The Seven Good Years by Etgar Keret Read Free Book Online Page B

yet tough expression of an aging child who had already learned a thing or two about this stupid world. In retrospect, the malicious rumor among the kids at school that he was already shaving was probably true.
    â€œWell, what do you know?” Kobi said, hugging me. “You haven’t changed a bit,” adding, by way of accuracy, “even the same height, just like elementary school.”
    Kobi and I caught up a bit, and after a while people around us felt safe enough to start making their way out of the protected space, leaving it for us. “That rocket was a stroke of luck,” Kobi said. “Just think: If it wasn’t for that Qassam rocket, we could have walked right past each other and never met.”
    Kobi said he didn’t live nearby. He came to sniff around. Now that Beersheba’s in rocket range, it has opened up quite a few real estate possibilities. Land values will drop; the state will hand out extra construction permits. In short, an entrepreneur who plays his cards right can find great opportunities.
    The last time we met was almost twenty years ago. There were missiles then, too—Scuds that Saddam Hussein rained down on Ramat Gan. Kobi was still living at home. I’d gone back to be with my stubborn parents, who refused to leave the city. Kobi took our friend Uzi and me to his parents’ apartment and showed us what he referred to as his Weapon and Matchstick Museum. There, on the walls of his childhood bedroom, hung an impressive collection of weaponry: swords, pistols, even flails. Beneath them stood a huge Eiffel Tower and a life-size guitar he had made out of matchsticks. He explained to us that the museum had originally been devoted to weapons alone, but after he was convicted of stealing grenades for the exhibition, he took advantage of his eight-month sentence to build the Eiffel Tower and the guitar and added them to the collection.
    In those days, he was especially worried that an Iraqi missile strike would shatter the Eiffel Tower, on which he’d spent most of his jail time. Today, his matchstick creations are still at his parents’ place, but Ramat Gan is outside the effective range of the missiles and rockets. “As far as the matchstick Eiffel Tower goes,” Kobi said, “my situation over the last twenty years has definitely improved. I have my doubts about the rest.”
    On the train from Beersheba I read a paper someone had left behind on a seat. There was an item about the lions and ostriches at the Gaza Zoo. They were suffering from the bombing and hadn’t been fed regularly since the war began. A brigade commander wanted to carry out a special operation to rescue one particular lion and transfer it to Israel. Another, smaller, item, without a picture, reported that the number of children who had died in the bombing of Gaza so far had passed three hundred. Like the ostriches, the rest of the children there would also have to fend for themselves. Our situation at the level of the matchstick Eiffel Tower has indeed improved beyond recognition. As for the rest, like Kobi, I have my doubts.

Idol Worship
    W hen I was three, I had a ten-year-old brother, and deep in my heart I hoped that when I grew up, I’d be just like him. Not that I stood a chance. My big brother had already skipped two grades and had an enviable understanding of everything, from atomic physics and computer programming to the Cyrillic alphabet. Around that time, my brother began to develop a serious concern about me. An article he read in
Haaretz
said that illiterate people are excluded from the job market, and it bothered him very much that his beloved three-year-old brother would have a hard time finding work. So he began to teach me reading and writing using a unique technique he called “the chewing gum method.” It worked as follows: My brother would point to a word, which I had to read out loud. If I read it properly, he would give me a piece of