The Art of Leaving by Ayelet Tsabari

Author:Ayelet Tsabari
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
Published: 2019-02-18T16:00:00+00:00

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THE NIGHT THAT I didn’t die, I sat on the beach and watched the phosphorescence dancing on the waves, lighting them up like glow sticks at a full moon party. The kerosene had left a nasty tang in my mouth that cut through the taste of dinner, a constant reminder.

Life is short, I thought, and other clichés people think when they’re faced with death. For a split second, my future snapped open like a Chinese fan. I could change my life. I could do anything. I could cure myself of the eczema, the indecisiveness, the heartache, the writer’s block. I could be happy.

I walked into the water and swam through the dark silky sheets. Floating on my back and watching the stars, I tried to undo my love for Raz, force it out, the way I was willing away the poison. Reverse the spell. Quick! But it was too late. I was in love with him. It was as ridiculous as thinking that this could be home or that I could go on living without shoes, but it was the truth.

When I arrived at the bungalow, Raz was in the hammock, listening to my Mizrahi music CDs on my Discman. I sat next to him. He removed the earbuds.

“Tamar thinks I’m in love with you,” I said in English, though we usually spoke Hebrew. English provided a buffer, the words carried less weight.

“And what do you think?”

My voice trembled. “I think she’s right.”

He pulled me inside the hammock, into his arms. “I love you too.”

A gecko clucked on the roof, a gentle knocking sound.

“I lied,” I said. “I know what I want to do.”

“Yeah?” In the darkness, his pupils disappeared.

“I want to write.”

“What kind of stuff?”

“I don’t know. Stories.”

“Read me something.”

“No.” I squirmed.

He wouldn’t give up, so I reluctantly opened my notebook and read him something I wrote in Montreal, in Hebrew. It was not entirely finished and I wasn’t even sure if it was a story, but I was so pleased to have written anything at all. It was a moonless night, the generator already off, so the darkness consumed everything around us, the bungalows, the trees, all swallowed whole by shadows, hijacked by the night. When I finished, he jumped off the porch and shouted, “That’s it. No more fucking around. You write!”

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