My
father's face illuminated, his eyes aglow. He handed each rabbi and
each cantor a folded envelope from an overflowing pocket in his vest
and poured them Araq to warm their hoarsely throats. They gulped the
fiery libations, chanting their invocations as they swallowed.
With marked anticipation they assumed the better seats around the table
and plunged into my mother's dishes. She waited on them deferentially.
Burping aloud, the food devoured, they broke into a vigorous recital of
pious hymns.
Night fell and my father entered the guest room and settled by my bed.
He drew the covers to my chin and straightened wrinkled corners.
"We blessed the house" - he said - "to fend off a disaster."
I asked him what he was afraid of. He told me that he cursed his
brother to die young and now that he did, my father was anxious.
"You loved him very much" - I said and he averted his face.
Waves clashed with undulating ripples to deafening effect.
"There will be a storm tonight" - my dad said finally.
"I guess so" - I agreed - "Good night. I am bushed, I need to rise and
shine early, back to the army."
I turned around to face to the naked wall.
Shalev is Silent
by Sam Vaknin
Shalev's ample back is propped against the laundry dryer and he is
keeping silent.
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