The Hunt

“He hungers for a hurricane, he realizes—for an upheaval tearing everything loose.”

- John Updike, Rabbit Remembered

I wake up at dawn, which means, I realize, that the hunt is on.

Work starts at 9 a.m., but this morning I am a hunter, and she is my tracker. I place the pink collar on Alpha’s furry neck, and off we go, in search of what, I do not exactly know. To make matters worse, I carry no arms—not even a dull axe. Still, we set off while the streets are somnolent and silent. I see how the blue sky above hosts wisps of cloud and a pale halfmoon, which persists from the night. The weather at this point, in late May, becomes hot, hotter still, but there is reprieve during these hours, and I don’t find myself wiping off sweat too often.

Since this is no idle walk, I attempt to focus on the supposed purpose. Alpha, I hope, will help me track down that which I hunt. So, in the meantime, I offer her my free hand, the left, and she sniffs at it, touching her cool nose to it, running her head under it. I don’t suppose it’s much help, but perhaps she’s picked up on some scent that will lead us to my goal. We walk on and pause before crossing a large intersection—the intersection, as far as my life is concerned. I position Alpha between my feet, to safeguard, and while the stoplight insists on red, my eyes are instinctively drawn to my empty left palm. Not the first time.

A longstanding tic, this peculiar, wordless consultation—a kind of communion. What I want from it, or what it wants, is to me as much of a mystery as the purpose of this hunt. Perhaps if I think about what makes me turn to it, I will be able to decipher the compulsion. And if I can decipher that, then perhaps it will be easier to understand what I’m after. We reach the other side of the intersection, and I begin to inventory the moments that coincide with my turning to the left palm. The task, I quickly understand, is more difficult than I imagined.

It happens during times of lack, when my thoughts turn inward, when they circle the hollow. The cavern is traced, and my left palm reveals itself, turning upward to look at me, ever so emptily. During other times, I turn to the palm when the thoughts that run through my mind embarrass me, when I’m made aware of my wretchedness, of how pitiable I am. I then look to that hand, as if the palm is the space in which I could bury myself—my fist squeezing me, hiding me from further scrutiny. So the purpose of the hand is manifold. A lack. A refuge. Did Alpha sniff it out? Is that why she’s angling to go left instead of right? I, of course, allow her to choose the direction. She loyally fulfills her role as the tracker to my hunter’s pursuit. Together, this morning, we will find that which echoes from my palm.

We begin to move up Jerusalem Street, and I make guesses about where we’ll end up. Will we turn onto Ha-Akhad Asar, that long road leading to the old high school? Or a bit further up, to Michael Levin Street, which is lined with those aggressively spiked trees? No, I wouldn’t like that. I hope Alpha doesn’t take me there. We should continue further up Jerusalem, until the left side of the street exerts its pull, and we find ourselves in front of Eli’s grocery store on Yosef Klausner Street. My hunch is that the hunt will be more fruitful there. And, as if this entire time she’s been aligned with my unspoken deliberations, she does guide me there. We move past a parked, candy-colored motorcycle, and then I spot black-headed mynas hopping on a nearby patch of grass—their beaks a yellow exclamation mark. Aren’t they an invasive species? My father told me so, long ago, and the irony of their presence here, in the Holy Land, is not lost on me.

We walk by a row of bushes, and I suddenly hear a strangely pointed meow. A cat, I’m sure, just called to us. I look, and there it is. A small one, gray, rushes straight at us, then halts while looking at Alpha. It continues meowing insistently, as if in frustration, as if it’s unsure of whether it can get closer. And while we don’t stop, I do slow our pace. My curiosity, like the cat’s, gets the better of me. So, as we walk on more slowly, I periodically look back at the cat—an outright pursuant now—and wonder how far it’ll follow, or, well, track us. Unlike me, Alpha remains utterly uninterested, apparently focused on her original task. Meanwhile, our pursuant dashes in and out of the bushes that accompany the path, parallel to us. I see it rushing, an alert thing, until it chooses to scamper up a bent little tree. From there it stares at us intensely, claws on bark, and then on it goes to pursue us further. This pursuit, regrettably, reminds me of a certain someone and the associated certain feline. It, too, had mischief about it. It, too, once stared wide-eyed at my Alpha, when I brought her to our place. So there it is, the fateful lack.

And as I thought we would, we find ourselves in front of Eli’s shop. It’s still too early, and the door is shut. I wonder if he still keeps it, whether it’s been sold, or even permanently closed. I admit that even if it had been open, with him at the register, and had I been without Alpha, still I would not go in. It’s been twenty years—a daunting number I’m still not used to—since one of my final memories of the place, and how I committed something akin to theft. It might as well have been theft. And Eli knew. But we moved away, and I never had to face confrontation. We turn away from the shop when Alpha sniffs at the right side of the street.

The sensation of being looked at makes me look in response, perhaps too abruptly, and there, where the corner of my vision insisted on the presence of a child, or someone of similar height, I see a dirty white, or rather beige, statue. It stands there, looking as if it knows what it means to be shy, face half-turned away. It’s a scaled-down woman holding baskets of goods, her hair pulled up into a bun. With this female representation standing there, I’m made aware of my flirtatious nature. Incorrigible. My heel.

Thankfully, we move further into the secluded neighborhood, into Kikar Modi’in, and there we pass by one of those sweet places I used to live in as a child. The place on the second floor of that house right there. The wooden staircase and the chocolate-colored dog that patrolled the yard—Luca was her name, belonging to the landlord, I believe. I still bear the mark she rudely bestowed upon me with a single canine pushed into the soft flesh in the crook of my arm. The rush to my father then, who awaited on the road outside, the tears of fear as my young blood flowed. All healed. And suddenly, I understand that Luca has long since passed, and I feel a pang of sadness. They are not as eternal as they seem to the eyes of a child. Others weren’t as eternal as they seemed to my older eyes. We move on, and so do they.

We go past signs announcing Private Parking, past garlands of blue-white flags—flag on flag on flag—and past more signs, these warnings of the danger posed by unseen dogs, ones sure to be upset by intrusions. And because of these signs my ears perk up in anticipation, as they did all those years ago, when aggressive, indignant barks were a promise. How I tried to balance bravery and cowardice then, a boy grown used to formidable dogs, attempting to insist that the deep barks and the assault of claws on fence to ward me off did not, in fact, scare me. Flinching aside. Though now I walk with Alpha at my side, and I decide that thanks to her presence I’m allowed quiet passage. I decide on that instead of those mighty dogs’ passing. I dwell on enough loss as is. My palm says hi. Hi back. I persist.

We turn right again at the end of the street, and the walk becomes fairly steep. A hunch tells me we’re almost there. I try to scratch Alpha’s head, but she is determined to keep up her quicker pace, so my fingers miss. Fine then, my tracker. On the left side of the street, instead of the house that used to be there, the place is now cordoned off with corrugated walls of metal. Something new is being built. The word лох jumps out at me in red, sprayed onto the metal. Perhaps.

As we step onto Ha-Hashmona’im, I feel as though I’m walking on stilts—a gangly sight. I feel too tall, as if my eyes are not used to seeing this street from so high up. Still, I enjoy the sensation of this conquered elevation. Alpha slows down here, and, yes, I believe we’ve reached it. The summit, or the crown of the place I sprouted from. The highest point in Rishon East, where my tree grows. And though this is where I sprouted, my roots are still shallow, some exposed. I can see them now. Tenuous, withering things. They either failed or weren’t allowed to penetrate deeper into this earth. Did I ever truly want them to? Perhaps. Though I’ll never admit it.

I crouch down next to the tree, and my Alpha rests nearby. My hands sink into the moist soil, fingers burrowing, grasping, then my right hand tests the rough texture of the bark near the base of the tree. I brush away the earth; I get a good look at the roots. And when I spot the tremor in my fingers, I press my hands against the roots to stabilize myself. A moment. It’s okay. After a breath is taken, I attempt to grab and pull. No good. I pull a bit harder, then admit to myself that I’m going easy on them. Too easy. I let go and look around. I suppose I’m used to help, to consult before an irreversible act. But there’s no one here, and who would care to help? I wipe the sweat from my upper lip and consider the roots. Yes, I see that they’ve been damaged. This tree is not long for this world—not native either. Already something signaling death is creeping up the trunk. But if I just replant it, before it’s too late, then maybe, with the right soil—

Oh please. Spare me. I’m no gardener. I get up, clapping my hands together to be rid of the dirt, and pick up Alpha’s leash. I pull her after me, away from the barren tree.

And you, I see you. Get the fuck out of my head. Show’s over. Now comes an age of smothered silence.