My Reverie
By Yoel Yaron
Decades
ago, in the mid-sixties, we were young and broke. Hamutal was in the last year
of her social work studies and I, with a fresh bachelor's degree in agronomy,
was desperately trying to get a suitable job. We lived in a condo at the
southern outskirts of Tel Aviv, fourth floor, no elevator. Our home, a rented
apartment if you could call it such, comprised a hall that served as our
bedroom, a kitchenette and a tiny bathroom. My nights were spent as a watchman
at a building site.
Often,
when I returned home early in the morning, I met my next door neighbor Moshe on
the stairway on his way to work. Moshe, who lived alone, was evidently somewhat
better-off financially than we were, as he had a radio receiver in his home. We
couldn't afford such luxury, but thanks to the thinness of the wall that
separated our flats, we were daily updated with the news, gossip and latest
musical hits when Moshe turned on the radio on his return from work. At least
once a week Moshe offered to share with me on an equal basis the lotto ticket of
the coming official lottery that took place every Tuesday afternoon. "Trust
me. I have a hunch that together we'll make it. Three times I won, small sums
up to now but I discovered a method guaranteed to increase my chances and by
combining your luck with mine I'm sure we can make a killing". Again and
again I politely declined his offer, "Thanks, maybe next week. Right now I'm
a bit short in cash".
Mornings,
when Hamutal was at the university and Moshe's radio was silent, I complemented
the much-needed sleep I had missed during my night shift. Afternoons Hamutal
and I used to take a stroll as far as weather allowed. Part of the afternoon
hours I dedicated to frustrating job hunting while Hamutal gave private lessons
to eke our modest income.
One
Tuesday Hamutal and some of her co-students attended an afternoon seminar in
the university, and as she stayed home in the morning I kept myself awake so we
could be together for a few hours. After lunch, when Hamutal left for the
seminar, I went to sleep. About three hours later I woke up with a dream still
clear in my memory. In my dream I had gone with Hamutal to her seminar. As we
entered the classroom I saw the instructor scribbling numbers on the board and
reading them out as she wrote them: "Three, six, seven, eighteen, twenty
three, thirty two and the bonus number seventeen".
"Strange",
I wondered. "What can those numbers imply?" Up to that moment I never
had interest in lotteries in general and the lotto specifically. But now I
wondered: "Could it possibly be a message from heaven? Who knows, may I
ignore what appears to be a once-in-a- lifetime opportunity? What can I lose
more than a few shekels if I try?" I wrote down the numbers, as well as I
could remember them, on a scrap of paper: 3, 5, 7, 18, 25, 32, 17. No, I got it
wrong. I made an effort to concentrate harder and tried again: 3, 6, 8, 18, 22,
32, 17. Again I felt uncertain and tried a few more times to get the right
numbers, writing all my endeavors on the scrap of paper. "No need to
panic", I told myself. "As far as I know, a lotto form contains
several tables, allowing me to try several combinations. If providence has decided to be kind to me,
it would surely guide my hand to enter the right combination into one of the
tables".
Come
evening and on my way to work I passed by a lottery booth. "Can I fill a
lotto form?" I asked the vendor. "What am I here for? Sure you
can", she replied and handed me a form to fill. Never having handled such
a form before, I asked her to explain how to fill it, which she patiently did.
Accordingly, I filled six tables with the different combinations that I had
written on the scrap of paper, adding the bonus number 17 of which I was
certain to each. I paid the vendor the sum that she stated, put my copy of the
filled form in my wallet and proceeded to my night-watch at the building site.
All week long I anxiously awaited
the lottery that was due on the following Tuesday. Not a word did I say to
Hamutal about it, wanting to surprise her with the jackpot that would
undoubtedly fall into our hands. At last Tuesday came. Early in the morning on
my return from work I had the usual encounter with Moshe on the stairway. Again
he suggested partnership in the lottery that was due that afternoon, and again
I politely turned down his offer. As Hamutal was due to attend the next session
of her seminar in the afternoon, I spent the morning with her. After lunch
Hamutal went to the university and I lay down on our bed. The lottery results
were due in a couple of hours but, having no radio, I'd have to wait 'til
evening to check the results at the lottery booth on my way to work. Strangely,
the dream of the previous Tuesday repeated itself. Hamutal and I entered the
classroom. The instructor was at the board and I heard her voice loud and
clear: "Seven, eleven, twenty three…". I woke up to the sound of the
announcer in the radio behind the wall: "…Twenty nine, thirty one, thirty
three and the bonus number thirteen". Moshe's ecstatic roars almost knocked
down the wall between us.
Epilogue:
Ten years later Moshe, still a bachelor, lost all his money in Las Vegas. I
hear from common acquaintances that he keeps trying up to this day, never
losing hope, to regain his fortunes. Hamutal and I, both retired by now, lead a
comfortable life after having completed payments on our mortgage years ago. We
still don't have a radio. What do we need one for, with a quadrophonic,
sixty-inch screen home cinema set in our spacious living room that we hardly
use, being busy with our eleven charming grandchildren?
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