I cannot recite the street names of Tel Aviv by heart because I have not lived there. And when Amnon stuck his head out the window to ask me to run to the makolet for a lemon, it was not the street sign that I was looking at, but Amnon. The absence of window screens in the city allowed me to take him in all at once, unobscured, with nothing between us but the urgency of completing a salad. The cucumbers and tomatoes were already chopped and waiting in the bowl.
I did not know where the makolet was, but I followed my instincts and got lost after a single turn. The roads were potholed and sandy, congested with cars and pedestrians all moving in different directions but at the same frenetic pace. At Rothschild Boulevard I slowed down to consider a canopy of trees and two old women sitting on a bench. I wanted them to be speaking Yiddish and they were, so I put the trees aside and considered them instead, getting close enough to smell their face powder and peek into a canvas bag sitting by their feet. More tomatoes and cucumbers.
It was late when I found my way back to Amnon’s. In the courtyard of his apartment building stood a small grove of lemon trees, all bearing fruit.
Amnon regarded the lemon in my hand before he regarded me, particularly the white flower and stem attached to it from pulling too hard. “You didn’t find the makolet?” he asked, glancing at the same window from which...
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