Whip
Published in Issue #17 Translated from Hebrew by Dalya Bilu(Excerpt from a Novella)
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Only sometimes, when he returned from the swamp behind the railway tracks, chewing grey eucalyptus leaves and holding red poppies, a few narcissi or purple irises in his hands, they would smile at him. He would plant the flowers in the bed of loose soil in front of the house, look at them, kick the air, spit out the bits of leaf grating between his teeth, laugh, take a little clay flowerpot out of the shed, fill it with sand, transfer the flowers to it, pull up the black rubber hose attached to the tap, and water them. The grains of sand, together with the white drops of water, would spray out, hitting his knees, the flowers would fall down, float, but he would go on standing opposite them, his feet in the mud, his shadow in the sand, until his mother would arrive, kiss his narrow forehead, pass her finger over her cracked lips, pick up the flowerpot, put it down on the balustrade of the verandah, go into the house, come out with a long-necked, pot-bellied glass jar, and transfer the flowers to it. She would shake the flowers, arrange them, co-ordinate the colours, and stand the jar on the embroidered white cloth covering the sideboard in the dining room. But after supper, when his tongue lolled, and the dregs of the coffee in the little cups dried, the flowers would suffocate too. Only their sweet smell mingled with the scent of the rot nibbling at the ends...
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