Shouts and footfalls echoed behind him. Ofir searched for a place to hide. He ran to a wood door that was slightly ajar. He ducked inside, praying no one was in there. He closed the door and, panting, tiptoed backward in the darkness. No windows, no lamps, it was too black to see. The sliver of brightness along the door’s edge provided the only light.
He huddled in a corner. He was never going to catch the boy now, and he didn’t care. He didn’t want to fight him anymore, risk busting up his fingers. The anger was gone. The fear back. He’d never been so scared. The best he could do was wait until the footsteps passed and pray he made it out of the kasbah alive.
When Ofir’s eyes adjusted, he found himself surrounded by mirrors—piled against the walls, hanging from the ceiling, skinny mirrors framed by iron vines, square mirrors bordered by tiles, round mirrors in brass fretwork. Ofir was wondering if he could take a small mirror as a memento of having been in this magical forbidden place, having survived it, when his gaze fell on the boy. He too was backed into a dark corner. His widened eyes reflected the door’s sliver of light, the door that stood dead center between them.
The boy didn’t move. Didn’t even blink. Ofir kept equally still. The boy looked like he couldn’t believe Ofir was here any more than Ofir could. They surveyed each other—the boy afraid Ofir would shoot, Ofir afraid the boy would scream and in moments he would be surrounded by Arabs.
He tightened his grip on his rifle. Oh, God. What should he do? He could shoot the boy and run for it. What if it were the other way around? What if he, the Jew, were unarmed in the corner and the Arab had the gun? What then? He would shoot him, wouldn’t he? Would he? He didn’t know. Didn’t matter. He didn’t want to shoot the boy. How had he ended up here? All he wanted now was to take a small mirror and get the hell out. He wanted to live. He wanted to finish his composition. But who knew what the Palestinian boy wanted?
Eyeing the boy, Ofir slowly rose from his corner. The boy stiffened. Ofir let go of his rifle and raised his palms in the air. The M-16 hung in front of him as they searched each other’s eyes. The boy’s face relaxed.
Ofir kept one hand in the air and reached his other hand into his pants pocket. The boy, nervous again, jumped to his feet. Ofir pulled out a twenty-shekel bill, and the boy watched with a furrowed brow as Ofir laid the money on the counter and picked up a mirror the size of a dessert plate. Ofir held the mirror up to the boy, as if to ask his permission, and the boy shook his head. With a raised finger, the boy walked around the darkness, inspecting the mirrors. He lifted one from the wall, one that was slightly larger, the size of a dinner plate, bordered by red and blue tiles, and held it out to Ofir. Ofir took it, tucked it under his armored vest, and stuffed his green army shirt back into his pants. He gave the boy one last look before slipping out the shallow door.
He bolted down the street, heart pounding against the mirror. Turning the corner, he found his unit holding back a small crowd.
“What?” Dan screamed at him. “Are you fucked in the head?”
Ofir had never seen his commander so incensed. Gadi’s eyes shone with terror as he pointed his M-16 left and right at the shouting throng. Yaron’s rifle trembled, and Shai’s face was flushed, sweaty, as he squinted down his barrel; if he shot someone, Ofir would have that on his conscience. Dan ordered the soldiers to push through the people, but the angry mob wouldn’t break apart for them.
People shouted: “Where’s the boy? He’s killed the boy!”
Dan’s face reddened. “Don’t make me shoot! I’m going to shoot! I’m about to shoot!”
The crowd broke open enough to let them through.
The soldiers ran behind Dan down the labyrinthine alleys. They didn’t say a word. Just moved. As they bolted down the last passage toward the sunlight of the square and the noise of the riot, Ofir had to fight not to laugh. It was wrong to have endangered his unit, and the Palestinians they might have hurt to rescue him, but he loved the mirror tucked under his vest. He loved that moment he and the boy had in the dark room, as miraculous as that handshake on the White House lawn. He felt ready to inherit the world. The new century. His century, which promised to be so much better than the last one.
The sunburst at the end of the dim alley wasn’t just the sunlight of the square, but life, and Ofir was running headlong into it, wishing time would hurry up already, the way his mother claimed only a seventeen-year-old would. It felt like if he just kept on running and breathing in the good feeling, he would soon outrun gravity and take leave of the cobblestones. His chest ached as if his soul were too big for his body, and all at once he knew what was missing from his composition. Not fear. It was this ache. The ache of feeling like you should be taking leave of the cobblestones, but you’re not. The ache of gravity.
Adam wiped pasta sauce off a plate with a slimy sponge. His hands sweated inside his rubber gloves while the steam from the giant dishwasher made the walls perspire. Finally, the last plates were coming down the conveyer belt. In minutes he would be done with the dinner shift and heading to the old lady’s apartment.
Yossi appeared on the other side of the belt, his face and hands red from unloading the scalding clean plates from the opposite end of the dishwasher, where it was even hotter. “You can go now, Adam. You did a great job again today. It’s so much easier when I have a good teammate.”
Adam peeled off the rubber gloves, flattered, unable to remember the last time someone had commended him on a job well done. He threw his apron into a hamper overflowing with dishrags and proceeded to the hand-washing stations, where he splashed water on his face and considered his reflection. Not great, but not bad, considering he’d only been sober for five days. The kibbutz hairdresser, a woman working out of her house, gave him more of a flattop than a pompadour, but it was still an improvement. The bags under his eyes had mostly faded. He gave himself a fake grin, checking once again that the black cavities only showed when he opened his mouth wide.
In the dusk, Ziva’s window glowed on the other side of the square. Hers was the first apartment in the old age building, right after the bomb-shelter door. Passing the kolbo, Adam locked eyes with a boy strapped into a large electric wheelchair, his parent probably inside the shop. His arms were bent upward and his hands flopped forward as if his wrists were affixed to invisible puppet strings. Adam managed to give the boy a smile just before the boy’s eyes and head rolled back. Adam walked on, feeling guilty that he could.
He knocked on Ziva’s door. Inside he heard shuffling, followed by a shout in Hebrew with the cadence of “one minute.” The muddy brown boots outside the door were identical to the ones on his feet. Adam had never been a part of anything with a uniform before—no school, sports team, fast-food joint—and it felt weird having the same boots as an old lady.
Ziva opened the door. Her eyes and lips tightened. Adam didn’t know what to make of her strange expression. Why didn’t she say anything?
“You’re Ziva, right? Eyal’s mom?”
“Yes . . .” Her voice came out slow, uncertain. Maybe the old woman still wasn’t feeling well. Too bad; he couldn’t wait any longer.
“Can I come in for a sec? I just wanted to ask you something.”
She brought a hand to her forehead, looking dizzy. He hoped she wasn’t going to faint again.
He stammered, “Eyal . . . said it would be okay.”
“Well, it’s not okay. I’m working on something.”
He could hear the German accent now. He hadn’t heard it outside the dining hall. He loved that accent. Some people might think of Nazis when they heard it, but he thought of Zayde and the other old people from their building.
“It’ll only take five minutes, tops. I’ve been waiting three days to talk to you.”
She took a deep breath. “And then you promise you’ll go away?”