STORY

I stumble on a half-raised sidewalk tile and it uncovers the sand on which the whole city was built. A sudden noise makes me turn, a dull deep whistle covered by the noises of cars and air conditioners.

The same sound sometimes I hear at night.

It’s the desert longing to come back. Maybe thanks to a war, an earthquake or just for a moment of distraction.

I try to forget about it and keep on walking but the heat has already entered my brain.

The heat reaches its melting point and my veins merge with the streets of the city. The liver with the port. The spleen goes looking in vain for rest in the parks. My optical nerves fray and reach the highest skyscrapers to spy on their luxury. My darkest thoughts are lost further south in neighbourhoods overcrowded with people hustling every day for a few shekels. My nervous system explodes and its pieces spread over the continuous parties, the markets, the few prayer rooms, the countless languages, ideas, stray cats, obsessions, like the Jewish one for ourselves and the Arab one for lost honour.

American enthusiasm and Russian rigidity. Gestures of grace from strangers and insistent drug dealers. Fragmented lives of schizophrenic beggars and obsessive compulsive start-uppers.

I look for the sea for some relief but it has evaporated away.

I can’t be weak or the desert will win again. I should warn everybody that he’s still here underneath, alert and vigilant, waiting to come back.