The Ambassador: The end of the road
'You Israelis,' Martin says to me a minute before he boards the plane back to Canada, 'are proud of the mess here.' Do you think Martin's right, are we jealous or look-down on peaceful countries, and, most importantly – will NB go to Canada with him?
Late at night, a few hours before Martin flies back to Canada, we sit in Rabin Square eating ice-cream. We silently watched the city go to sleep, the streets emptying. A comforting breeze caressed our boiling cheeks after another scolding Tel Aviv summer day.
Will Martin be back?
For the last couple of days, I've been restless, dragging poor Martin here and there to see this and that so we don't miss a thing. And we missed so much: We didn't get to watch the sun rise over Mitzpe Ramon; we didn't dip our feet in the Dan and the Jordan River and compared the different temperatures of each stream. We didn't wave signs, sweaty and hoarse, at a mass demonstration in the square; I didn't make him sit through the last season of the Hamishiya trying desperately to explain the jokes to him. We didn't eat a watermelon with a Thai worker in the Arava, nor did we make coffee on an open fire on the Arbel cliffs overlooking the Kinneret.
We missed so many things and he is leaving in a short while. He'll probably visit again. In about 15 years or so, showing off his manicured wife, a blonde handsome child tagging behind them and another one in a stroller. He'll come for two weeks because he can't get away from the office for long. Yet it won't be the same. He'll be shocked to see how old I look. You know how it is, the sun, the stress, the wars. It ain't Montreal buddy.
Martin's afraid
In the meantime he is sitting next to me eating a pistachio ice-cream. Go find a pistachio ice-cream in Canada. He keeps quiet for a while and then speaks. "I'm worried, NB, I am afraid to leave you here. With the Syrians, the Hamas, and the Iranians. You took me to the Golan Heights; I've seen what's happening in the territories, in Sderot, in Gaza. I read the newspapers, watched the news. I have a real bad feeling about all of this."
Pistachio ic- cream
I really wanted to say something that will ease his mind, utter some confident, arrogant sentence, but all that came out of my mouth was a weird whimper like a little boy who's trying to show he doesn't care the big kids are hitting him. That's what happens when you walk around for weeks with a huge burden on your heart.
Friends come back from reserve duty telling scary stories about eager-to-fight regiment commanders and arrogant brigadiers, insolent politicians utter used clichés about retribution and deterrence. The giant tools of chess are squeaking back to their places and poisonous vapors of war cover the country and making breathing impossible.
"Why don't you come with me to Canada?" Martin surprised me. "I think you'll like it. Come, it's nice there in the summer. You hate the heat here anyway. We'll give you a room, find a job for you. What do you say?" I smile. And what exactly will I do there? Find some godforsaken website that ends with co.ca and write jokes for bored Canadians whose biggest dilemma is where to go for their summer vacation? No, I don't think so.
Martin figured us out
Martin looks at me. "Now I get it. That's you're thing, ha? Somehow you are proud that it is so messy around here. You feel good that Israel is the first topic in every news show around the world. The difficulty of life here gives you a sense of meaning. You even look down on peaceful countries, right? Can you picture Israel as Bulgaria? Or New Zealand? Canada? If it gets peaceful and calm around here you'll go nuts with boredom."
I didn't answer him. He might be right. Perhaps we do enjoy being special, unlike any other country. Being the best, the strongest, the most unique. A-la Chosen People.
When I was traveling I met people from mysterious countries like Malta or Denmark. My first thought was, usually, what the hell they do there all day long?
The Danish citizen wakes up in the morning and does what? Okay, some work, a little family, and what then? Where's the existential threat? Where are the daily pressures? Where's the month you curse about being summoned for reserve duty and the month you curse during reserve duty, and then bitch about having to go back to work? How does the Danish guy spend his time if he can't complain about the heat or the corruption or watches four news shows a day?
Really, what do they do there all day? If you think they use it for scientific research, curing AIDS, or writing poems, know that Denmark's greatest achievement is the invention of garden dwarves.
No, Martin, I'm staying here. But you have to go.
Martin's crying
We go back to the apartment. Martin hands me a wrapped gift. "It's for you – so you remember me." Shit, I didn't buy him anything. I open it to see the ugly wooden camel he baught in Jerusalem. "Promise me you'll put it on the shelf." Come on, that's the ugliest camel I've ever seen. "Promise?" sure, I promise.
We load his luggage and head to the airport. I stand with Martin in the line. Around us more Canadians. They are quiet, polite, wearing buttoned-up shirts. I watch Martin trying to understand if he feels estranged or a sense of belonging. He checks his suitcase and asks for a window seat. Maybe he wants to watch Tel Aviv disappear in the darkness. Maybe he just hates sitting in the aisle. We say our goodbyes by the escalator. A long hug. Martin cries. I manage to hold the tears back.
Damn it
I drive back in a blank, just a weird sense of relief, loneliness and sadness. I enter my building and open my mailbox. It's filled with envelopes. I go home.
I check the envelopes. One of them is from the Australian consulate. "We regret to inform you that your request for Australian citizenship was rejected." Who needs them anyway? Another envelope. This one's green, familiar, threatening. 24-day reserve duty in Nablus. S…
The phone rings. My mother's on the line. She asked if Martin left already. I tell her he just did. "Good," she says, "because this week grandma has some tests to do at the hospital. Can she stay with you for a couple of days?"
Previously on the Ambassador: Martin landed in NB's living room, explored the White City, the kibbutz and the north. Against all hope they visited Jerusalem and also traveled to NB's favorite place in the country, went with an Arab-lover to a demonstration in Biliin, and showed solidarity in Sderot.
The End
