Trading Places
Published in Issue #13 Translated from Hebrew by Michael Swirsky(Excerpt from a Novel)
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Ever since that writer visited us, I have been going mad with jealousy. And I had thought the character of Rivka, my wife, was already fading from my mind, that she could no longer agitate or trouble me. But, oh, how that one visit of his brought her back, brought her back to me completely, to the point where her presence utterly pervaded me, as it had on that distant day years ago when I saw her shapeless, unformed body for the first time.
The writer, a short fellow with a flat, dark cap on his head, had come to dinner one night. It was Rivka who brought him. He was one of the many acquaintances she accumulated from far and wide whom she would continually spring upon us. His name was Berkowitz or Moscowitz or something. It’s interesting that, then too, no one referred to him by name; “the writer is coming” was how we would tell ourselves we had to prepare for his arrival, as if, compared with that title, his name was but an insignificant detail. It is also hard to remember if it was a weekday or the eve of some holiday. I mainly recall his shape. He entered the room cowering, a movement I had learned to recognize during the war, when we ran hugging the walls for fear of the shells whizzing by all around. The man sat down at the table, still bent over, and stared at the empty plate. The table was already...
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