Hole in the Wall​

Etgar Keret

On Bernadotte Avenue, right next to the Central Bus Station, there's a hole in the wall. There
used to be an ATM there once, but it broke or something, or else nobody ever used it, so the
people from the bank came in a pickup and took it and never brought it back.

Somebody once told Udi that if you scream a wish into this hole it comes true, but Udi didn't
really buy that. The truth is that once, on his way home from the movies, he screamed into the
hole in the wall that he wanted Ruth Rimalt to fall in love with him, and nothing happened.
And once, when he was feeling really lonely, he screamed into the hole in the wall that he
wanted to have an angel for a friend, and an angel really did show up right after that, but he
was never much of a friend, and he'd always disappear just when Udi really needed him. This
angel was skinny and all stooped and he wore a trench coat the whole time to hide his wings.
People in the street were sure he was a hunchback.

Sometimes, when there were just the two of them, he'd take the coat off. Once he even let Udi
touch the feathers on his wings. But when there was anyone else in the room, he always kept it
on. Klein's kids asked him once what he had under his coat, and he said it was a backpack full
of books that didn't belong to him and that he didn't want them to get wet. Actually, he lied all
the time. He told Udi such stories you could die: about places in heaven, about people who
when they go to bed at night leave the keys in the ignition, about cats who aren't afraid of
anything and don't even know the meaning of "scat." The stories he made up were something
else, and to top it all, hed cross-his-heart-and-hope-to-die.

Udi was nuts about him and always tried hard to believe him. Even lent him some money a
couple of times when he was hard up.

As for the angel, he didn't do a thing to help Udi. He just talked and talked and talked,
rambling off his harebrained stories. In the six years he knew him, Udi never saw him so much
as rinse a glass.
When Udi was in basic training and really needed someone to talk to, the angel suddenly
disappeared on him for two solid months.
Then he came back with an unshaven, don't-ask-what-happened face.

So Udi didn't ask, and on Saturday they sat around on the roof in their underpants just taking in
the sun and feeling low. Udi looked at the other rooftops with the cable hookups and the solar
heaters and the sky. It occurred to him suddenly that in all their years together hed never once
seen the angel fly.

"How about flying around a little," he said to the angel.

And the angel said: "Forget it. What if someone sees me?"

"Be a sport," Udi nagged. "Just a little. For my sake."

But the angel just made this disgusting noise from the inside of his mouth and shot a gob of spit
and white phlegm at the tar-covered roof.

"Never mind," Udi sulked. "I bet you don't know how to fy, anyway."

"Sure I do," the angel shot back. "I just don't want people to see me, that's all."

On the roof across the way they saw some kids throwing a water bomb. "You know," Udi
smiled. "Once, when I was little, before I met you, I used to come up here a lot and throw water
bombs on people in the street below. I'd aim them into the space between that awning and the
other one," he explained, bending over the railing and pointing down at the narrow gap
between the awning over the grocery store and the one over the shoe store. "People would look
up, and all they'd see was the awning. They wouldn't know where it was coming from."

The angel got up too and looked down into the street. He opened his mouth to say something.
Suddenly, Udi gave him a little shove from behind, and the angel lost his balance. Udi was just
fooling around. He didn't really mean to hurt the angel, just to make him fly a little, for laughs.
But the angel dropped the whole five floors, like a sack of potatoes. Stunned, Udi watched him
lying there on the sidewalk below. His whole body was completely still, except the wings,
which were still fluttering a little, like when someone dies.

That's when he finally understood that of all the things the angel had told him, nothing was
true.

That he wasn't even an angel, just a liar with wings.

That night, when the daemon came to take away his talent, he didn't argue or whine or put up a
fuss. "What’s fair is fair," he said and offered the daemon a truffle and a glass of lemonade. "I's
been cool, it's been great, it's been grand, but time's up, and here you are, and you're just doing
your job. I'm not going to give you a hard time.

But if it's not too much trouble, could you let me have just one more quick story before you take
it away. One last story and that's it. Just so I can hold on to the taste." The daemon looked at the
silver foil from the truffle and realized hed made a mistake accepting it. It's always the nice ones
that give you the biggest hassle. With the obnoxious ones he never had any problem. You get
there, remove the soul, undo the Velcro, pull out the talent, and that's that. The guy can kick and
scream till the cows come home. You're the daemon. You check them off and keep going down
the list. But the nice ones, the ones that talk real softly, with the truffles and the lemonades and
all —what can you say to them? "OK," the daemon sighed, "one last one. But make it short, eh?
It's almost three, and I've got at least two more stops today." "Short," the guy gave a tired smile,
"very short, even.​

Four pages tops. You can watch Tv in the meantime."

After tucking away two more truffles, the daemon stretched out on the sofa and started fiddling
with the remote. Meanwhile, in the other room, the guy who'd given him the truffles was
clicking away at the keyboard at a nice even pace, never letting up, like somebody keying a
million-digit PIN into an ATM.

"I hope he turns out something really good," the daemon thought to himself and stared at an
ant plodding across the screen in a nature film on PBs.

"The kind with lots of trees and a little girl who's looking for her parents. Something with a
beginning that grabs you by the nuts and an ending that's so heart-wrenching, people get all
choked up."

He really was a nice person, that guy. Not just nice, he was dignified. And the daemon was
hoping, for the guy's sake, that he was just about done.

It was after four, and in twenty minutes, half an hour tops, finished or not, he’d have to undo
the guy's Velcro, pull out the stuff, and split. Otherwise they'd give him such shit in the
stockroom later, he’d rather not even think about it.

But the guy was good as his word. Five minutes later he came out of the other room all sweaty,
with four printed pages in his hand.
The story he wrote was really good. Not about a little girl, and not one that grabs you by the
nuts, but moving as hell. And when the daemon told him so, the guy was pretty psyched, and it
showed.
And that smile of his lingered on, even after the daemon pulled our his talent, folded it up very
very small, and put it in a special box lined with Styrofoam peanuts. And all that time the guy
didn't give him the tormented-artist look even once. Just kept offering him more truffles.

"Tell your bosses thanks," he told the daemon. "Tell them I had a helluva time with it, the talent
and everything. Don't forget."

And the daemon told him fine and thought to himself that if instead of a daemon hed been
human, or if only they'd met under different circumstances, they could have been cool together.

"Any idea what you'll do now?" the daemon asked, concerned, standing in the doorway by
then.

"Not really. Guess I'll get to go to the beach more often, see my friends, that kind of thing. And
you?"

"Work" the daemon said and adjusted the box on his back. “Me, part from work, there's nothing
on my mind. Believe me."

"Say," the guy asked, "just out curiosity, what do they do in the end with all those talents?"

"I don't actually know," the daemon admitted. "My job's just as far as the stockroom. That's
where they count 'em up, sign my delivery slips, and tha's it. What happens with them later—I
haven't the faintest."

"If you wind up with one too many, I'll always be glad to take it back," the guy laughed and
tapped on the box. And the daemon laughed too, but it was a kind of fed-up laugh. And the
whole four floors down all he could think about was the story the guy had written, and this
pickup job, which he used to sort of enjoy but now suddenly seemed like such a crock of shit.
"Two more stops," he tried to console himself on his way to the car. "Just a lousy two more stops
and I'm done for the day."
Your Man​

When Abigail told me she wanted to break up, I was in shock. The cab had just pulled up at her
place, and she got out on the sidewalk side and said she didn’t want me to come up, and that
she didn’t really want to talk about it either, and that most of all she never wanted to hear from
me again, not even a Happy New Year or a birthday card. And then she slammed the cab door
so hard that the driver cursed her through the window. I just sat there in the back seat, numb. If
we’d had a fight or something, maybe I’d have been more prepared, but we’d had a really great
evening. The movie sucked, but otherwise everything was fine. And then that monologue, out
of nowhere, and the door slamming, and bam! Our whole six months together gone, just like
that! “So what now?” the driver asked, looking at me in the rear-view mirror. “Want me to take
you home? If you’ve got a home, that is. To your parents’ place? Friends? A massage parlor
downtown? You’re the boss, you’re the king.” I didn’t know what I was going to do with
myself. All I knew was it wasn’t fair. After Ronit and I split up I swore I wouldn’t let anyone get
close enough to hurt me like that, but then Abigail came along, and everything was so
wonderful, and I just don’t deserve this. “You’re right,” the driver grunted. He’d turned off the
ignition and tilted his seat back. “Why drive when it’s so cozy here. Me, I don’t care. The
meter’s running either way.” And that’s when they announced the address on the radio. “Nine
Massada Street. Who’s up?” And that address—I’d heard it before, and it had stayed in my
memory as if someone had scratched it in there with a nail.​

When Ronit split it was the same, in a cab, the cab that was taking her to the airport, to be
precise. She said it was over between us, and sure enough, I never heard from her again. I was
left that way then too, stuck alone in the back seat of a cab. The driver that time yakked and
yakked, and I didn’t hear a word. But that annoying address on the radio I actually do
remember very clearly. “Nine Massada Street. Whose call?” And now, maybe it’s just a
coincidence, but still, I told the driver to go there, I had to find out what that address was all
about. As we pulled up, I saw another cab drive away, and inside, in the back seat, was the
silhouette of a small head, like a child’s or a baby’s. I paid the driver and got out.​

It was a private house. I opened the gate, and walked up the path to the door. I rang the bell. It
was a dumb thing to do, and I don’t know what I’d have done if anyone had opened the door,
or what I would have said. There was no reason for me to be there at that hour. But I was so
mad I didn’t care. I rang once again, a long ring, and then I banged on the door, like in the army
when we used to do door-to-door searches, but nobody came. In my head, thoughts about
Abigail and Ronit began to get all mixed up with thoughts about other breakups, and
everything sort of got lumped together. And this house, where nobody opened the door, was
getting on my nerves. I started to circle around it, looking for a window I could look through.
The place didn’t have any windows, just a back door, mostly glass. I tried to see
inside—everything was dark. I kept trying, but I couldn’t get my eyes to adjust. It seemed as if
the harder I tried, the blacker it all looked. It blew my mind, it really did. And suddenly it was
as if I was seeing myself from a distance, bending over, lifting a rock, wrapping it in my
sweatshirt and breaking the glass.​

I reached in, careful not to cut myself, and opened the door. I groped for the light switch, and
when I found it, the light was yellow and dim. One bulb for that whole big room. And that’s
exactly what the place was—an enormous room, no furniture, completely empty, except for one
wall that was covered with photographs of women. Some of them were framed, some just stuck
on the wall with masking tape, and I knew them all: there was Dalia, my girlfriend in the army;
and Danielle, we went steady in high school; and Stephanie, a tourist who stayed; and Ronit.
They were all there, and in the left-hand corner, in a delicate gold frame, was a picture of
Abigail, smiling. I turned out the light and collapsed in the corner, trembling all over. I didn’t
know the guy who was living here, why he was doing this to me, or how he always succeeded
in wrecking things. But suddenly it all fell into place, all those breakups, all that jumping ship
out of the blue—Danielle, Abigail, Ronit. It was never about us, it was always him.​

I don’t know how much time went by before he came home. First I heard the cab pulling away,
then the sound of his key in the front door, and then the light went back on, and there he was,
standing right in front of me and smiling, the son of a bitch, just looking at me and smiling. He
was short, like a kid, with big eyes, no lashes, and he was holding a colored plastic schoolbag.
When I got up out of my corner he just gave a weird little laugh, like he’d been caught
red-handed, and asked how I’d gotten there. “So she left too, huh?” he said when I’d gotten
closer, “Never mind, there’ll always be another one.” And me, instead of answering, I slammed
the rock down on his head, and when he dropped I didn’t stop. I don’t want another one, I want
Abigail, I want him to stop laughing. And the whole time I was bashing him with the rock he
just kept whimpering: “What’re you doing, what’re you doing, what’re you doing, I’m your
man, your man,” till he stopped. When it was over, I threw up. And when I’d finished throwing
up, I felt lighter sort of, like on army hikes when it’s someone else’s turn to take the stretcher
from you, and suddenly you feel lighter than you ever thought possible. Light as a child. And
all the hatred and the guilt and the fear that I’d be caught—it all just disappeared.​

Behind the house, not far away, were some woods, and that’s where I dumped him. The rock
and the sweatshirt, which were soaked with blood, I buried in the yard. In the weeks after that, I
kept looking for him in the papers, both in the news and in the missing persons ads, but there
was nothing. Abigail didn’t answer my messages, and someone at work told me they’d seen her
in town with this tall guy with a ponytail. It broke me up to hear that, but I knew there was
nothing I could do about it, it was over for good. A little while later, I started going out with
Mia. Right from the start, everything with her was so sane, so okay. And unlike the way I
usually am with girls, with her I was very open right from the start and let my defenses down.
At night I’d dream sometimes about that dwarf, how I got rid of his body in the woods, and I’d
wake up in a panic, but then I’d remind myself there was no reason, he wasn’t around anymore,
and then I’d hold Mia and go back to sleep.​
Mia and I broke up in a cab. She said that I had no feelings, that I was clueless, that sometimes
she’d be suffering in the worst way, and I’d be sure she was having a good time, just because I
was. She said we’d been having problems for quite a while, but that I hadn’t even noticed. And
then she started to cry. I tried to take her in my arms, but she pulled away and said that if I
cared about her I should just let her go. I didn’t know if I should go up after her and keep
trying. On the cab radio they gave an address: “Four Adler Road.” I told the driver to take me
there. Another cab was already standing there when we arrived. A couple got in, about my age,
maybe a little younger. Their driver said something and they both laughed. I kept going, to
Nine Massada Street. I looked for his body in the woods, but it wasn’t there. The only thing I
could find was a rusty iron rod. I picked it up and started walking toward the house.​

The house looked just the same, dark, with the broken pane in the back door. I reached inside,
groped for the handle, careful not to get cut. I found the light switch right away. It was still all
empty, except for the pictures on the wall, the dwarf’s ugly school bag and a dark, sticky stain
on the floor. I studied the pictures. They were all there, in exactly the same order. When I was
through with the pictures, I opened the bag and looked inside. There was some cash, a used bus
pass, an eyeglass case, and a picture of Mia. In it, her hair was up, and she looked a little lonely.
And suddenly I understood what he’d said back then, before he died, about there always being
another one. I tried to picture him on the night Abigail and I broke up, going wherever it was he
went, returning with the picture, making sure, I don’t know how, that I’d meet Mia. Except I’d
managed to blow it again this time. And now it wasn’t so sure I’d ever meet another one.
Because my man was dead.

I’d killed him myself.