Kin. Dror Burstein

think of every road as if it has a beginning and an end. But no, when one road ends another one begins, and even before it begins there’s another road, and thus like tributaries of rivers they stream slowly on until they reach the big junctions and overpasses and interchanges, and collect in the lakes that are the big parking lots next to the sea.

      Another blind man came into the garden and started to feel the leaves. Emile looked at him and gripped the hem of Yoel’s coat. His fingers dug into it. Into the rough fabric. And the warm round button. And the frayed threads. And the holes in the button.

       YOEL

      Next to the beach the two of them stood, [ ] and [ ], waiting for him. A crow pecked at his heart. Because he saw Emile in their faces. Because Emile looked like both of them, him and her. Even from a distance. The way they stood, the movements of their hands, their bowed heads—were his. No, not mine. And a burning insult flooded Yoel, undermined him, slowly disintegrated him. Everything came from there. From them. They even gave him his name. He was him and her too. Yoel’s eyes skipped from him to her. Yes, they were his parents, no doubt about it. What were their names? Like a door opening. Skies clearing. His eyes darted between them, he broke into a sweat, he went on walking toward them, understanding that he recognized them because of their obvious resemblance to Emile, whereas they did not recognize him. He could walk past them and they wouldn’t have any idea. For a moment it seemed to him that the man not only looked like Emile but was his actual, older twin, whereas the woman didn’t look like him at all, and then, a second later, Yoel saw that there was actually an astonishing resemblance between Emile and the woman. Although she was a woman, she was Emile—her eyes were his, her hair was his, though his eyes and his hair were his as well. Altogether, they looked alike, thought Yoel, they resembled each other and therefore both of them resembled Emile. And a second later, they didn’t look like each other, only the man, only the woman looked like him. It didn’t stop. Emile’s face flickered over his parents’ faces. Yoel couldn’t hold on to it for even a second, put his finger on the resemblance, on the feature that belonged beyond a doubt to the child who had been with him for thirty-seven years.

      The go-between had refused to tell him their names. He’d arranged for them to meet on the street corner, the day and the hour, come to the corner of Yarkon and Yona Hanavi, good luck to you and my job is done. Yoel gave the go-between an envelope with a “nice sum” and said “You can count it” and lowered his eyes. But the go-between said, “No . . . we have complete confidence in you, sir,” and with two fingers he opened the flap of the envelope and peeked with one eye closed, with his mouth twisted sideways.

      The two of them stood there, looking emphatically at their watches, as if to signal the fact of their waiting to everybody who saw them. Yoel kept his eyes on the pavement. He wouldn’t stop, he couldn’t stop just like that and address these people. Suddenly the whole plan seemed insane to him. What was he doing, who do you think you are, thirty-seven years, leave it alone. Look at them, simply saying the word, simply bringing up the idea, that’s already a crime. He fixed his eyes on the pavement and went on walking. There was a loose paving stone under his foot and for a moment he lost his balance. Walk straight past, go to the beach, come a little late. You’ve seen them, that’s something anyway. Run away, cancel the whole thing. They won’t know who you are, they’ll call the go-between, they’ll yell at him, he’ll try to contact you, he’ll forget all about it, he’s already received his fee. Go on walking, breathe normally, raise your head, don’t look suspicious. What a crazy idea, what were you thinking? Think that you’re on a bridge and they’re underneath it. Keep on walking, go past them, don’t give any sign that . . . And already his lips are pursed for a nonchalant whistle. A lot of people are walking past here, why are they all in fancy dress, why has that little girl got wings, is it already Purim? Why is it so hot? And he raised his head like someone out for an innocent stroll and walked past them with a quick, light step, looking ahead at the water. They turned their heads and said in unison, half questioning, half stating a fact: Excuse me, Emile’s father,

       YOEL–[ ] AND [ ]

      They stood next to the signpost, all three of them holding on to it like sailors to the mast of a ship. The sea was close. And he wished he could go down to the water, wade in deep, and let it wash over him. The signpost showed the way. And he was afraid, that’s the truth, to look at them. As if the look itself, their faces, would constitute a claim of ownership, and also the guilt, yes, also the guilt. Even though if there was a guilty party here it was them, thought Yoel. But their guilt was already subject to the statute of limitations. And even though they were the ones who had abandoned the child, and he was the one who had rescued Emile from the fate of a government orphanage, and without hesitation pointed to the child and said, that one, immediately, as if he had already decided in advance and there was no need to look at him any longer, nevertheless he still felt guilty. Like a thief. Like—

      They told him their names and their surname but he couldn’t catch the names and asked again, and in his mind they remained as square brackets on a printed page, square and empty. Of the surname he remembered nothing but the letter S. He asked them their names again and forgot them again, and he was embarrassed to write them down. They had normal names, that he remembered, something like Avraham or Moni or Motti or Eliezer for the husband and Rachel or Malka or Esther for the wife. And as if they had come to a decision to do so, all three of them let go of the mast and began to sail toward the sea, a matter of two minutes, rowing down the river of Yona Hanavi Street.

      At first he walked next to them, a little apart, and then, because of various obstacles on the pavement, a garbage bin or dog shit, they got mixed up, and sometimes he walked next to the wife (what was her name? what was her name?) and sometimes next to the husband. If anyone had looked at them he would no doubt have concluded that together they were an estate agent and his clients emerging from an apartment for rent and walking together to argue over the price. And there was a kind of dance there, a trio, a kind of street tango, from time to time one of them lightly touching another like three beads in a shoe box in the hands of a child. She couldn’t help it, suddenly she thought that Yoel was actually her husband. It was as if she knew him. Juices rose to her brain, electricity fizzed and blinked there. And he, the father, looked at Yoel and thought exactly the same thing, that she, his wife, may have gone to bed with him. Cheated on him then, all those years ago, and given Emile to her lover. A conspiracy. Of course they didn’t really believe it, these were thoughts running around their heads, passing from head to head. And there was also, for a brief moment, a kind of scene in which all three of them suddenly saw him, their Emile, walking next to them. But Yoel saw him closer to the way he really looked, approaching the age of forty. And they, who didn’t know what he looked like, imagined him as a baby floating above the pavement, like the birds that sometimes accompany us on our way to the sea.

      Show us a picture of him? asked the mother after a long hesitation. Yoel went through his wallet, took out an old photograph, he was eight years old in it. The husband took out a handkerchief and mopped up some spilled coffee. “Take it, you take it.” He couldn’t look at it. And then Yoel remembered, slapped his forehead, and took out his iPod, opened the folder “Emile” and showed them the presentation he had prepared, four pictures a year, including scanned pictures from the age of one week, a hundred and fifty photographs. And every three seconds a new picture came up and replaced the one before.

      Yoel turned to the sea. A Phoenician boat loaded with cedar beams made its way diagonally from Tyre to Carthage. Three high purple flags beat in his eyes. He wanted to vomit.

      And they saw him growing slowly before their eyes on the little screen. Yoel didn’t dare look at their faces gazing gravely, dry-mouthed. And so he turned to look at the sea or the sand dunes. Pulled out the white earphones nervously and put them away. Every few seconds a year passed. After a few minutes Emile was already sixteen, and the wife said, turn it back a minute, I didn’t see properly, but the husband said, no, don’t stop, let him run. He didn’t go into the army, thought the father and looked at his wife for a second. The last pictures came up. Yoel brought his eyes back hesitantly. And they went on staring at