Rhyming Life and Death by Amos Oz Read Free Book Online

could see everything. What on earth will he make of that? Have I gone out of my mind? What will he think I’m thinking? After all, he didn’t even invite himself in, he just offered to go up the stairs with me and at the very most stand with mewhile I open the door to make sure the key hasn’t got lost or doesn’t stick or break off in the lock. And I made up a lie so he wouldn’t come in. Even though the thought never even crossed his mind. And then I said that there are no shutters, and that the neighbours. You could infer that I was hinting to him that if only I did have curtains or shutters—
    But what if he really did mean to imply that he’d like me to ask him in, for a chat and a drink? In which case, the moment he sets foot inside he’ll see that the curtains are actually there. That they haven’t gone to the cleaner’s. And then? He’ll realise at once that I simply lied to him for no reason. Where on earth can I hide myself?
    *
    Besides, she has no idea whether or not she really wants this Author, who is famous but so polite, even fatherly, that she is not entirely at her ease with him, to come upstairs with her. Yes, he wants something, but what does he really want from her? Does she want to invite him into her room or is she afraid to? Now? And did she or didn’t she leave a black bra hanging on the back of her chair when she cameout? And which side of the chair? What if it’s hanging so that you can see at once that it’s padded?
    The light on the stairs goes out again and again the Author presses the switch, and says: Maybe I should, after all? To be on the safe side? Just as far as your door?
    But now that she has lied to him and told him that the curtains are at the cleaner’s, it’s too late. There’s no question. No way back. She has blocked all her own escape routes. There’s no way she can let him come into her room and see that the curtains are hanging at the window as usual. She would die of shame.
    In a faint voice, like a little girl who has been told off, she finally says to the Author: All right then, thank you, come upstairs with me, but only as far as the door . . . if you insist . . . but the truth is, though, that Joselito, I mean, he’s not used to—
    Then, suddenly aware of what she has just said, she falls silent, panic-stricken and helpless.
    The Author observes her look of a hunted animal, of a terrified baby rodent, a cornered squirrel ready to bite itself in desperation. So he smiles and politely withdraws his offer: No, no, really, it doesn’t matter, look, if it makes you feel so uncomfortable—
    Now the squirrel is silenced, unable to decide which is worse, accepting his original offer to accompany her to her door, or accepting gratefully his polite withdrawal of the offer. Or should she ask him in, even though he may not be interested in an invitation, but simply offered to accompany her out of politeness or a genuine concern for her welfare? Or could she still not ask him in? Even though now that seems like the only option, and he might be offended? In which case, how can she cover her shame over the curtains? And the bra on the back of the chair? Besides which, there are little hairs everywhere from Joselito, who is starting to shed his fur now that the summer is here. And suppose the Author needs to use the bathroom suddenly, and what if she left the razor she has been using to rid herself of excess body hair out on the shelf?
    Lowering her eyes to the pavement or to her shoes, she clutches the book to her chest, not knowing what to say.
    The Author, of course, is aware of her distress. Lightly touching her shoulder, he courteously suggests: Look, if you feel like it, why don’t we take another short stroll? Just to the end of the street and back?Or as far as the square? Of course, if you prefer to go up right away, without the services of a bodyguard, then if you don’t