A Pigeon and a Boy by Meir Shalev Read Free Book Online Page B

pulp, then swallowed them with deep purpose and conviction. I felt the whiteness of the almonds create a whiteness of milk and teeth inside me and you. I hoped that the sister you would give birth to would be small and thick and dark, but she was born before term and died straightaway, so that it was impossible to determine what her height or coloring would have been.
    A few days passed before my mother returned from the hospital. That night we heard Yordad talking while Mother said nothing.
    “You see,” Benjamin whispered to me in the darkness of our room, “you shelled those almonds for her for nothing.”
    I grew angry in place of you. “Why do you say ‘her? Say ‘shelled those almonds for Mother,’ not for ‘her’!”
7
    M ORE THAN ONCE you sent me shopping, sometimes across Ben Yehuda Street at Zolti’s greengrocery and sometimes at the local kiosk. “There is no kiosk like this one anywhere else,” you said. “He stocks lollipops, clothespins, sardines, chewing gum, ice cream, and, if you order in advance, shoes, refrigerators, and bridal gowns.”
    I remember one day when the owner of the kiosk ascended the stairs to our flat and said, “Dr. Mendelsohn, your son has been stealing money from me, and apparently from you, too.”
    I tugged at your dress and you tilted your ear downward to my mouth. I whispered my question: how was it that at his kiosk this man was tall but in our house he was short? You whispered your answer back at me: in his kiosk he stands on a wooden platform, while in our house he is standing on the normal floor. Your lips were so close and so pleasant to me that it took several seconds for me to notice Yordad’s stern and piercing glare, and when I did notice it my heart stood still inside me from shame and fear. Not due to the undeserved punishment for a theft I did not commit but because the possibility that it was Benjamin who had stolen did not even cross his mind.
    The owner of the kiosk understood what was happening at once. “It’s not the dark one, the one that looks like a thug,” he said. “It’s the little one who steals, the one with the Goldilocks curls and the face of an angel.”
    He descended the stairs and returned to his kiosk and became tall once again, and you rested a hand on my shoulder and cast a scowl at Yordad that spun him around and drove him away, so that he sought refuge in the clinic.
    And I recall the daily trek to the seashore to take exercise and swim. These days I no longer go to the beach; Liora prefers the swimming pool and, anyway, the flying paddleballs and the young women’s bathing suits make me nervous. The sun’s rays frighten me too, a fear instilled in me by Yordad that I have never overcome. Way back then Dr. Yaacov Mendelsohn warned parents against the dangerous effects of the Middle Eastern sun, but no one listened; suntans were considered to be a sign of health and the fulfillment of the Zionist dream. That’s the reason everyone went to the beach before noon and only the Mendelsohn family went late in the afternoon, when the heat of the sun had abated,marching against the families returning home, a joyful caravan of irresponsible parents and seared and happy children with reddened noses and backs.
    Many people would greet us, and some added requests and questions. In spite of his youth, Yordad already had a reputation as an excellent pediatrician, and these people wished to take advantage of the opportunity for some on-the-street advice. He would tell them, “I am in a hurry; come walk with me and we shall speak.” And he would extend his long legs into a quick stride so that the pestering party soon became befuddled and winded. But one day my mother said to him, “Be nice to them, Yaacov, it’s easier that way” And when he complained she explained, “It saves time. Try and you’ll see.” After trying, he saw, and admitted it. “You were right,” he said. “At least thirty percent less time …”
    She told us that