Read Rhyming Life and Death for Free Online Page B

he’s going to grow up to be a very famous poet or writer. Sagivi? Come on? Tell the famous writer something very original and beautiful. No? What’s the matter with you? But you prepared so beautifully at home. We even rehearsed it together. So how come you’re suddenly so shy with the writer gentleman? There’s no need to be shy. Writers understand our souls perfectly. Isn’t that right? But we’re sorry, we really don’t want to intrude, we’re just leaving, we’ll just leave this envelope with you please and we’ll wait patiently for you to write us a letter. Write to us please and tell us your honest opinion of Sagivi’s work. What could he improve? Maybe the ideas? Or the spelling?The style, maybe? Or maybe it would be better for him to tackle more practical subjects? And please, where can we publish it? What’s come over you, Sagivi? Why don’t you speak up and say your piece? What an idiot child! Excuse me, sir, if you could please write us just a recommendation? Or an introduction? With the fine recommendation you’ll write for us please, anyone will agree to publish us!
    *
    Then the Author tells Rochele Reznik about his eccentric Uncle Osya, the one who forgot him in the Pogrebinsky Brothers’ pharmacy. How this Uncle Osya once delivered a resounding slap on the cheek to the Communist Member of the Knesset, Shmuel Mikunis, how the two of them eventually ended up becoming bosom friends and how they even cared for each other devotedly when both fell ill the same year, the same month, with the same disease, and were even put in the same ward in the Ichilov Hospital.
    For a moment the Author thinks of the dying Ovadya Hazzam, the man who lived like a king (a lord, even), had a wild time, came into money, got divorced, cruised around town all day in a blueBuick with blondes from Russia, slapped everyone on the shoulder, laughing and joking, belched thunderously, hugged and kissed everyone he met, even strangers, men and women alike, and when he burst out laughing he made the windowpanes rattle, and now in Ichilov his catheter has slipped out and the night sister is too far away to hear his faint groan, so he lies there in a puddle of his warm, sour, bloodstained urine, which will soon cool down and run onto his belly, his groin, his back, making his buttocks stick to the wet sheet.
    *
    When they reach the entrance to Rochele Reznik’s building the Author takes his leave of her warmly, thanks her for coming for a little walk with him, repeats his kind words about her reading, and offers to accompany her upstairs to her rooftop. She blushes under the cover of darkness and mumbles that there’s really no need, Joselito is waiting for her up there, she always comes home alone, that is—
    The Author insists, declaring in his most authoritative voice that everyone knows it’s precisely on the staircases of old buildings in Tel Aviv at night thatall sorts of things recently, etc. To be on the safe side he should definitely accompany her to her own front door, hand her over to her Joselito, not to mention keys getting lost or breaking off in the lock.
    Rochele Reznik, embarrassed, stammers that there’s really no need, thank you anyway, but there is really and truly no need, she simply turns on the light here, at the bottom of the stairs, and in two minutes she’ll be home, Joselito is waiting by the door and he’ll certainly kill her for coming home so late, apart from which, she’s sorry but it so happens that it’s not very cosy this evening in her flat, because she’s sent the curtains to be cleaned and there are no shutters, so the neighbours can—
    At this she is smitten with panic mixed with shame: the curtains are not at the cleaner’s, they are precisely where they should be, and anyway why mention curtains? Why did I say to him that it’s not very cosy this evening in the flat? I even said that the neighbours