Limassol Read Online Free Page A

write something new. It’s harder than hell. I torture myself. After all, this book won’t change the world, I know that, and there’s nothing genius about my thoughts, I know that, too. Which leaves the story. But every story has already been told—turn on the television and see all the variations. Nevertheless, I turn out pages and tear them up and am awfully sorry when it doesn’t work, sorry enough to cry. Don’t know why I’m bothering you with all this, maybe because I’ve had two hard days, with people coming and going in my house. You came here for my professional services, and instead I bring you into my life. You listen very well.”
    I asked: “Who came to your house?” I was mad at myself for not listening to her recent phone conversations.
    â€œPeople.” She looked at me with frozen eyes, but she went on: “They were searching for my son. They were searching for his things in drawers and under the mattress and in the pots in the kitchen. They tore my whole house apart. When they didn’t find anything, they took my jewelry. I don’t have anything left. They told me that when they found him, they’d cut his throat, that he owed them a lot of money. Here, take the story. Raw material for a novella.”
    She turned her face toward the big window, the treetop was moving slowly between its corners, and she wept. Maybe I’d reveal myself now, in her moment of weakness, I’d offer the deal.
    Too soon, I said to myself. Not professional.
    I asked how old he was and what he did in life, even though I knew everything.
    â€œI’m scared they’ll catch him,” she wept. “Those people have no fear. Say thanks, sweetie, that we don’t bash your face in. Maybe we’ll break something anyway, as a souvenir, I trembled next to them and waited for them to finish me off . . . ”
    I got up to look for some Kleenex for her. I could never bear women crying; they used tears to buy pity for themselves, or a little more time. It only infuriated me.
    â€œDid you call the police?” I asked.
    â€œI can’t call the police. What world do you live in? I can’t get my son involved any more than he already is.” She went to the bathroom and turned on the faucet again and washed her face and when she came back with her face puffy and red, she said, with a strange laugh: “Don’t worry, they aren’t your problems. Come on, let’s work with your historical tale. Have you thought of who will play your etrog merchant in the film?”
    â€œWould you believe,” I laughed. “I’m hesitating between Pacino and De Niro. The question is which one would make me more money.”
    â€œYou’re a good fellow,” she said with a smile. “I’m glad you came. You’re so normal.”
    She made tea and brought us some dates. Then she put on some quiet new age music in another room, folded her legs under herself on the sofa and asked me about my childhood in Rehovoth, my mother, my father. I told her about the child I was, secret things I had never told, a reward for the lie I wrapped myself in now. Daphna said that if she were me, she would write about those things, take the materials from there, before she’d flee to the etrogs of the rabbinic period.
    â€œThat doesn’t sound so interesting to me,” I said. All those memories seemed to be dyed gray and dark blue.
    â€œIn the beginning, you don’t need a story,” she went back to guiding. “Just train yourself on the details. Before you go splashing paint about, making a gigantic picture of Hannibal’s battles, you need to know how to draw a horse.”
    â€œYou think I can ever draw a horse?” I asked.
    â€œTry,” she said. “I don’t yet know how far you can go.”
    She gave me a homework assignment for the next meeting. Small exercises for beginners, miniatures of writing on an