Read Don't Call It Night for Free Online

full service for documents of all sorts. In his leisure hours Dubi Weitzman paints the desert landscape in gouache; five of his canvases were once shown in a collective exhibition in a private gallery in Herzliyya. On the wall of his office in a frame decorated with mother-of-pearl hangs an enlargement of a review in
Ha'aretz
newspaper in which his name is mentioned. Dr. Nir is a rock-climber, while Dr. Dresdner's wife is a distant relative of a singer who gave a performance here the winter before last and distributed autographed photographs of herself to her fans.
    A couple of Bedouins, no longer very young, sit side by side on the steps of the Workers' Council, both wearing jeans. One sports a brand-name T-shirt, the other is in tatty battle fatigues. The shorter of the two is sitting with his forearm resting on his knee, palm upwards, his thumb repeatedly stroking a dead cigarette resting on his four cracked fingers. Slowly. The other has a bundle done up in old newspaper between his knees. His eyes are fixed on the sky or the glint of the radio aerial on the roof of the police station. Waiting. An old Ashkenazi pedlar walks past dragging his feet, with a tray fastened round his neck by a string. On it are frogs that can be made to hop by squeezing a rubber bulb, tops, soaps, combs, shaving foam and tubes of shampoo made in Taiwan. He is bespectacled, hunched, with a black skullcap on his head. He smiles absentmindedly at the two Bedouins who, uncertain of his intention, nod their heads politely.
    "Hollywood Photos—films developed and all photography requisites": the shop is shut and barred. Inside the dusty window, under a photograph of Menachem Begin presented to its readers by the newspaper
Ma'ariv,
a notice has been put up: "On account of simultaneous and concurrent reserve army service on the part of the proprietors Yehuda and Jakki these premises will be closed starting as from today with affect until the first of next month. The public is kindly requested to exercise patients". In front of the funeral parlour, on metal stools, sit three religious youths, one of whom is an albino, exchanging opinions. The old pedlar pauses next to them, eager to join in their conversation; he coughs, sighs and makes a sign with his fingers: So Jew and non-Jew are like oil and water? Well, the same holds good of Jew and Jew. Each and every one. Even if they are brothers. One of the youths goes inside and brings him a glass of water. The old man thanks him, drinks, groans, picks up his tray with the frogs and soaps, attaches it round his neck, and plods on his way in the direction of the traffic lights. In a small cubbyhole sits the bookbinder, Kushner. He is not bookbinding, because he is immersed in reading a crumbling book. His gold-rimmed spectacles have slipped halfway down his nose. To judge by his faint smile it is evident the book pleases him, or perhaps it is bringing back memories. Three Indian birch trees have been planted on the far side of the square. Their foliage is sparse and they cast hardly any shadow.
    In Schatzberg's pharmacy a notice has been pinned up: "No medicines on credit". A heavy man with a Romanian accent mutters: What is this word "credit"? A tousled youth with dusty sandals and a sub-machinegun hanging from his shoulder by a string instead of a strap volunteers an explanation: Credit is like a discount.
    They are extending the Computer Palace by knocking down a wall. Opening soon: a special display of the last word in computer networking. Meanwhile, the stock is shrouded in plastic sheeting, to protect it from the dust. On the wall that is being demolished is a poster showing an icy, bespectacled beauty sitting with crossed legs at a computer screen: she is so engrossed in her programming that she does not realize she is allowing passers-by to peer up her skirt. A blond child is playing intently with a ball against a side wall of the Paris Cinema: catching, passing, throwing, catching, passing. He plays