Authors: A.B. Yehoshua
He
reached
the
hotel
at
seven,
a
whole
hour
early;
he
figured
they
must
have
emerged
from
the
shop
and
slipped
out
of
his
sight
when
he
was
paying
the
waiter
and
checking
his
change.
He
positioned
himself
on
a
soft
leather
sofa
in
a
corner
of
the
lobby
not
far
from
the
reception
desk,
with
his
suitcase
and
knapsack
next
to
him.
Now
he
could
survey
the
guests
going
in
and
out
at
his
ease,
paying
special
attention
to
the
Indian
women,
never
mind
their
age,
in
an
attempt
to
discover
the
point
at
which
a
Westerner,
with
a
rather
shy
sexuality,
like
his
own,
could
con
nect
with
them.
And
then
he
thought
of
his
parents,
and
he
de
cided
to
call
them,
not
because
they
would
be
worried,
but
sim
ply
in
order
to
hear
the
reassuring
sound
of
their
voices,
for
they
too
were
to
some
extent
responsible
for
his
being
here.
But
the
reception
clerk
was
unable
to
put
through
a
direct
international
call
from
the
hotel
phone,
and
told
him
to
go
to
a
post
office
some
distance
away.
The
young
doctor
had
no
desire
to
forfeit
the
sofa
he
had
taken
over
and
decided
to
postpone
the
phone
call.
It
was
already
eight
o’clock,
and
the
dusk
had
deepened,
but
the
Lazars
had
not
yet
appeared.
He
felt
no
anxiety
or
anger,
but
only
a
gentle
wonder.
The
street
visible
through
the
hotel
en
trance
did
not
sink
into
silence
and
darkness
as
it
had
the
night
before,
but
took
on
a
festive
appearance;
many
new
oil
lamps
were
brought
into
the
hotel
lobby,
and
people
walked
past
in
festive
attire.
With
a
strange
pleasure
he
said
to
himself,
those
two
are
crazy,
their
daughter
needs
them,
she’s
lying
sick
hun
dreds
of
miles
away
from
here,
and
they’re
strolling
around
and
enjoying
themselves
like
a
couple
of
provincial
tourists,
looking
for
bargains
among
the
Indian
shmattes.
But
at
nine
o’clock
he
realized
that
something
really
had
gone
wrong.
He
remembered
Lazar’
s
slogan,
“So
we
won’t
get
on
each
other’s
nerves,”
but
still
he
felt
no
bitterness
or
anger,
only
a
sense
of
profound
won
der
.
His
return
ticket
to
Israel
was
in
his
wallet;
he
had
all
the
documents
he
needed
with
him.
If
they
really
disappeared,
he
would
be
his
own
boss
again,
and
he
would
even
be
at
liberty
to
go
home.
At
five
past
nine
he
picked
up
his
luggage,
left
a
message
at
the
desk,
and
took
a
rickshaw
to
the
train
station.
Perhaps
they
would
make
it
at
the
last
minute,
even
without
their
luggage.
But
from
the
minute
he
entered
the
heart
of
the
storm
in
the
old
station
—
where
the
quintessence
of
travel
fever
raged
in
its
purest,
most
hectic
form,
flooding
the
place
in
a
dim
yellowish
light
full
of
smoke
and
smells,
swarming
and
groaning
in
the
cars
crammed
with
people,
which
belched
out
and
sucked
in
bundles
and
mattresses
from
every
possible
opening
—
the
doctor
felt
the
last
vestige
of
hope
of
finding
the
couple
draining
out
of
him.
Nevertheless,
he
resolutely
elbowed
his
way
through
the
crowd,
passing
from
platform
to
platform
and
finally
reaching
the
right
train,
and
the
exact
compartment,
which
turned
out
to
be
hand
some
and
modern,
with
the
air-conditioning
lending
a
European
chill
to
the
air.
The
four
seats
looked
comfortable,
ready
to
be
converted
into
narrow
bunks
for
the
night.
The
dark,
opaque
windows
turned
the
travel
fever
of
the
station
into
a
scene
on
a
television
screen.
Was
he
going
to
wind
up
traveling
into
the
depths
of
India
on
his
own
and
against
his
will
in
order
to
meet
a
sick
and
unknown
woman
for
an
undefined
medical
purpose?
he
asked
himself
with
the
mild
irony
he
had
inherited
from
his
En
glish
father.
And
the
wonder
and
loneliness
he
had
been
feeling
all
day
welled
up
in
him
with
a
new
intensity
and
washed
away
the
remnants
of
his
anger
and
disappointment.
Now
his
soul
was
flooded
with
a
sweet
wave
of
mystery.
This
is
not
yet
the
mystery
itself,
but
only
its
sweetness,
which
has
now
been
born
not
from
the
external
reality
existing
outside
the
dark
window
but
from
the
inner
depths
of
this
young
doctor
himself,
who
was
introduced
by
Professor
Hishin
to
his
friend
as
the
ideal
person
for
the
journey.
For
only
the
superficial
eye
of
a
tourist
would
seek
to
find
mystery
in
the
Indian
train,
for
in
stance,
which
suddenly
begins
puffing
and
moving
slightly
to
and
fro,
presumably
in
order
to
take
on
additional
cars,
toward
which
tall
Tibetan
monks
in
orange
robes
hurry,
gently
but
firmly
rebuffing
obstreperous
beggars,
some
of
them
real
lepers
with
amputated
limbs,
thrusting
themselves
between
the
legs
of
porters
carrying
enormous
bundles
of
rolled-up
mattresses
for
a
group
of
merry
pilgrims
passing
along
the
platform.
Delicate
women
flit
among
the
throngs
like
moths,
an
intelligent
third
eye
shining
in
the
center
of
their
foreheads
and
guarding
them
from
bumping
into
Sikhs
with
wild
black
beards
and
carrying
daggers,
who
are
obliged
—
even
they
—
to
impatiently
circumvent
the
soli
tary
white
cow
which
has
innocently
found
its
way
into
the
sta
tion
and
is
now
nibbling
the
sparse
grass
growing
next
to
the
platform,
indifferent
to
the
savage
looks
of
the
lean,
half-naked
Indians
clambering
over
the
cars
and
struggling
with
the
train
officials,
who
are
trying
to
force
them
down
from
the
roof
of
one
of
the
ancient
trains,
where
they
are
strapping
their
bundles
and
themselves
between
the
iron
railings
and
settling
down
for
the
night.