Below is the first segment of my new short story—’A Surprise Visit’—never before published.
A strong autumn breeze, coming from the Mediterranean seashore, rattled the branches of the sycamore trees above the two young men who walked closely on the sidewalk. They came to an abrupt stop and looked up and about, searching for a house number, receiving little help from the lampposts along Nordau Boulevard. One was taller, and was wearing a long black overcoat, which highlighted his shiny blond hair. He rested his arm on the shoulder of the shorter man for just a second, giving him a squeeze of encouragement, or farewell, before continuing his walk down the boulevard.
For a moment, the man left behind stood still, sucking hard on a cigarette. He adjusted a wrapped book he was carrying under his arm, while tossing the cigarette butt down on the pavement. He stepped on it, killing the spark, then looked up again at the old, whitewashed building in front of him, whose cracking walls decorated an adorned entrance. He rolled up the collar of his army bomber jacket, as if shielding himself not only from the cold wind, but also from what lay ahead of him. He turned towards the narrow path that led into the entrance, frightening a black cat into a quick flight, and was soon swallowed by the dark mouth of the old building.
He came out again into the open space of the roof after climbing four flights up the winding stairway. He breathed deeply first, inhaling the cool air of the moonless night, and then looked around. What he saw was a roof like many others in Tel Aviv of the mid-seventies, white in color and bare for the most part, except for some colorful items of female clothing and underwear dancing playfully in the wind, up on the laundry rope.
The door to the old laundry room had a small square window, covered with a purplish curtain, which nonetheless allowed for some fuzzy burgundy light to filter out, imparting an aura of mystery. He could hear low, unidentified voices coming from inside, which caused him a long moment of hesitation, as he rearranged the book tucked under his arm. But the idea of turning back was not an option for him that night, or it was simply against his nature. He knocked on the door.
The voices inside died down immediately. No one looked through the curtain or opened the door for him, though, increasing his discomfort. He plowed his fingers through his long, curly dark hair, and looked around again over the roofs of the white city. Under skies lit by artificial bluish glow, he could see countless television antennas growing up like weeds out of the barren concrete surface, ruling the nightly landscape. Behind him the curtain finally moved slightly, betraying the hope that he was no longer there. But when he turned his head towards it, the door was already open.
In the dimly lit doorway stood a young woman, wearing a flowing, flowery dress that fell all the way down to her bare feet. She held the door ajar with one hand, while the other fixed her black hair in place, even though it was already collected nicely in a ponytail.