Tel Aviv Noir •
Tel Aviv Noir, an anthology of Noir stories set in Tel Aviv, by 14 writers, co-edited by Etgar Keret and myself, was published in Hebrew by Kinneret-Zmora-Bitan, and in English by Akashic Books, in 2014.
Read about it on the Akashic website (English) >>>
Buy on Amazon >>>
Published in 1999, Ototo was a best-selling collection of short stories by Israel’s leading young writers of the time, including the likes of Etgar Keret, Orly Kastel-Blum and the first ever publication Sayed Kashua’s fiction. Assaf Gavron was the editor of the collection, and contributed a story, “Love Doesn’t Kill Anymore”.
Sex in the Cemetary •
Thirteen shorts and a novella were collected in the collection Sex in the Cemetery (Zmora-Bitan Publishing, 2000). Four of these stories were published in different anthologies between 1999-2002. Three of them appeared in Russian translation in two different anthologies.
Two stories from Sex in the Cemetery were translated to English: CellShock and Today is Costa Rica.
The following stories were published since Sex in the Cemetery:
Renana, The Dutchman Who Played for Acre – an anthology, Glory Publishing, 2004.
Where the Blood Comes From, Haaretz book supplement, 2006.
Reuvenia, Masmerim Magazine, 2006.
Laundry, The Greatest Dead People’s Party, Part II anthology, Booxilla Digital Publishing, 2013
Men Who Take Off Their Hats Before They Eat, Zlaliot – an anthology, Kinneret-Zmora-Bitan Publishing, 2005. An English translation of the story was published in Chicago’s F9 magazine, 2010. The story appeared as a Single digital book, Booxilla Digital Publishing, 2013.
Short Fiction Projects •
500 Grams was a weekly short-short story project. The stories appeared every week for the entire year of 2005 in the Israeli Internet portal Walla!
During the World Cup 2006, Gavron published a Heiko poem after and in response to each and evey one of the games in the tournament. The project appeared in the Israeli Internet portal Walla!
Read some •
Today is Costa Rica (translated by Jessica Cohen)
Whenever the wind blows, and it usually does, it sounds like ping-pong. The thin, hollow plastic ball hitting the green varnished hardboard table—the ropes whipping the thick, synthetic, polyester fabric as it waves around in the wind. To him they sound the same, and that’s what he always thinks about in that critical moment when the flag’s life begins: no longer a starched and folded piece of cloth in the corner of a white box, one more shirt in a massive grey closet, but a living, colorful creature that frolics in the wind, representing a foreign country with its own language, its own territory, its own people. That’s what he thinks about—a ping-pong ball’s sharp, high, plastic sound when it drops—while he hangs the flags.
He climbs onto the back of the truck and looks at the flags. Which country’s are these? Sasson says he can’t remember exactly. Costa Rica, or Puerto Rico. Something like that. He doesn’t have the paperwork with him. Sasson is holding a glass cup of Turkish coffee in one hand and a lit Time cigarette in the other. He knows it would be too much to ask Sasson to check his paperwork. He’ll have to look it up in his book when he gets home.
He hangs the Puerto Rico or Costa Rica flags and takes down the Vatican ones. They’re dirty now. Dirtier than usual. White gets dirty quickly. That’s why most of the countries hardly have any big white spaces on their flags. Only Israel, the Jerusalem Municipality, and the Vatican. They like white. The Vatican flags were up for a long time, relatively speaking. It was an extended visit. He tosses the Vatican onto the truck and hooks up Costa Rica or Puerto Rico. He’ll find out later. He’ll sit at home with his book and read about them. Now he’s up on the ladder. He likes the quiet at this time of day, with the cold wind of late winter and the little lights glimmering from the houses of Ramot. He slides the sleeve that runs along the side of the flag over the post and thinks about the people in the cars driving into the city.
Sliding the sleeve over the post is the part that strains your muscles, especially when it’s windy. He always spits into the wind a moment before, to find out which way it’s blowing so he’ll know where to tilt his head while the flag is going on. When it’s very windy, and he’s suspended up high on the edge of a crane, it’s easy to get caught off-balance. The flag slips on and starts to work. It waves around and invades the Jerusalem air—songs have been written about this air—like a proud but foreign body, like ants inside a home. He thinks about all the people speaking whatever language it is in that country, wherever it is, and he hears the rope whipping against the fabric, and it’s like the sound of a ping-pong ball hitting a table.
Flag after flag, a hundred a day, or sometimes at night, and sometimes more than a hundred. Each flag has its moment. Its moment of coming to life. Tonight there are many more than usual, because of the Vatican. He’d reached corners of the city where he’d never hung flags before, and now he’s revisiting them all. The flags that were once shiny like silk are now rags, grimy with soot and rain. He throws one after the other into the back of the truck and replaces them with clean new flags.
He waits for it and then it hits him. It starts again. The night begins to end as he drives home, after he and Sasson leave the truck in the lot. He feels it at every stoplight and every pedestrian crossing. The empty, grey hours when solitary people walk by, cross in front of his car or drive beside him. Every time he sees someone cross the street he stops and thinks: what would happen if I didn’t see her? Or if the brakes failed? I would slam into the side of her body, fling her, snap her. She’d be thrown onto the road and I’d stop suddenly. The bus behind me would ram into me. It would be my fault. I would go out to the woman and apologize. The whole rear of my car would be crushed. Maybe the bus driver would be hurt, or a passenger who had just got on and not sat down yet would be thrown into the front windshield.
He stops and the woman crosses at the pedestrian crossing. He keeps on driving. A car slows down on the cross street at the next intersection. But what if it didn’t stop? If the driver kept going? He would hit me, the car would spin, the bus behind me would ram into me, I’d be crushed, I’d hit the windshield… But the other car stops and he drives on through the intersection and everything is fine. Then he imagines the car next to him swerving into his lane. In his mind he can hear the screech of metal crushing under the force, the scratches, the crumpling tin—it’s the opposite of the calming sound of wind slapping ropes into synthetic fabric.
He can’t sleep. He opens up Yitzhak Levanon’s Countries of the Universe. It’s the twenty-fifth edition, from 1981. That’s all he has. That’s all he could find. Many years have gone by, he thinks, but the countries are the same, aren’t they? The names are the same names, the history is the same history. It’s true that some of the countries whose flags he hangs aren’t in the book—like Georgia, Uzbekistan and Croatia—but you can’t have everything.
Puerto Rico, he sees immediately, is not the country whose flag he was hanging, because tonight’s flag didn’t have wide red and white stripes and a blue triangle on one side with a white star in its center. But he reads about it anyway. Puerto Rico is no longer called Porto Rico. It used to be called that, but in 1932 the name was changed to Puerto Rico. Columbus discovered it on his second voyage to America in 1493. He thinks about Columbus and that second voyage. He’d never known there was a second voyage. Why had he made it? And what did the ocean smell like from the ship?
Here is today’s flag: blue stripes along the top and bottom, then white stripes, and in the middle a red stripe, broader than the others. On the left inside the red stripe is a circle, and inside it is an emblem with seven stars above three hilly islands in a turquoise sea, and a big sailboat in the sea. The name means “the rich coast.” National anthem: “Noble homeland, your beautiful flag.” He smiles proudly. Cocos Island, he reads, some four-hundred-and-eighty kilometers from the Pacific coast, is mostly covered with tropical virgin forest. He thinks faraway into the virgin forest. Who lives there? Who fishes the fish? Who fries them? Who eats them? He can taste them.
Costa Rica was discovered by Columbus in 1502. It’s all coming together now. Why did he keep wanting to discover things? He reads on. Shark livers are an important Costa Rican product. He thinks about the fishermen who hunt them, the market peddlers who strip them, and the teeth-lined jaws that probably hang on the restaurant walls. The Costa Ricans are known as Ticos by their neighbors because they often use the suffix tico…
He falls asleep.
He dreams he’s on Cocos Island, standing in the virginal, tropical forest. Behind him are three brown hills, just like in the flag, and in front of him a strip of white sand and a turquoise ocean. In the ocean is Captain Cook’s sailboat. He remembers that Gary Eckstein hit from the eighties and sings it to himself: “Captain Cook sails far, far away, all day long…” But then three sharks jump out of the water and threaten to devour him.
He does not wake up in a panic. He is not soaked in sweat. He keeps on singing: “At nights we drop our anchor, time to sleep…” The sharks land on the white sand, where they thrash about, and three local natives, chubby and bare-chested, slice open the sharks’ stomachs and remove their livers. He keeps on singing.
At the corner store, he buys some chocolate milk in a bag and a small container of sour-cream. He drinks the chocolate milk while he walks toward the President’s residence to look at the flag he hung last night. The flag looks droopy on its flagpole. Lifeless, hunched, it lowers its gaze to the President’s manicured garden. He prefers to hang flags at night, when the wind breathes life into them and people are more introverted.
He crosses the street at a pedestrian crossing and imagines the approaching bus driver momentarily distracted, which makes him lose control of the wheel, veer over the yellow line and drive into him. The impact break his legs and throws him into one of the shops on the side of the road.
He has to take the Vatican flags to the laundry, then take them back to the company for a count. This time there are twenty-three missing. Sasson says it was probably Beitar soccer fans, because of the yellow. He and Sasson go up to the office to log upcoming orders from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs. Canada three days, China four, Australia three. They record all the sizes, quantities, locations, and the exact hours for hanging them up and then taking them down after the visitor leaves town. Then he takes the truck to the shop to have some work done on the old yellow crane that lifts him up to the places where flags overlook the city.
At night they make their rounds to check on Costa Rica and make sure nothing got twisted around or torn or stolen. The visitor is arriving tomorrow, Sasson says. The wind has picked up. He can hear the big flags slapping, hitting, patting, fluttering. He looks from up close at the sailboat in the heart of the Costa Rican flag, and feels the polyester stretched taut. Someone once told him about how you adjust the sails’ angle in a sailboat to use the wind to change directions, and how you have to duck down just in time so the masts don’t hit you. Sometimes you lean over the side to balance things out. Up in his crane, he leans over next to the flapping Costa Rica flag, maneuvers himself from side to side with the remote control, shuts his eyes and he is in a sailboat. Sasson smokes a Time down below in the driver’s seat. He isn’t watching.
When he picks up speed, he wonders what will happen if he doesn’t notice the car in front of him stopping suddenly because a dog jumps into the street, and he rams into it from behind, and the seatbelt doesn’t hold him back, his head jerks forward, his chest hits the wheel. Canada is only twenty pages behind Costa Rica in Countries of the Universe. In between them are Chad, Chile, China, Colombia, Congo. The major industry in Canada, based on total output, is paper pulp and paper. He doesn’t know what paper pulp is. China has been independent for over four-thousand years. It borders eleven countries and three seas. There are many wars in its history, but he finds wars boring. Silkworms are commonly grown. He thinks about a short Chinese man with a silkworm farm, whose wife has the most beautiful kimono in China. The Chinese say that a baby is one year old when it’s born, because they take into account the gestation time. They give their children temporary names while they are little, and when they grow up they can choose different names. The book says ‘choos’ instead of ‘choose.’ Not a day goes by when he doesn’t find typos like that. Confucius says that a proper, good society is possible only where there are laws regulating the relations among men and all beings obey them. The Chinese do not have a rest day every week.
He thinks about a restless Chinese being with a temporary name. What would I call myself if I were born with a temporary name and could choose my own? he wonders. Then he remembers: kimonos are Japan, not China.
He falls asleep and dreams about hairy, squirmy silkworms surrounding him and frightening him. But then three little Chinese people in blue work-clothes cut them up into very thin slices and make the most colorful, beautiful silk in the world.
When the flag arrives, glaring red with a big yellow star in the corner and four yellow stars surrounding it, he lowers his head and thinks about the distant being again, and he hears the ropes slapping the flag—fifty percent nylon, fifty percent polyester. Four days later, when he slowly drives around the city in the morning, taking down China and hanging up Australia, there are eight flags missing. Must be Hapoel fans, Sasson says.
Australia means “land of the south.” Captain Cook discovered it, which suddenly reminds him that the Gary Eckstein song was about Captain Jack, not Captain Cook. Funny how everything comes together. Australia is number one in the world for producing wool and raising sheep… and sea cucumbers… and turtle shells. The Australians try to schedule vacation days on Mondays whenever possible, to make long weekends. They also have Cocos Islands. Funny how everything comes together.
In the evening it looks like it’s starting to rain or even hail. The road will be slick and he’ll lose control of the wheel and the brakes, he’ll slide, roll over, lurch through the railing and tumble down, dragging little rocks with him, and baby pine trees, moss and dirt, rolling over and over. He’ll lose consciousness as soon as his body hits the seatbelt and will never regain it. But the car down in the valley will keep emitting a hiss of smoke after it’s finished rolling, and the rocks and dirt will keep sliding down for several more seconds.
At home he opens Countries of the Universe again, thinks back to the white stars on the Australian flag, shuts his eyes and ponders turtle fishing. Someone once told him they kill them for the meat and the shells.
He falls asleep.
He dreams about sheep, hundreds of them, thousands, standing there bleating. One moment they’re fat and wooly, the next they’re bald and thin, with yellow teeth and crooked jaws. Captain Jack sails far, far away, all day long…
On one corner of the President’s house hangs a droopy Australian flag. Beneath the flag he sees a little heap. When he gets closer he finds a dead bird. He looks up: it must have hit the flag and fallen. It had flown in last night from another land in search of comfort, somewhere calmer and warmer. Maybe it just wanted a change of scenery. But the Australian flag stopped it. He bends over and strokes the bird’s head above its beak. One of the Presidential security men comes out of his hut and asks him to leave. But sometimes birds shit on the flags, too, he thinks. Funny how it all comes together.