Читать книгу Track Changes - Sayed Kashua - Страница 16

Back when we lived in Jerusalem, I always woke up before my wife and kids. I liked that hour of early morning quiet. In Illinois the situation is different. I want to sleep late, to avoid waking up, as has long been my habit.

The winter mornings here are icy and dark. I try to stay still in bed, hoping for the sun to come up. I try to think about the book I have to write, about the first-person protagonist that is the me character. But swiftly I’m seized by harsh thoughts that force me out of bed to start my morning routine, rituals meant to banish the demons.

Coffee is my first task. It took me several long months to get used to the idea and the taste of American coffee, coffee that until we came here I had seen only on TV and in movies. A white filter, four heaped tablespoons, four cups of water in the designated slot, a transparent glass pot, set in its ring—and then the flipping of a switch to start the process. Only then do I go urinate. Even if my bladder is pressing I will always start the coffee machine before going to the bathroom. Ten minutes will pass before it’s ready, and I have to make the most of my time.

I’ve now developed a fondness for American coffee. I take the first two cups with milk, with the firm belief that the lactose gets the intestinal track moving. After going to the bathroom, I put on my two-ply winter coat—the inner layer providing insulation and the outer layer serving as a sort of wind and rain guard. We bought these coats together, for the whole family, over two years ago, once we understood that without proper winter coats a person could freeze to death here in ten minutes. In Israel there’s no need for special coats, not even in Jerusalem, which is considered especially cold.

Before zipping up the coat I pull on some thick thermal socks and then step into waterproof boots, another local purchase, and wrap a wool scarf around my neck and pull a hat down over my ears. I put a glove on my left hand but leave my right one bare, so that I can pour coffee into a travel mug, and then add only a touch of milk so that the coffee doesn’t cool down too much. Smoking is prohibited inside—actually it’s prohibited everywhere on campus—including the graduate student dorms and the faculty housing for visiting academics.

During our first few weeks in town, I’d walk down one of the side streets with my coffee and cigarette in hand, but as the weather got colder I started smoking on the path that leads from the kitchen to the stairs. I smoke fast in the winter, three minutes per cigarette at most. Otherwise my hand goes numb. Afterward I grind the cigarettes into a bucket of frozen water, enjoying the hissing sound that the burning cigarettes make upon impact with the ice.