The Lover Read Online Free Page B

Well, it seems not everyone’s asleep. Suddenly he fades out, there’s an ad for Coca-Cola, for Fiat, a last song, anannouncer’s voice, she sounds half asleep, seems to be saying good night. A whistle. The station’s closed down. It’s already after one o’clock.
    The clock creeps on, five hours at least until first light. I sit in the chair, I can’t even lie down, I’m close to tears. What about the man who types? I almost forgot him. The man who types at night in the house across the wadi. I go to the bathroom and through the little window that looks out across the wadi I search for his lighted window. There he is, that’s him. Three cheers for the man who types at night. Sitting at his desk and working hard, my nocturnal friend.
    I discovered him by chance a few weeks ago. A bachelor? Married? I know nothing about him. In the daytime the curtains are drawn, he appears only at night, alone there in the light, working at something, writing without a break. Every time I see him I’m determined to visit the neighbourhood across the wadi, find out which is his house and what his name is. I’d phone him and say, “Mr. Typist, I watch you at night from the other side of the wadi. What are you writing? A thesis? A novel? What’s it about? You should write about insomnia, a subject that hasn’t been studied enough. The insomnia of a fifteen-year-old girl, for example, a student in the sixth grade, who lies awake every fourth night.”
    Tears in my eyes –
    I get dressed in a hurry, changing into a thick pair of woollen trousers, putting a big scarf over the pyjama top, taking an overcoat and Daddy’s fur hat. I put out the lights in the house and open the front door, holding the key in my clenched fist, going down the dark steps into the street. A little night stroll, I won’t go far. A hundred metres down the hill to the roundabout where Yigal was killed and back again. If Mommy and Daddy knew about this going for walks at night they’d kill me. It’s two-thirty . I’m in bedroom slippers, my feet are cold and shivering. I walk down a street that’s dead and damp, looking at the stars. Suddenly a car with lights full on comes racing down the slope, passes me and stops about five metres from me. I freeze. The car jerks backwards. A powerful torch flashes on, searching for me. Maybe they think I’m a little hooker. I’m seized by panic, the key drops into a puddle, someone jumps out of the car, a tallsmiling figure. I pick up the key and run, hurrying up the steps, into the house, panting, I lock the door, undress in a hurry, get into bed and pull the blanket over my head.
    How will it end, this night life? What’s eating me? Everything’s fine, after all. Good friends, comforts at home, boys starting to love me in secret, I know, they don’t say anything but they can’t hide it, those furtive glances in the classroom, those eyes following my legs. Someone from the eighth grade even tried to get off with me. A big boy with a dark face and pimples on his forehead grabbed me once by the school fence and kept me there for a whole hour, and talked. I don’t know about what. Crazy. Until I got away from him.
    So why is it that I can’t sleep, even now at half-past three in the morning after I’ve gone through the whole programme of night activities and I’m exhausted, and tomorrow I’ve got seven hours in school and a test in history and maths that I haven’t prepared for.
    I throw the blanket off again, getting out of bed heavily and clumsily, putting on the light, stumbling over the furniture, meaning to make a noise. I go to the bathroom for a drink of water, looking bleary-eyed at the man who types. He isn’t typing now, he’s sitting there resting his head on the typewriter. Even he’s asleep. I go to their bedroom, stand in the doorway. They’re fast asleep, like little children. I begin to wail softly, “Mommy, Daddy,” and then I go away.
    At first, when I started having sleepless nights, I