Читать книгу The Memories We Keep - Walter Zacharius - Страница 5

1975

In the twilight, the grove of cypress on the Lebanese border looks like a small army, poised for attack. This is not too fanciful, for the kibbutz next to my tiny farm has been subjected to periodic shelling, and if an invasion comes there is little to distinguish me from the kibbutzim, though unlike them I have no weapons with which to fight back.

The shelling has been going on for over a year now—sometimes weekly, sometimes three or four times a week; idle entertainment for the Arab troops—but most days I feel safe. The grove that separates my fertile land from the brown, untended fields on the Lebanese side is a place of shelter, my refuge from horrors.

Although the night is quiet, I feel intoxicated. Tomorrow I am to be visited by a man I once loved, and the prospect is at once so exciting and so chilling that I cannot be still: I pace in front of my house, looking at the verdant trees, smelling the sweet air, listening to the sounds of the birds singing, and remembering his touch, his taste, though I have not touched or tasted him for almost thirty years.

Oh, I can’t wait. My flesh comes alive again even without him here, even at the thought of him. The sense memory is so strong I find I must take deep breaths to slow my heart, and when I do I am able to go back inside and pick up the letter announcing his arrival.

Dear Mia,

I saw your picture last week in a Pathé newsreel covering the border tension—and there you were—working the fields (you a farmer?) as lovely and heartbreakingly beautiful as ever. I knew immediately that I must see you. I realized how much I missed you and with a bit of detective work I found your address.

You can’t stop me. By the time you get this I’ll be on the plane to Israel, arriving at your house on the twenty-seventh, and besides, you don’t know my address. I’ve moved since we last saw each other in America.

What will it be like, our meeting? You can kick me out, or choose to say nothing, or you can greet me with a hug and we can fill in our years apart. But most of all, of course, we can remember.

Your Vinnie

Remember him, true. But by doing so, I remember all the other things as well. That’s why I’m chilled. That’s why I’m afraid. His letter has ripped open the scab, and I sit here bleeding for both of us.

Maybe if I force myself to remember it all before he comes, the sight of him will bring comfort and I can begin to love again.

Or maybe not.