People Have No Idea How Busy I Am

“No problem, no problem. I will arrange it for you; phone me back within a week. Then for sure I will have found your file. It is a little balagan over here because we are in the process of rearranging things.”

A voice in the background: “You are always in the process of rearranging things or moving out and in.”

“No problem, as I said, so all the best. I am a bit under lachats now, have to do something urgently.”

“You are going out? Where to? Do not go downtown. We are in a war, you know, we happen to live near a war zone. They never taught us in school or university how to deal with that. So don’t go shopping at the supermarket near the plaza, don’t go to Jaffa Street, don’t go to King George,” warns his wife.

“I just have to go to the post office in Keren Kayemet — you know, nearby, with all these elderly people waiting in line.”

The moment he’s closed the door, he tries to remember where he saw that beautiful Kadishman. Was it in the gallery at the Inbal hotel, or at the King David, or was it in that gallery opposite the hotel? No, no, that one has closed down. There are quite a few galleries closing down now — one moment they are there; the next, the place is for rent. Nothing compared to those golden years when on every corner of the street in the centre of town there was an art gallery. Okay, okay, try to focus, he says to himself. No, it’s not there, also not there. Really, my memory is not what it was; I should check on the internet, maybe there exists some special vitamin for that problem. Do not to forget to look on the internet, he thinks. Nice, nice, it...