The Language of the Windows
Published in Issue #23 Translated from Hebrew by Gershon Geron and Gwen Ackerman subscribe to unlock the full storyThe cicadas are everywhere; in the grass, between the houses, along the pathways and under the garbage cans, but mostly in the trees. The trees are on an island, the island is inundated with the cicadas’ song and surrounded by the sea. And from the branches of the trees comes the incessant voice of the cicadas.
At home, along the Mediterranean’s eastern rib where the Canaanites once dwelt, there are no cicadas. In the branches of the Casuarinas there are only crickets and frogs. “And the ship made its way all that night and morning” – these words from Odysseus stayed with me the entire time I was on the island.
But my story is only about two nights, sunset to sunup, then sunset to sunup again.
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The first night, we walked along the narrow streets on a summer evening, and people were thronging to the beach from all over town. The town’s buildings were low, the windows came up only to our waists, and behind the muslin blinds one could make out a dishevelled bed or an obese man at his computer dressed in a white undershirt. The window I liked best was in a low door, and at night, when the house was lit, I could make out a thin-lipped woman with glasses sitting at a small table, knitting with her eyes glued to a TV set beyond my gaze, probably on an outer wall. To her left was a large bed, on which an elderly man was lying. All...
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