AMOSOZ
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bald. He looks like a gangster's stooge in a film. The smaller man
looks shabby and worn, his manner is excitable, his face suggests
that he will bestow admiration or compassion on anyone who needs
it without further reflection. The writer supposes that he is a small
businessman, perhaps an agent for a firm of washing machine dis–
tributors. They are apparently discussing success, in a general sort
of way. The gangsters' stooge is saying:
"And anyway, by the time you've made anything of your life it's
allover."
The other replies:
"You're absolutely right Mr. Baghdadi, I agree with you a hun–
dred percent. But you must admit that there's more to life than just
living-a man needs to do something for his soul as well.
It
stands to
reason."
"What you are saying," the principal actor remarks frostily,
"sounds to me too much like propaganda. Can you give me an exam–
ple from real life, so that we know what you're talking about."
"Alright why not," the little man concurs. "Take Ovadia
Hazzam for instance. You know him, he works for Isratex. He
divorced his wife, played around, took out fantastic loans, took no
notice of anyone, he even joined the National Religious Party, he
lived like a king. Not just like a king, like a lord, even. In the end he
caught cancer of the liver and now he's hospitalized in a very critical
condition."
and replies indifferently:
"Sure. What do you mean do I know him. Poor sod. But I
wouldn't use him as an example if! were you. Everybody knows that
cancer doesn't come from loose living. Scientists have proved now
that it comes from dirt. They even had a professor explaining it on
the radio the other day. You're talking nonsense if you don't mind
me saying so, Cohen. Ovadia Hazzam isjust plain irrelevant. Leave
him alone and get back to the matter in hand."
The author glances at his watch. He gets up, pays the irritable
waitress and thanks her politely for the change. He makes for the
door, changes his mind and goes down two steps into the stinking
lavatory. The burnt-out lightbulb, peeling plaster and stench of old
urine in the darkness remind him that he is not really ready for the
meeting and how will he answer the questions.
As he goes out into the street he lights a cigarette. Twenty past
nine.
It
is a warm humid summer evening and petrol fumes hang
heavy on the air. There is no breeze.
It
seems a terrible thing to the
