Yonatan had a brilliant idea for a documentary


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Our last story is about the hardest kind of gift to give. One that requires sacrifice. Not just giving, but giving something up. It's a piece of short fiction by writer Etgar Keret. He's been on our show before. You'll remember him if you've heard one of his stories. They don't sound like anyone else's.

This one takes place in Israel where Etgar lives and is read by actor Michael Chernus.

Yonatan had a brilliant idea for a documentary. He'd knock on doors. Just him, no camera crew, no nonsense, just Yonatan, alone. A little camera in his hand asking, "If you found a talking gold fish that granted you three wishes, what of this gold fish would you wish?

Folks would give their answers and Yoni would edit them down. Make clips of the more surprising responses. Before every set of answers, you'd see the person standing stock still in the entrance to his house. Onto this shot, he'd superimpose the subject's name, his family situation, his monthly income, and maybe even the party he voted for in the last election. That, together with the wishes and maybe he'd end up with some real social commentary. A testament to the massive rift between all our dreams and the often unpromising realities in which we live.

It was genius. Yoni was sure. And if not, at least it was cheap. All he needed was a door to knock on and a heart beating on the other side. With a little decent footage, he was sure he'd be able to sell it to channel eight or Discovery in a flash. Either as a film or as a bunch of vignettes, little cinematic corners each with that singular soul standing in a doorway followed by three killer wishes. Precious, every one.

Even better, maybe he'd cash out, package it with a slogan and sell it to a bank or cellular phone company. Maybe tag it with something like, "Different dreams, different wishes, one bank." Or, "The bank that makes dreams come true.

No prep, no plotting, natural as can be, Yoni grabbed his camera and went out knocking on doors.

In the first neighborhood, the kindly folk that took part generally requested the foreseeable things-- health, money, bigger apartments, either to shave off a couple of years or a couple of pounds. But there were also the powerful moments, the big truths. There was one drawn, wizened old lady that asked simply for a child. There was a cocky, broad-shouldered ladykiller who put out his cigarette and as if the camera wasn't there, wished he were a girl. "Just for a night," he added holding a single finger right up to the lens.

Yonatan knew if the project was going to have weight, he'd have to get to everyone. To the unemployed, to the ultra religious, to the Arabs and Ethiopians and American ex-pats. Maybe some beleaguered Arab men would stand in his doorway. And looking through Yonatan and his camera, looking out into nothingness, just pause for a minute, nod his head and wish for peace. That would be something to see.

Sergei [? Garalik ?] doesn't much like strangers banging on his door. Less so, is he amenable to it when those strangers are asking him questions. In Russia, when Sergei was young it happened plenty. The KGB felt right at home knocking on his door. His father had been a zionist, which was pretty much an invitation for them to drop by any old time.

When Sergei got to Israel and then moved to Jaffa, his family couldn't wrap their heads around it. They'd ask him, "what are you looking to find in a place like that? There's no one there, but addicts and Arabs and pensioners?" But what is most excellent about addicts and Arabs and pensioners is that they don't come around knocking on Sergei's door. Like that, Sergei can get his sleep and get up when it's still dark. He can take his little boat out into the sea and fish until he's done fishing, by himself, in silence. The way it should be. The way it was.

Until one the some kid with an earring in his ear-- looking a little bit homosexual-- comes knocking. Hard like that, rapping at his door, just the way Sergei doesn't like. And he says, this kid, that he has some questions he wants to put on the TV. Sergei tells the boy, tells him in what he thinks is a straightforward manner that he doesn't want it. Not interested. Sergei gives the camera a shove to help make it clearer. But the earring boy is stubborn. He says all kinds of things, fast things, and it's a bit hard for Sergei to follow. His Hebrew isn't so good. The boy slows it down. Tells Sergei he's got a strong face, a nice face, and that he simply have to have him for this movie picture.

Sergei can also slow down. He can also make clear. He tells the kid to [BLEEP] off. But the kid is slippery and somehow between saying no and pushing the door closed, Sergei finds that the kid is in his house. He's already making his movie, running his camera without any permission. And from behind the camera, still telling Sergei about his face. That it's full of feeling. That it's tender.

Suddenly the kid spots Sergei's gold fish flitting around in its big glass jar in his kitchen. The kid with the earring starts screaming gold fish, gold fish. He's so excited. And this, this really pressures Sergei who tells the kid, "It's nothing. Just a regular gold fish. Stop filming it. Just a gold fish," Sergei tells him. Just something he found flapping around in the net, a deep sea gold fish.

But the boy isn't listening. He's still filming and getting closer and saying something about talking and fish and a magic wish. Sergei doesn't like this. Doesn't like that the boy is almost at it, already reaching for the jar.

In this instance, Sergei understands the boy didn't come for television. What he came for specifically is to snatch Sergei's fish, to steal it away.

Before the mind of Sergei [? Garalik ?] really understands what it is his body has done, he seems to have taken the burner off the stove and hit the boy in the head. The boy falls. The camera falls with him. The camera breaks open on the floor along with the boy's skull. There's a lot of blood coming out of that head. And Sergei really doesn't know what to do.

That is he knows exactly what to do, but it really would complicate things. Because if he brings this kid to the hospital people are going to ask what happened. And it would take things in a direction Sergei doesn't want to go.

"No reason to take him to the hospital anyway," says the gold fish in Russian. "That one's already dead."

"He can't be dead," Sergei says with a moan. "I barely popped him. It's only a burner, only a little thing." Sergei holds it up to the fish, taps it against his own skull to prove it. It's not even that hard.

"Maybe not," says the fish. "But apparently, it's harder than that kid's head." "He wanted to take you from me," Sergei says almost crying.

"Nonsense," the fish says. "He was only here to make a little nothing for TV."

"But he said--"

"He said, says the fish interrupting, exactly what he was doing but you didn't get it. Honestly, your Hebrew, it's terrible."

"Yours is better, Sergei says, yours is so great?"

"Yes, mine's super great," the gold fish says, sounding impatient. "I'm a magic fish. I'm fluent in everything."

All the while, the puddle of blood from the earring kid's head is getting bigger and bigger, and Sergei is on his toes up against the kitchen wall desperate not to step in it to get blood on his feet.

"You do have one wish left," the fish reminds Sergei. He says it easy like that as if Sergei doesn't know. As is either of them ever loses count.

"No, Sergei says. He's shaking his head from side to side. "I can't, he says. "I've been saving it. Saving it for something."

"For what?" the fish says. But Sergei won't answer.

That first wish Sergei used when they discovered a cancer in his sister. A lung cancer. The kind you don't get better from. The fish undid it in an instant. The words barely out of Sergei's mouth. The second wish Sergei used up five years before on Svetia's boy. The kid was still small then, barely three. But the doctors already knew something in her son's head wasn't right. He was going to grow big, but not in the brain. Three was about as smart as he'd get. Svetia cried to Sergei in bed all night. Sergei walked home along the beach when the sun came up and he called to the fish, asked the gold fish to fix it as soon as he'd cross through the door. He never told Svetia. And a few months later she left him for some cop, a Moroccan with a shiny Honda.

In his heart Sergei kept telling himself it wasn't for Svetia that he'd done it. That he'd wish his wish purely the boy. In his mind, he was less sure. And all kinds of thoughts about other things he could have done with that wish continued to gnaw at him, half driving him mad.

The third wish Sergei hadn't yet wished for.

"I can restore him," says the gold fish. I can bring him back to life.

"No one's asking," Sergei says.

"I can bring him back to the moment before," the gold fish says. "To before he knocks on your door. I can put him back to right there. I can do it. All you need to do is ask."

"To wish my wish," Sergei says. "My last.

The fish swishes his tail back and forth in the water the way he does, Sergei knows, when he's truly excited. The gold fish can already taste freedom. Sergei can see it on him.

After the last wish, Sergei won't have a choice. He'll have to let the gold fish go. His magic gold fish. His friend.

"It's fixable," Sergei says. "I'll just mop up the blood with a good sponge and it will be like it never was."

That tail just goes back and forth. The fish's head steady. Sergei takes a deep breath. He steps out into the middle of the kitchen, out into the puddle.

"When I'm fishing, while it's dark and the world's asleep," he says half to himself and half to the fish. "I'll tie the kid to a rock and dump him in the sea. Not a chance, not in a million years will anyone ever find him."

"You killed him, Sergei, the gold fish says. "You murdered someone. But you're not a murderer." The goldfish stops swishing his tail. "If on this you won't waste a wish, then tell me, Sergei, what is it good for?"

It was in Bethlehem actually that Yonatan found his Arab, a handsome man who used his first wish for peace. His name was Munir. He was fat with a big white mustache. Super photogenic. It was moving the way he said it. Perfect, the way in which Munir wished his wish. Yoni knew right while he was filming that this guy would be his promo for sure.

Either him or that Russian. The one that looked straight into the camera and said if he ever found a talking gold fish, he wouldn't ask of it a single thing. He'd just stick it on a shelf in a big glass jar and talk to him all day. Didn't matter about what. Maybe sports, maybe politics. Whatever a gold fish was interested in chatting about. Anything, the Russian said, not to be alone.

Etgar Keret's newest book in English is called The Girl on the Fridge and Other Stories. This story was translated by Nathan Englander.


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