Who Gives A Damn About Dreams?

Rosh Hashanah had already passed, so had Yom Kippur and Sukkot. It seemed like that was it, it was over, finished, yet here it was again, another steamy, sticky summer’s day. Joel was sweating even more than usual. All down Aliyah Street the buses shot their fumes into his face. The shabby stairwell, which was once rather elegant, really choked him. He started up the stairs. Somebody was coming down in his direction and stopped a few steps above him—a young man, about his age. He stopped too. There was something strange about the look in the man’s eyes, a certain intimacy, as if he recognized him. He also gave him a complicit smile, sort of gluey, and nodded with his head as though he was almost bowing.

“Sorry,” he said.

“Why? There’s room for everyone,” said Joel.

“Sure, of course,” said the other guy, and repeated himself, “Of course.”

All the same he flattened himself against the wall as he continued to descend, as though giving Joel the right of way out of respect, as if he was saying that Joel could think all he wanted that everyone was equal but he didn’t have to see things the same way. Joel wasn’t really surprised. There was something in his look, his height, the particularly cordial handsomeness of his face that inspired goodwill and not just respect. But there was also something else here, something he couldn’t grasp. He turned his head to watch the other guy go and noticed he was wearing a white shirt—although it was short-sleeved he was wearing a tie too, and it didn’t look like he was sweating at all, as if he was from another world altogether. For a second he thought that he had already met this guy but he didn’t have the head to get into it. He had heavier matters on his mind.

Debts—that’s all he had left from his dreams of making films and the most pressing debt of them all, which included a lien on his shop, was owed to Don Haim Cohen, a loan shark on the black market who had one glass eye. He had to try to delay the date the loan was due. There was no answer at Don Cohen’s office and there wasn’t even an answering machine to leave messages. “When I’m in the office then I’m in the office and when I’m out, I’m out,” he had once said to him. He also said that he “didn’t hold by” cell phones. “I’m not some dog on a leash that people can just grab hold of any time they want,” he said. His lawyer didn’t know where he was either, and the days went flying by. There were only two weeks left till the due date.

One day Joel stopped at a red light and saw Don Cohen. There was no mistaking him. It was the same firm height, like a rectangle, a little stooped but still resembling a closet with a single door. He was wearing the same dark pants and white long-sleeved shirt with the thin stripes. It was the same square face too, looking like a sort of box on top of this large closet. And of course he had his black bag in his left hand. He emerged from some shop or perhaps from some stairwell. It was clear that the sunlight outside stunned him. His arms flew out sideways and he seemed to lose his balance for a second. He even looked up at the sun for a second, as if asking the meaning of it all. He immediately wobbled a bit and for a moment it looked like he was going to fall. Joel didn’t think much of it and just called out to him from the car, “Don Cohen!” He called in a loud voice and Don Cohen turned towards him, at which point he added, “Wait a second, I’ll be right with you!” At once he noticed that the window of the car was cracked open only slightly. He opened it fully and then screamed, “Just a second, I’ll be right with you!” At which he heard the cars behind him honking and blaring and saw the light meanwhile change to green. He was about to step on the gas and drive on, but the light changed back to red. He turned to the side again and saw Don Cohen’s back moving off into the distance. He didn’t get a chance to look at him for too long when somebody knocked on his window and screamed at him, “What are you crazy, blind or what?!” He reached the shop and his mother told him that Don Cohen had stopped by looking for him just an hour earlier. Joel only managed to get a hold of him in the afternoon and they set an appointment at Don Cohen’s office for the next day, late morning. That was it, finally.

The bell didn’t ring. He knocked but there was no answer. He figured he would try the door. In the end, they had an appointment. And this was an office, after all, and the door was anyway an old one, made of wood, and it was a little bit worn. The last time he had told himself that perhaps Don Cohen purposely didn’t change the door to a more secure one, to mislead any potential thieves. The knob wobbled a little and the door gave way before him. He passed through the...