It jerks, he jolts, eyes downcast, his short-sleeved
T-shirt defenceless against the arctic ambiance.
"Shalev, say something" - I mutter. He only smiles. It is my daybreak
plea, repeated each morning since he quietened.
By way of responding, he turns to face the glass eye of the coinless
Laundromat, his stooping shoulders focused upon the swirling garments.
He motions to me to lay my wash on a truncated soggy wooden slab.
The laundry room is high ceilinged. Rags decomposing hang flayed on
oxblood iron juts, stabbing four walls coarsely mortared by the
inmates. Pipes conjoined with mouldy tape drip onto the twin
contraptions - the malignantly oversized washer and dryer.
Shalev is average height but way obese. His wild stubble and wire
glasses accentuate his burliness, the towering machinery, the vaulted
chamber. "The Cyclops's Cave", I call it and well-read Shalev just
chuckles. He casts a longing glance at a pile of books and snacks
awaiting in his "Promised Corner". But he wouldn't say a word.
I occupied one of the twin armchairs in the ironing parlour and set the
backgammon board to play. Shalev was preceded in this job by a
transvestite whose nocturnal off-key strains of yearning were still
evoked.
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