He had
a gurgling, erupting laughter, Uzi had.
We climbed a thorny, stone-filled road atop a hill, pausing to look at
the vanishing Kibbutz at our feet. "There's my home" - Uzi singled out
a cubicle. I wasn't sure which one he meant, but I did not insist. I
only looked at the hazy greenery and at the gleaming swimming pool and
said: "Let's go down, I am worn out."
The children awaited our descent and cried at Uzi, who ignored them. He
only hastened his steps and so did I. They followed us. Surrounded,
stranded on a tiny path, we stopped. They shoved Uzi and pulled.
"Who is he?" - they demanded - "Why did he come here? Where is he from?"
He frowned and said: "It's no one special. He just came with my mother
from over there" - with a vague gesture to indicate the nowhere.
The girl fixed me with her gaze.
"It's nothing, it's no one! He is only here for a visit, I am telling
you!" - Uzi pleaded.
"He must return where he came from" - said one of them, his eye a cold
blue sparkle. His jaws rippled as he spoke, skin smooth and dry. My
shirt was dabbed in sweat and hung, keeled over, from my thick, long
trousers. "Let him go back" - echoed the girl - "We cannot have another
one of you. Isn't it enough that you gorge on our food and have new
parents?"
Uzi was soundless, his head lowered.
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