The First Time That He Died

The first time that he died, he had been sitting in a café on the Street of the Prophets in Jerusalem pondering the name of his wife’s lover—Daniel? David? How could he forget when he himself had brothers with those names?—and trying to work out when it was that he had discovered the lover’s existence. It was August, the month of heat and mourning, white light at daybreak, a scant few weeks until back to work. Construction and destruction, jackhammers breaking up the rock that stood in the way of new roads yet to come, foundations planted in the red-brown sand that passed as earth. He sipped his iced coffee, stroked the beaded water on the outside of the glass, and tried on each name. Daniel. David. Perhaps a nicknamed variation of one or the other. The backup warning beeps of backhoes streamed through the atmosphere. Spoons against ceramic stirring cream into tea, rolls breaking open, throat-clearing coughs that were preludes to unwelcomed pronouncements, a radio as sound swerved through the air and disappeared. And tires, of course; for the rest of his life he’d be aware of the distant screeching of tires.

He could not recall when he had first heard his wife’s hushed tones thrust into her cellular phone. His wife with a cellular phone; that brought a smile to his lips as he imagined her hand, nails flashing red (when had she begun painting her nails? or did someone else do it for her? was she now paying for manicures?) as she uneasily held the awkward piece of plastic she’d felt unnecessary but was compelled to use once he bought them a matching pair. Was it during the winter rains of December, or two months later, around his forty-second birthday?

His table faced the traffic, on the east side of the street, magenta bougainvillea snaking up a whitewashed outer kitchen wall where he was privy to the flush and roar of water. Stainless steel pots banged deep into stainless steel sinks already stacked early in the day with dirty plates, the clang of cups hitting saucers, the shouts and curses of cooks and servers, and wings of helicopters above, while steam hissed and wheels rolled beneath the buzz of café chatter.

The car, a nondescript white Volvo, had arrived from the farthest reaches of that proverbial nowhere, province of fairytale, ancient myth, raw magic—to lose control and loose itself on the crooked street and café, plowing into three wrought-iron chairs, one café table, a waiter carrying a tray of ice cream sundaes in celebration of a grandfather’s arrival from Russia,...