Someone to Run With by David Grossman

Author:David Grossman
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Bloomsbury Publishing

My name is Tamar and I need your help very badly. I know this must sound strange, but you must believe me, it’s a matter of life and death. Please help me. Don’t wait for a moment. Don’t put it off for tomorrow. Now, right now, please call this number: 625-5978. If there is no answer, try again later. Please don’t lose this note!!! Ask to speak with a woman named Leah. Please, for me: tell her how this note came to you, and most important, please, please, tell her the following: Tamar asked me to let you know: on the agreed hour, the agreed day, on Shamai Street across from the taxi station. After you do this, please, I beg you, destroy the note.

His round, stunned face slowly rose from behind the Ma’Ariv. So he was right, damnit! The little one really was involved in some nasty business! He reread the note several times, trying to guess from where she had torn the sheet on which it was written. He held it up to the light to see whether there wasn’t another clue still to be found.

‘Your sandwich, sir,’ said the waiter. Honigman looked at him, shocked. A sandwich? Now? At this time? He snatched up his attaché case, threw a bill onto the table, and made a hasty exit. On the street corner he found a public phone and dialed the number.

‘Yes!’ proclaimed a woman’s strong, dry voice. Behind the voice he heard the noise of pots, water pouring, the sounds of working people.

‘Mrs Leah?’ said Honigman, trembling.

‘Yes. Who is this?’

He breathed heavily, spoke quickly and quietly. ‘Honigman speaking, Moshe Honigman. At the moment I’m afraid I do not have the chance to introduce myself properly. But I have a very special story to tell you, a story about’ – he looked at the note again – ‘about Tamar. Would you have a moment of time for me?’

Five minutes later, dizzy from the events of the recent moments, Honigman flew back into the café, forced the waiter to bring back his sandwich, which was still warm, and sank back into his chair with an expression of amazement and exhilaration. After no more than a minute, he started to become annoyed that Leah had not yet arrived. He stood up, looked out the door, returned to his seat, sighed loudly, and looked, again and again, at his watch (he had a watch that had been manufactured in the land of Israel during the British Mandate. Instead of numbers, the hours were marked by the names of the twelve tribes. It was twenty past Zebulun, and Honigman didn’t know how he would manage to pass the time until ten to Naphtali). He constantly came back to the note, rereading it, his eyes stroking it as if it were a winning lottery ticket, and read the final words again and again:

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