Zilele acestea Timisoara a celebrat Zilele Culturii Israeliene. O seara speciala a fost dedicata lui Amos Oz. La conferintza au participat prof dr. Cornel Ungureanu, Verona Botis, dr Gabriel Szekely, prof. dr. Victor Neumann, Luciana Friedman, Ildikó Gábos-Foarta si multi altii.

My jos reproduc o proza scurta aparuta in The New Yorker (8 decembrie 2008)


by Amos Oz

(Translated, from the Hebrew, by Jill Sand D’Angelo and Amos Oz.)

The old village of Tel Ilan was surrounded by orchards and groves. Vineyards grew on the slopes of its eastern hills, and its houses’ red-tiled roofs suffocated under the thick foliage of ancient almond trees. Many of the townspeople continued the tradition of farming with the aid of migrant workers, who lived in ramshackle huts. Some leased out their land, turning to cottage industry and running bed-and-breakfasts, art galleries, and trendy boutiques, while others found work elsewhere. In the town square were two gourmet restaurants as well as a local-wine merchant and a pet store specializing in tropical fish. One of the villagers had opened a workshop manufacturing pseudo-antique furniture. On weekends, Tel Ilan was flooded with tourists and bargain hunters. But on Fridays at noon everything shut down for the day, and the residents took siestas behind closed shutters.

Benny Avni, the head of the District Council of Tel Ilan, was a lanky man with stooped shoulders and a fondness for rumpled clothes and oversized sweaters, which gave him an ursine look. He walked pitched forward with a stubborn gait, as if he were fighting a strong headwind. His face was pleasant, his brow high, his mouth gentle, and his brown eyes warmly inquisitive, as if to say, Yes, I like you, and yes, I want to know more about you. He possessed a gift for refusing without the refusee realizing that he had just been refused.

At 1 P.M. on a Friday in February, Benny Avni sat alone in his office answering letters from concerned citizens. The municipal offices closed early on Fridays, but Benny Avni made a point of staying late at the end of the week, personally responding to every letter. After he finished, he intended to go home, have lunch, take a shower, and nap until dusk. On Friday evenings, Benny Avni and his wife, Nava, sang in an amateur choir group at Dalia and Avraham Levine’s house, at the end of Beth Hashoeva Lane.

As he was answering the last few letters, he heard a hesitant knock at the door. His sparsely furnished office, a temporary facility he used while the municipal building underwent renovations, contained little more than a desk, two chairs, and a filing cabinet.

Benny Avni said, “Come in,” and looked up from his papers.

Into the room walked a young Arab named Adel, a former student who was now the resident gardener at Rachel Franco’s estate, at the edge of the village, near the graveyard’s stand of cypress trees.

Read more http://www.newyorker.com/fiction/features/2008/12/08/081208fi_ficti...

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