The Cover Says •
Ice is a destructive journey of insanity and love taking place in different places around the world between the years 1970 and 2031 – the lifetime of the protagonist, Ice. It is a book about obsessive and destructive love, which isn’t altered by geographical borders, time or rationalizations. It is love that is at times blissful, but is always on the verge of horror.
Ice is a romantic psychopath, an exposed and obtuse person, a tough and difficult child and a passionate adult. He is passive-aggressive, as cruel as he is compassionate, and he loves as powerfully as he hates. Ice lives in a world that is alienated and violent, and the characters surrounding him seem detached and frustrated as himself.
The novel is narrated in an unconventional way, using varied formats of storytelling and flowing along with its own internal logic and not in an obvious chronological order. Each chapter finds the protagonist at a different stage in his life and stands almost independently from the other chapters in the book.
The Review Says •
“A depressing, thrilling novel, well worth reading.” Noa Manheim, Ynet
“Ice is not only a novel about violence. Not at all. It is mainly a novel about obsessive and destructive love. Love that is not altered by geographical borders and doesn’t depend on time, or surrender to rationalizations… There is something in the violence, in the broken story and in its post-modernism, that reminds of Tarrantino.” Pi Ha’aton Magazine
“Ice describes a world in which a world which is alienated and violent, and characters who are detached and frustrated. The atmosphere recalls at times the books of American Bret Easton Ellis, Scottish Irvine Welsh, and Canadian inventor of Cyberpunk, William Gibson. There is also an attempt in Ice to describe the gloomy atmosphere hovering over young westerners at the end of the twentieth century.” Ha’ir Magazine
More Info •
A version of the last chapter, “Opposite the Water, 2031″, won the Science Fiction Short Stories Award of the daily newspaper Yediot Achronot, 1997.
“Skeleton Armies” is a short film inspired by a letter between two characters in the book, made by Daniel Szmulewicz >>>
Read Some •
In the evening she came to my apartment, she came to see me, and cried and begged me to forgive her, begged that it not be over between us, that I’d write it off. She realizes I won’t be able to forget, but perhaps write off what happened, that mistake of hers, the stupidity, and get on with our lives together. She couldn’t stop crying, and by her red eyes and face, in which the salty tears nearly made two tracks, I could tell she’d been crying for hours already, but her gray eyes were still the most beautiful eyes I’d ever seen.
All this behavior took me by surprise. I had no idea what she was talking about. I sensed something very bad had happened. She was really upset. I looked out of the window in my apartment, in Malcha, at the valley with the fields and the olive trees where the train to Tel Aviv runs, and at the mountains of Gilo on the other side. I lit a cigarette quietly, lingering for a few seconds with the flame of the match on its end even though I knew it was lit right away, and put it out in a thin stream of smoke. The window is open, and there’s a lovely breeze coming in from the outside, from the stars, and the phone starts ringing, and she cries, a little softer now, and tells me I must forgive her. I ask her if she wants to drink something. I think she lets out a quiet “no” in the middle of a sob. The phone stops ringing. I tell her I didn’t hear what she said, and ask maybe she wants a glass of water or something. Now her “no” is a little clearer, she sniffs, judging by what I can hear from behind my back, because I’m still looking out at the stars that float above the valley trying to make up my mind what to drink and she’s sitting behind me on the sofa.
Without looking at her I go to the kitchen, pour her a glass of water and make myself coffee. When I give her the glass with the water she sniffs and says thanks in a high pitched voice. You can’t see her face, because her hair is all over it now and she’s staring at the floor.
“Are you hungry?” I ask her.
“What did you eat today?”
“I had a sandwich for lunch. And a banana. And coffee.”
“Coffee isn’t food. What kinda sandwich?”
She is still staring at the floor, and suddenly I want to caress her brown hair and look at those gray eyes again, but I remember she did something bad and I stop myself and outside there’s suddenly this terrible sound of screeching brakes, you can hear the car skid and a long blast of a horn, and then the crash and the sound of headlights smashing and then the silence. Once again someone failed to notice the Stop sign in the junction down the road, you can hardly see it. And she probably finds this to be the right moment, and starts saying again how she wants me to forgive her and I tell her “shush … don’t talk, not yet,” and she shuts up and I go to the TV and turn it on and flip some channels, trying to buy a few more seconds of the past, even though I know it no longer exists. And after a few minutes in which I mainly watch a Madonna clip on MTV, and comment that she actually looks pretty good for her age, and the weather report – it will be rainy all day tomorrow in Europe – I push the red button on the remote control and the picture shrinks into a flickering dot in the middle of the screen which dissolves, lingering for one moment more in the space before my dazzled eyes, and then I swivel around in the chair so that I’m just facing the sofa, facing her, and look her straight in the eye. Now her head is raised and she has pushed her hair back with her fingers, probably while I was watching TV, and she is not crying anymore, although her beautiful gray eyes are completely red and her skin is in bad shape, and she looks at me and I look at her, and I ask her, because I really have no idea what she’s about to tell me, “What is it?”
And after about a half a minute during which our eyes meet, and I sip my coffee and hold another cigarette between my fingers, she tells me she slept with someone else, and I ask her who, and she says it doesn’t matter.
She starts crying again, and I feel her pain inside my chest, and she tries to tell me it doesn’t matter, that I have to try and forgive her and that she can’t figure out how it happened and she feels nothing for him, she only wanted… and I ask who, and she says it was Kfir, and I feel as though a thin fencing sword is slowly penetrating, inch by inch, into my heart, and I fall silent.
She cries again and says something, or asks something, and I look at her. I don’t think she can see on my face what I feel, and she asks again, and I just look in her eyes, and then outside at the stars that are stuck in the sky, some of them flickering, in my head there’s nothing but a blurred image of her and Kfir fucking, probably out of some faraway dream I once had, and she asks in a subdued voice what I’m going to do.
And after a few minutes she asks: “Is this the end?”
And after a few more minutes she asks again: “Is this the end?” and cries a little more, her entire face is already swollen from crying, and I turn my head away from the stars outside and the black valley below them, and look at her face again. Perhaps she takes it as a sign of affection and draws near and wants to hug me but I lower my head sideways and don’t let her, so she turns and leaves, and a small tear trickles out from each of my eyes when I hear the door closing behind her and her small steps on the staircase and the sirens of the police cars that came for the accident.