AWAKENING
I have a natural lookout post on the slope of a hill, in a
comfortable niche among the basalt rocks, from which I command
an excellent view of the orchard, the plain, the hillside opposite and
the mouth of the wadi. I have clear orders to open fire on the last of
the Syrian commandos who are still lurking in the area. The air is
hot and dusty, wafting towards me a slight smell of scorched thistles
and stale excrement. With my powerful binoculars I systematically
survey first the hillside, then the mouth of the wadi, then the orchard
and then the mouth of the wadi again. I am especially anxious about
the mouth of the wadi. But everything is quiet and empty. Only the
bluebottles keep pestering me, so that I am compelled to toss my
head, change my position, look round, my blood freezes: right be–
hind me, four or five paces away, a Syrian commando is standing
quietly, smiling at me with a look of sly innocence, like a spoiled
child, as if to say:
There, you see, I've made it.
Oh sir, I decide angrily, that's what you think. Your upraised hands
are clenched, and who knows what you are hiding in them or what
you are up to. Besides, I have my clear orders.
Afterwards I have to approach the corpse, turn it over with the
toe of my boot, search for some momento, documents, a photo–
graph, so that I shall not forget you in years to come. But there is no
need: I shall not forget you. Mop of fair hair. High forehead and
strong chin. And a cluster of tiny wrinkles at the corners of your
eyes. I must return to my comfortable niche and continue to survey
the mouth of the wadi. I cover your head with a bit of old sacking,
and jump up with a start.
It
is three o'clock in the morning. Barefoot
and drenched in sweat I get out of bed and cross the room. I sit down
at the window without switching on the light and look out into the
deep darkness, listening even with my skin. Hills outlined in the
moonlight. Cypresses outlined in the garden. Frogs, crickets, and a
light breeze blowing. In the distance the water pump is throbbing.
All as usual. There is nothing new. Everything is as it was. The old
timers, it would seem, came to the very same conclusion by an en–
tirely different route.
