To the End of the Land - By David Grossman Page 0,194

three of us.”

“Yes, David and Lisa. ‘What do you see when you look at me?’ ”

Avram replies: “ ‘I see a girl who looks like a pearl.’ ”

“Three months,” she repeats, astounded. “Every sound in the home had a rhyme.”

With all her strength she pushes down a moan of sorrow over what is now awakening in her—the desire, the urge, the passion to go back and talk about it with Ilan, to try to understand what Adam was going through, to chew it over with him again and again in one of their kitchen conversations, or sitting on the living-room sofa hand in hand in the dark, facing a muted television, or on one of their evening walks along the village paths.

There’s no Ilan, she reminds herself sternly.

But for a moment, as it does every morning when she opens her eyes and reaches a probing hand to her side, it hits her with all its initial force: She has no partner. There’s no rhyme for her.

“From morning to night it went on this way, day after day, and at night, too. And then it somehow stopped, almost without us noticing. Like with all sorts of other crazy phases they had, he and Ofer. That’s how it goes.” She struggles to laugh. “You’re convinced that’s it, they’re stuck on some crazy notion forever. That Adam will talk in rhymes forever, or that Ofer will spend the rest of his life sleeping with a monkey wrench in his bed so he can beat up the Arabs when they come, or that he’ll wear his cowboy costume until he’s seventy, and then one day you notice that for some time now, that thing that was making the whole household crazy, that was depressing us for months on end, has just—poof—vanished into thin air.”

“Beat up the Arabs?”

“Well, that’s another story,” she says, laughing. “Your kid had an overactive imagination.”

“Ofer?”

“Yes.”

“But why … why Arabs? Did something happen to him with—”

“No, no.” She waves her hand dismissively. “It was all in his head.”

They walk past the Mount Meron Field School, and Avram runs to fill their water bottles at a tap. Ora sees the water overflowing from the bottle and gushing down and discovers that he is looking out at the grove they’ve just emerged from and is smiling gently. When she follows the thread of his smile, she sees the golden bitch standing by the trees, panting. Ora fills a dish with water and puts it down not far from the dog. “It’s your dish,” she reminds her and fills it for her again and again until she is sated. At a nearby snack stand—only after the owner agrees to turn off his radio—they buy three hot dogs for the bitch and some food and candy for themselves. Then they continue their ascent up the mountain. The loudspeaker on the nearby army base emits constant calls for technicians, drivers, antenna operators. This human presence thickens and fills them with nervousness. They avoid encountering or conversing with other couples hiking on their trail—who look pretty much like us, Ora thinks with a moment’s jealousy: people around our age, friendly yuppies who’ve taken off work for a nature day, a little escape from the job and the kids; they probably think the same thing about me and Avram. He was really alarmed when I mentioned Ofer’s fear of the Arabs. What button did I press?

On the peak of Mount Meron they stand at a lookout point: “Restored by the family and friends of First Lieutenant Uriel Peretz, of blessed memory, born in Ofira on the 2nd of Kislev, 5737 (1977), fell in Lebanon on the 7th of Kislev 5758 (1998). Scout, soldier, devoted to Torah and to his country,” Avram reads—and they look north, to the purple-misted Hermon, and to the Hula Valley and the green Naphtali mountain range. They once again pat themselves on the back with proud modesty, trying to estimate how many kilometers they have traversed. A new and unfamiliar power diffuses their bodies. Knots of strength have amassed in their calves, and when they take off their backpacks, they feel as though they are floating on air.

“So, should we sleep up here?”

“It’ll be cold. Maybe we should go a bit farther down. Let’s follow the path downhill?”

“I’d like to go all the way around the peak first”—Avram stretches and shakes out his arms—“even though it’s not on the path.”

“Then let’s do it,” she says happily. “We don’t have to stick to the path.”

They