The Same Sea Read Free Page A

into the heart. The rope
follows the pail. The pitcher was broken at the fountain. The humble settler
who has never settled himself in the seat of the scornful will die in August
of cancer of the pancreas. The policeman who cried wolf will die
in September of heart failure. His eyes were sweet and the light is sweet
but his eyes are no more and the light is still here. The seat of the scornful
has been closed down, and in its place they've opened a shopping mall.
The scornful have passed away. Diabetes. Kidney disease. Blessed
is the fountain. Blessed is the pail. Blessed are the poor in spirit for
they shall inherit the wolf.

Missing Rico
    At 7 p.m. in Café Limor with one Dubi Dombrov, a divorced lad
in his forties. He has a habit of panting like a thirsty dog, fast and hard,
through his mouth. His ginger hair is thinning but his bushy sideburns go
exactly halfway down his cheeks. Like a pair of brackets, she thinks, eyeing
his legs as he comes in and sits down, not facing her but by her side,
his thigh almost touching hers. The purpose of the meeting is to talk about
the film. This Dombrov is the number one man in a production company
that does some work with Channel 2, or hopefully soon will. He definitely
doesn't rule out the idea of doing something different, for a change.
Something experimental, like the screenplay Dita has written
and shown him. The only condition is that Dita should find
shall we say four thousand, give or take, and of course Dita herself must take
the part of Nirit. The fact is that while he was reading the script this Nirit
teased the pants off him. In bed at night it's her, only her, that he undresses.
Wet dreams, that's what you've given me, you or Nirit. Cross your heart:
is Nirit you?
And let's be quite clear that I'm serious and I and you and I and I.
He leers lecherously at her breasts—into her mouth he forces
a spoonful of ice-cream and pushes her hand between his legs, so she can
feel for herself what a hard-on she's given him. As big as a donkeys.
Dita pulls her hand away and leaves.
    Back in her bedroom alone she unzips her skirt, in front of the mirror
she strips. She looks at her body: its wild, it's new, it turns men on
and it turns her on too. This body wants sex and it wants it
now, this body wants Rico, it does, but how: Rico's not here.
She's got the itch, her body's in charge and she can't resist. Naked
she throws herself down on her bed, into her pillow she buries
her head then rolls herself over as quick as she can and hugs that pillow
as though its her man. She wants to stop but her body says no, it's started
now and it's got to go. She ruffles and tickles his body fur so he'll have
gooseflesh just like her. She buries her face between his thighs and her tongue
plies wildly as her body sighs and she drips with juices like rare perfume
as her body is pierced by a tender tune. Their hands intertwine and she stifles
a groan. He is inside her but she's alone. When it's done, she plants six
little kisses in the soft of her arm for the man she misses, and then as she falls
asleep on her bed she counts to herself inside her head how much cash she has
stashed away and how can she raise the 4k to make a movie out of the script
that she wrote about the love of Nirit. Cross your heart: is Nirit you?
That's a question Dita's not got an answer to.

No butterflies and no tortoise
    The forecast, that had promised a chance of snow on high ground,
had not kept its promise. But Nadia, who had promised nothing, appeared
at his door one Saturday morning, in a light-colored frock
with a red scarf round her neck, somewhere between a girl and a woman. Did I
surprise you? Are you free? (Am I free? Oh, painfully free. His heart dissolved
in bashful glee. Nadia. Has come. To visit. Me.)
Albert was renting a room from a childless couple in old Bat Yam. They were
away for the weekend. The flat was all his. He sat Nadia down on his bed
and went to the kitchen to slice some black bread, and came back