you about the Abdullah Walter cult. And Heinz Berger."
Lucas wrote it down.
"Dance with her," Obermann suggested.
"I can't. She's too good."
"Wait until you hear her sing," Zimmer said. "Like an angel."
Suddenly Fotheringill noticed Lucas again. His impatient mug interposed itself over Lucas's field of vision.
"What about the poem!" the north Briton demanded. Lucas stared at him in incomprehension.
"The poem about
rillons!
" Fotheringill insisted. "The poem about
rillettes!
" Dimly, Lucas recalled an attempt he had drunkenly made to impress Fotheringill with his credentials as a foodie by quoting a comic poem by Richard Wilbur about
rillons
and
rillettes de Tours.
Lucas had once been a man with a poem for all occasions.
"Oh," said Lucas. "Let's see."
Fotheringill's persistence was unsettling. It was easy to picture him on some blasted moor, slicing off the limbs of fallen cavaliers for their armor while crows overhead sang a ghastly lament.
"'
Rillettes, Rillons
,'" Lucas attempted. "No: '
Rillons, Rillettes,
they taste the same ... and yet...'"
Memory failed him.
"And yet?" Fotheringill demanded. "And yet what?"
"I guess I've forgotten."
"Drat! I don't like the 'and yet' part. Because they're completely different things, understand!"
Movement by tiny movement, Lucas succeeded in extricating himself from the table while Fotheringill began an embittered discourse on the subject of pastry. He had the necessary numbers in his notebook. Sonia was dancing again as he made his way out the door.
He got a taxi on Ben Yehuda Street and rode it home. Fumbling into his apartment, he turned on the answering machine. It was filled with messages in Hebrew and French for his flatmate and sometime lover, Tsililla Sturm, but the last was for him, and it was Nuala.
"Hello, Christopher," Nuala's brisk Dublin voice declaimed. "I've some news for you about Abu, and I think we may have found the cure for him. So call me in the morning like a good lad."
"Goddam it, Nuala," Lucas told the machine. "What do I have to do? Who do I have to be?"
He suspected that she found him tame and overcivilized, too pale and Catholic. Her taste ran to militants, dark, hot-eyed
enragés, cabrones.
Muttering unhappily, he turned the machine off and went to bed.
6
N UALA MET HIM on a ridge in Talpiot, in a café near S. Y. Agnon's house. Across a valley lay the Hill of Evil Counsel, where the United Nations had its offices. On the southern slope, the brown land descended toward Bethlehem. Lucas arrived first and so could watch his friend trudge up the hill. She kept her head down, hands in the pockets of her cardigan, eyes on the pavement. She was wearing a black top and faded crimson Afghan pants. When she removed the sweater at the top of the climb, she looked for a moment like a fashion model in search of a shoot.
As she drew nearer, he saw that one of her eyes was blackened and the skin around it darkly bruised. She sat down at his table with a wan smile.
"Hello, Christopher."
"Hello, Nuala. What happened to your eye?"
"Abu socked me. How about
that.
"
"I'd call it a coup. Did you get a gander at him?"
"He was wearing a kaffiyeh over his face like the
shebab.
They all were."
"Sure he wasn't Palestinian? Because there's always a possibility this is some kind of internecineâ"
"Balls," she said, interrupting him. "I've talked to every faction in the Strip. I went over it with Majoub." Majoub was a human rights lawyer in Gaza City, a Palestinian activist. "He's in the IDF."
"How do you know he's not just a settler?"
"You're being tiresome," she said. "Because he turns up far from the settlements late at night. He has the use of desert vehicles, maybe even boats. Anyway, I can tell by the reaction of the IDF people. They think he's one of their own."
"How'd you get him to hit you?"
"Oh, my," she said, "thanks very much for the sympathy. He hit me because we caught him. There were stones thrown in Deir el-Balah that day and we
Lucas wrote it down.
"Dance with her," Obermann suggested.
"I can't. She's too good."
"Wait until you hear her sing," Zimmer said. "Like an angel."
Suddenly Fotheringill noticed Lucas again. His impatient mug interposed itself over Lucas's field of vision.
"What about the poem!" the north Briton demanded. Lucas stared at him in incomprehension.
"The poem about
rillons!
" Fotheringill insisted. "The poem about
rillettes!
" Dimly, Lucas recalled an attempt he had drunkenly made to impress Fotheringill with his credentials as a foodie by quoting a comic poem by Richard Wilbur about
rillons
and
rillettes de Tours.
Lucas had once been a man with a poem for all occasions.
"Oh," said Lucas. "Let's see."
Fotheringill's persistence was unsettling. It was easy to picture him on some blasted moor, slicing off the limbs of fallen cavaliers for their armor while crows overhead sang a ghastly lament.
"'
Rillettes, Rillons
,'" Lucas attempted. "No: '
Rillons, Rillettes,
they taste the same ... and yet...'"
Memory failed him.
"And yet?" Fotheringill demanded. "And yet what?"
"I guess I've forgotten."
"Drat! I don't like the 'and yet' part. Because they're completely different things, understand!"
Movement by tiny movement, Lucas succeeded in extricating himself from the table while Fotheringill began an embittered discourse on the subject of pastry. He had the necessary numbers in his notebook. Sonia was dancing again as he made his way out the door.
He got a taxi on Ben Yehuda Street and rode it home. Fumbling into his apartment, he turned on the answering machine. It was filled with messages in Hebrew and French for his flatmate and sometime lover, Tsililla Sturm, but the last was for him, and it was Nuala.
"Hello, Christopher," Nuala's brisk Dublin voice declaimed. "I've some news for you about Abu, and I think we may have found the cure for him. So call me in the morning like a good lad."
"Goddam it, Nuala," Lucas told the machine. "What do I have to do? Who do I have to be?"
He suspected that she found him tame and overcivilized, too pale and Catholic. Her taste ran to militants, dark, hot-eyed
enragés, cabrones.
Muttering unhappily, he turned the machine off and went to bed.
6
N UALA MET HIM on a ridge in Talpiot, in a café near S. Y. Agnon's house. Across a valley lay the Hill of Evil Counsel, where the United Nations had its offices. On the southern slope, the brown land descended toward Bethlehem. Lucas arrived first and so could watch his friend trudge up the hill. She kept her head down, hands in the pockets of her cardigan, eyes on the pavement. She was wearing a black top and faded crimson Afghan pants. When she removed the sweater at the top of the climb, she looked for a moment like a fashion model in search of a shoot.
As she drew nearer, he saw that one of her eyes was blackened and the skin around it darkly bruised. She sat down at his table with a wan smile.
"Hello, Christopher."
"Hello, Nuala. What happened to your eye?"
"Abu socked me. How about
that.
"
"I'd call it a coup. Did you get a gander at him?"
"He was wearing a kaffiyeh over his face like the
shebab.
They all were."
"Sure he wasn't Palestinian? Because there's always a possibility this is some kind of internecineâ"
"Balls," she said, interrupting him. "I've talked to every faction in the Strip. I went over it with Majoub." Majoub was a human rights lawyer in Gaza City, a Palestinian activist. "He's in the IDF."
"How do you know he's not just a settler?"
"You're being tiresome," she said. "Because he turns up far from the settlements late at night. He has the use of desert vehicles, maybe even boats. Anyway, I can tell by the reaction of the IDF people. They think he's one of their own."
"How'd you get him to hit you?"
"Oh, my," she said, "thanks very much for the sympathy. He hit me because we caught him. There were stones thrown in Deir el-Balah that day and we
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