Victorious by Yishai Sarid

Author:Yishai Sarid
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Restless Books

11

FRIDAY NIGHT. Shauli was home, and a few of his military friends who’d come to the big city for a good time came by to pick him up. Tan and skinny like him, they looked around our apartment curiously. They had the fast, broken speech of newbies, thickening their voices to sound manlier.

“Have a seat,” I told them. I served them cake, which they politely eviscerated. I asked them where they were from and how basic training was going, careful not to play the role of mental health officer, mindful not to embarrass Shauli. He was quiet around them, restless, hardly speaking. He was still trying to fit in, as if he were being tested. I didn’t know if he’d told them he had no father and what kind of explanation he’d given. Then he took them into his room, where they allowed themselves to laugh, to raise their voices, and asked him to play the guitar for them. He strummed the opening chords to “Hotel California.” They rummaged through his drawers. I heard them joking about the things they found in there, until finally Shauli came out and said, “Mom, give me the roof keys. I’ll take them upstairs. It’s a little too early to go to the party.”

Our building was old, built almost eighty years before. It needed a renovation—the plaster was peeling, the walls were cracked and covered with damp spots. But it had an open roof that overlooked the city, not from the immense height of new apartment towers, but from a more human level, and it offered a breeze even on the hottest evenings. Shauli and his friends took the stairs up, hooting and hollering like young men. I couldn’t change into a nightgown because I wasn’t sure when they’d be back. I looked for something to watch on TV but nothing grabbed me—I was too preoccupied, I wasn’t calm. I had the deranged thought of calling Rosolio just to hear the sound of his voice and tell him his soldier son was home on leave, or text him a picture of me in my underwear, home alone on a Friday night. Want to come over?

The windows were open. It was a summer evening. I heard them laughing up above, talking out loud, singing silly songs. They’re soldiers, I told myself, not theater critics. This is their moment to celebrate their masculinity. And stop worrying about Shauli like it’s his first day of kindergarten. He’s doing fine. They like him, it’s obvious, and they’ll learn to appreciate his tenderness. Every military company has one guy with the soul of an artist who plays the guitar.

A knock at the door. The downstairs neighbor. He and his wife were relatively new to the building and I couldn’t remember his name.

“I apologize about the time,” he said, “but I take it that’s your son making a racket up there.”

I tried to sound cordial. “They’re soldiers on leave, you can understand that. They’ll go out in a little bit and you’ll have your peace and quiet.

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