Gates to Tangier Read Online Free Page A

never be, pa ­ per can handle it all, the reader can handle very little, they don't read most of the books, they throw them in the trash, but the page, the page is a paradise for writers like me, we bombard the page, the ashkenazim piss me off, whatever the problem, I can write it, I can respond, my aliyá was a failure, again, it doesn't matter, like Bukowski said, the best thing in writing is that you can find your wife fucking your best friend, and instead of killing him you go and write this grand p ­ oem, and that same night you can sit together all three of you and dri ­ nk a beer, or at least you can wr ­ ite it, you write more, and here is Silvia, who turns around to ask:
    "What are you writing about in such a hurry?"
    "About everything, whiskey, the flight attendant, the passport inspection..."
    "Hey - don't write too much about us. We can't say anything to you, it will all end up in your books." 
    "Don't worry, I don't have many readers."
    "Then what are you writing about us for, wri ­ te stories about the moon, they'll sell better."
    Yes, that. They all have ideas about what I should writ ­ e about. I really need that one hundred thousand doll ­ ars of inheritance. My worker's compensation for ten years of part-time work at the Sojnut have ended, that’s over. It was boring work, but at least I was able to write in peace for two years. That is what is important, to write.
    I tell myself that but I don't believe it, it is what it is, an illness, an obsession, only wr ­ iting. I ruined my life to write, I ruined my family, my son perhaps, or maybe it is better that he grew up with his mother, if he had been with me I could have destroyed him more.
    I ne ­ ed money, this is why I'm looking for this strange brother, my secret brother, my brother who may not even be alive, I don't know. On this page I can go and live in Paris, or Madrid, but my life is already in Jerusalem. For a while now, my life has been in Jerusalem and Jerusalem has melted into my life, a Jerusalemite poet, Jerusale ­ m writer. But not the kind that write like Agnon, not me, I don't write like Agnon, I'm above this, and behind everything, I write like Alberto Benzimra, only Alberto Benzimra writes like Alberto Benzimra, and no one understan ­ ds what he writes.
    What can I do? I ask Isaque to give me a homeopathic re ­ medy, because if I asked Fortu for something like that he would laugh at me, but in homeopathy you can treat everything, treat the pain from my father's death.
    He gave it to me over the phone. "Take Ignatia...Ignatia 7 CH". Not bad, right? You can even treat the pain from the dea ­ th of someone who died fifteen years ago. I don't ca ­ re if it helps or cures anything, the pills for throat pai ­ n don't help eighty percent of the time, and if we want to talk about cancer, all those demented treat ­ ments don't help anything, but at least the theories behind homeopathy are much more literary than the theories behind allopathy, which only wants to destroy disease. According to homeopathy there is a harmony between people and plants on the earth, there are persons that are Natr ­ um, with an affinity for salt. How wonderful, a person who is the personification of salt. Others have snake venom, Lachesis. Others bee venom, Apis. Every person develops certain characteristics accord ­ ing to these parallels and can change throughout their lives to become one plant or another.
    And my father kept his secret until death, until thirty days after his death, but he didn't take it to the grave. What was he afraid of? That his young ­ est daughter would marry his secret Moroccan son? Could that happen? It is very improbable, impossible. It must be that he felt guilty for leaving his son there with his mother and disappearing, maybe he thought he could take care of his family and his illegitimate son. How is he illegitimate exactly? A son, with Fátima , Fatima Elbaz. Who could believe it? But maybe it wasn't such an uncommon