Alberto did something to displease a Russian customer, who, as a sort of warning, mimed slitting his throat.
Vera said, for everyone to hear, ‘Jews want money, of course,’ and laughed.
He said he’d had a headache, and had to pack, but I knew that it was love that had made him a liar.
She killed more bees, just so she could fill the tiny bee graves she’d dug.
She danced with Alberto, I don’t know why, the joy and sadness of the occasion, I suppose.
Unusually for Israel, this Land of Blutos, he had no beard, no stubble, no hairy chest. He said, “Let’s go in,” so in we went.
She lies on a rug with Alberto, they are playful with each other, then nap, their bodies touching, like incestuous twins.
I ask if there’s anything that connects us, the new immigrants. ‘We didn’t fit in at home?’ says Megan, in that way that makes statements sound like questions.
I go to the bank to check money has been transferred and to convert it into shekels. My rent won’t be paid without it. This simple job took nearly three anxious weeks last month, but has gone more smoothly this time. I’m thrilled to learn the pound has strengthened by a minuscule amount since I… Continue reading Nathan loves Alberto loves Rufina
It is my first day at the ulpan, and the first time I spend with people in a common cause since I arrived in November, three months earlier, unless you count queuing at the Ministry of the Interior, that is.
We may be the definition of rootless cosmopolitans, citizens of the world.
She looks behind her, as if to remind everyone of something, and flicks her hair, like a pony flicks its mane.
Nathan pretends to look serious and says, ‘We can talk about politics, if you want,’ and laughs, then repeats himself. We stop talking about Eurovision.
Alberto’s espresso arrives. He pulls a face.