you'll upset me? Or her? Or yourself? After all, we are
what we are, we're not partners and we're not family. We're not playing
the male-female game. You're sixty and I'm sixty. We're not a couple,
we're just two people. Acquaintances? Friends? Colleagues even? In a way?
An alliance for a rainy day? Twilight affection? Our legs crossed. Mine crossed
over mine, yours crossed over yours. You facing me and me facing you.
I read once that a man and a woman cant be just friends:
either they are lovers, or there is nothing between them. The fact is
I am just as bad as you. I don't say a word about Avram. I'm scared
that if I do talk about him you'll be so embarrassed
you'll run away again.
    What is left? Herbal tea. Watermelon. Cheese. Investments.
Indexation. Savings accounts. Funds. Legs crossed, you
and I. Your leg over yours, mine over mine. Careful
with words in case we touch. I'm relaxed
and you are calm. The neon light casts a brightness
on all this. Below the veranda the gravel is dusty.
Forgive me Albert, don't be upset, I suddenly feel
like breaking a glass. There, that's done. I'm
sorry. You will forgive me. I'll sweep it up.
You needn't bother.

In the Temple of the Echo
    A letter from Rico to Dita Inbar. Dear Dita, Kathmandu here, and this
is the scene. Going from one temple to another. Mainly out in the country.
I sometimes remember that thing we have, where I'm a nun
and you're a monk. If you can't remember, try. Though there's something
in Tel Aviv that rubs out memories. It's not the heat or the humidity.
Something else. Something more fundamental. Tel Aviv is a place
that rubs things out Writing, rubbing out, while all the time we're breathing
chalk dust Don't wait for me. Have some fun. Find yourself someone
who understands you, someone who's tough on the outside and soft
on the inside, sly in back and refined in front,
who advances on the left while forging ahead on the right, and go
if you can for a building contractor who'll let me live
in the gamekeepers cottage. Don't get mad I'm only trying to say
that here in Tibet you really do remember things. Yesterday, for instance,
in the Temple of the Echo (so called because of an acoustic distortion
that turns a word into a wail, a shout into a laugh), I said your name twice
and you answered me from an underground cistern. Not you actually,
but a voice that was partly yours and partly my mother's. Don't worry.
I'm not mixing you up. She is herself and you are yourself. Take care
of yourself and don't go jumping into any empty swimming pools.
PS If you get a chance, look in on my dad and see how he's getting on.
I don't suppose he's complaining and I'm not either. The light here
is quite pleasant on the eyes, when it doesn't dazzle you.

Blessed
    The light is sweet on the eyes. The darkness sees