Where the Jackals Howl Read Free

accumulated menace outside. But it is an ineffective wall, it cannot keep out the smells of the foe and his voices. At night the voices and the smells touch our skin like tooth and claw.
    And inside, in the innermost circle of all, in the heart of our illuminated world, stands Sashka’s writing desk. The table lamp sheds a calm circle of brightness and banishes the shadows from the stacks of papers. The pen in his hand darts to and fro and the words take shape. “There is no stand more noble than that of the few against the many,” Sashka is fond of saying. His daughter stares wide-eyed and curious at the face of Matityahu Damkov. You’re ugly and you’re not one of us. It’s good that you have no children and one day those dull mongoloid eyes will close and you’ll be dead. And you won’t leave behind anyone like you. I wish I wasn’t here, but before I go I want to know what it is you want of me and why you told me to come. It’s so stuffy in your room and there’s an old bachelor smell that’s like the smell of oil used for frying too many times.
    â€œYou may sit down,” said Matityahu from the shadows. The shabby stillness that filled the room deepened his voice and made it sound remote.
    â€œI’m in a bit of a hurry.”
    â€œThere’ll be coffee as well. The real thing. From Brazil. My cousin Leon sends me coffee too, he seems to think a kibbutz is a kind of kolkhoz. A kolkhoz labor camp. A collective farm in Russia, that’s what a kolkhoz is.”
    â€œBlack without sugar for me, please,” said Galila, and these words surprised even her.
    What is this ugly man doing to me? What does he want of me?
    â€œYou said you were going to show me some canvases, and some paints, didn’t you?”
    â€œAll in good time.”
    â€œI didn’t expect you to go to the trouble of getting coffee and cakes, I thought I’d only be here for a moment.”
    â€œYou are fair,” the man said, breathing heavily, “you are fair-haired, but I’m not mistaken. There is doubt. There has to be. But it is so. What I mean is, you’ll drink your coffee, nice and slow, and I’ll give you a cigarette too, an American one, from Virginia. In the meantime, have a look at this box. The brushes. The special oil too. And the canvases. And all the tubes. It’s all for you. First of all drink. Take your time.”
    â€œBut I still don’t understand,” said Galila.
    A man pacing about his room in an undershirt on a summer night is not a strange sight. But the monkeylike body of Matityahu Damkov set something stirring inside her. Panic seized her. She put down the coffee cup on the brass tray, jumped up from the chair and stood behind it, clutching the chair as if it were a barricade.
    The transparent, frightened gesture delighted her host. He spoke patiently, almost mockingly:
    â€œJust like your mother. I have something to tell you when the moment’s right, something that I’m positive you don’t know, about your mother’s wickedness.”
    Now, at the scent of danger, Galila was filled with cold malice:
    â€œYou’re mad, Matityahu Damkov. Everybody says that you’re mad.”
    There was tender austerity in her face, an expression both secretive and passionate.
    â€œYou’re mad, and get out of my way and let me pass. I want to get out of here. Yes. Now. Out of my way.”
    The man retreated a little, still staring at her intently. Suddenly he sprang onto his bed and sat there, his back to the wall, and laughed a long, happy laugh.
    â€œSteady, daughter, why all the haste? Steady. We’ve only just begun. Patience. Don’t get so excited. Don’t waste your energy.”
    Galila hastily weighed up the two possibilities, the safe and the fascinating, and said:
    â€œPlease tell me what you want of me.”
    â€œActually,” said Matityahu Damkov, “actually, the