Micro Book Group Guide No. 8

Asked where his family lived in Palestine, Rami says his father came from Ma'alul. He will add that from his mother’s side he is Egyptian, and another detail. His father is dead.

 An elderly man sitting behind the driver, Rami, his long legs tented in a compact sedan circumnavigating a North American city’s preeminent parklands, the Boston Common, the Public Garden. 

 A signature driving style, the miniature sedan braked at kissing distance from the massive rear of a bus. Awaiting a light change. 

 An inquiry submitted to Rami by the passenger seated in front, Inbal, a woman of advanced middle age tracking the precision driving. Managing also the glance over her shoulder and the question she has been saving for a conversational pause. Where did Rami’s family live in Palestine.

 Ma'alul. From my mother’s side I am Egyptian. My father is dead of course.

 Aspiring westward, Rami, surname unknown, one of three passengers including the asker who have accepted a ride from the organizer of the vigil for a permanent ceasefire convening weekly at the foot of the Massachusetts State House. Notably Rami finds it necessary to articulate to Inbal that his father is dead, a fact he flags as self-evident. Presumably his mother is dead too. Were she alive that would be remarkable.

 His wife at his side, elderly too. Astrid, a name Inbal relearns while the passengers still orbit the car prior to entering, the doors unlocked, the seating order indeterminate. 

 To Inbal it had seemed natural that Rami should sit aside the driver where the extra legroom would accommodate a tall man comfortably. The same idea was voiced by the driver while she cleared the rear bench of a considerable freight. 

 A priority to Rami to include in the deliberation another logistical element. Who is getting off first?

 You are, the driver said, referring to Rami and Astrid.

 The freight relocated to the trunk, Rami chooses the back seat beside his wife.

#

 While the vigil organizer tidies her vehicle and establishes with Rami a consensus regarding the seating, Inbal and Astrid undertake introductions.

 You must be Israeli, Astrid says to the vigil partner she did not know by name until now. 

 A surge of affection in the voice and mien of the elder woman who attaches her junior to a particular history. In the aftermath of an unusually distressing vigil, a dose of solace. Astrid loves an Israeli. 

 Or the warmth is unrelated to the history. A geniality inherent in this stranger. A welling emotion representing shared relief, also possible. Vigil partners who emerge from a disrupted weekly ritual. Only a minimal exchange between Inbal and Astrid earlier, reflecting the tension rising in that moment. 

 Do we know this person? Astrid’s question.

 No. To me he appears drunk.

 What’s that.

 I believe he is drunk.

# 

(From Outpatient, a novel-in-the-works by Naama Goldstein)

Resolve the following problem:

This reading leaves me…

1) Eager to immerse in the experience of fictional participants in an urban vigil, curious about the details of a disruption to their weekly routine.

2) Sensing the parallels between my outlook and that of individuals emerging from histories seemingly unlike mine.

3) All of the above.

4) None of the above. I could not get past the humanization of a so-called peoplehood whose claims I reject. This is not the sort of fiction you will ever find me reading.