"Maybe they also have a soldier daughter who is exhausted from a war that never ends?"

The flight of singer Keren Idan is cancelled and she must reach her baby in London. The flight of Zvika, a reserve medic, which was supposed to land in Israel, is diverted to Cyprus. When Tomer, a top lawyer, is locked out of his apartment, he drives to a cafe that is open all night. There he meets a woman who shakes his world and takes him on a journey. These and others are the heroes of 'The Longest Night', the new collection of stories by Eshkol Nevo - who defines it as 'my most personal book, and probably the most Israeli one too'.

The Blue Box

The children begged me to install a top lock on the front door. One that can only be opened from inside the house. It would make them feel safer. And maybe stop the nightmares where terrorists break into our place. The lock was installed within a few days. Obviously. What wouldn't you do for peace of mind.

A year later, I am standing in front of the locked door at one in the morning and knocking hard enough so that the soldier daughter, who probably forgot to release the top lock before falling asleep, would wake up and open for me - and not too hard, so the neighbors wouldn't wake up. The daughter doesn't wake up from the knocking. The twins are on a school trip. It's just me, in front of the locked door. I call her again and again and she doesn't answer. I knock on the door harder and she doesn't wake up. It's already one-thirty in the morning, the neighbors are starting to protest the noise, and I realize it's hopeless: she is sleeping very soundly and probably won't open the door for me until morning.

I send a WhatsApp to Meir. Maybe he's still awake. At least I'll have somewhere to lay my head. He doesn't answer. Probably went to sleep. I send WhatsApps to a few more acquaintances who live in the area. They don't answer either. Logical at such an hour. I go down to the street. Examining the possibility of climbing the building walls and breaking into the apartment on the second floor. And come to the conclusion that it's too dangerous. Not enough ledges to hang onto. No choice.

I check if there is a cafe in the area that is open all night, and find only one. Which is attached to a gas station. I get into the car and drive to it. Turning up the radio volume so I don't fall asleep. The news reports that the chances for a ceasefire have decreased. The chances for a regional war have increased. And credit companies have lowered Israel's rating. It's already almost two, and the cafe, to my surprise, is bustling with people. There is even a small line before the register. I order a double espresso, sit down, and observe.

There are things you can see better at night. There are no revelers. That's the first thing I notice. No good-hearted drunks. There is one group of soldiers in uniform. Probably stopped on the way from one border to another. One of them, a redhead with a baseball cap, pats the other's shoulder and says, loudly, so the whole group can hear, 'So actually, brother, if someone tries to hit on your daughter sometime and asks her if her father is a gardener, she can tell him yes. And shut his mouth, right?'. The whole group laughs, except for the gardener. And their laughter is too loud for the quality of the joke.

There is one couple whispering. Maybe these are the only time and place where they can meet without being exposed. And the rest of the people, many people, alone. With their coffee. Bleary-eyed. Somewhat gloomy. Maybe they suffer from insomnia? From nightmares? Maybe they too stood, like me, before a locked door tonight? Maybe they too have a soldier daughter who is exhausted from a war that never ends?

Whoever designed the cafe did everything to make you forget it's located in a gas station complex. Jute coffee bags are placed on high shelves, large wicker baskets are scattered among them. A board with the daily special written in chalk, by hand, hangs above the registers. Large plants border the seating area. The manipulation is transparent, I'm not even sure the flowers in the pots are real, and yet - it works. And something in me settles. I order espresso after espresso, observing, eavesdropping. Reflecting. Situations I didn't want to think about in the last year because they were unbearably sad, suddenly return to me. In these white, long minutes in the cafe, there is nothing and no one to protect me from the memories.

A little after two in the morning, a girl who is familiar to me from somewhere enters the cafe. She carries a large plastic box, the size of a delivery box from the supermarket, in a bright blue color, places it on a chair, next to one of the tables, and then goes to order at the register. She waits until her order is ready. And all the time sends glances to the box to make sure it's okay. That no one took it. She gets her espresso, empties a sugar packet into it. Returns to the table next to which she placed the box. And takes a first sip. It's strange. The feeling is that the box is sitting next to her. Drinking coffee with her. Half of her body is turned towards it. And from time to time she leans towards it as if to check how it is. It seems that what is inside the box is so precious to her - that the box itself is already precious to her.

In daylight, there is no chance I would have the courage to start talking to a girl who looks like this, without a cause, but it's night, and I don't have the strength for my own thoughts, so I get up and approach her.

'Hey', I say to her.

'Hey', she answers. Barely raising a look at me.

'Can I ask what you have in the box?' I ask. (Where did the audacity come from? I will ask myself later, when I reconstruct the events and try to understand how one thing led to another. 'From despair', my self will answer me upon arrival).

'You don't want to know', she says.

'I do', I say.

'Then sit', she says without enthusiasm. 'Why are you standing'.

I sit down. And for a minute (or two, or five, my sense of time is fluid like in a Dali painting) we don't exchange a word. The box doesn't make a sound either. Although the feeling is that we are completely sitting in a trio.

'So what are you doing here in the middle of the night?' she asks finally and raises a look at me. I can't decide if her eye color is brown or green. And can't remember where she is familiar to me from.

'What am I doing here?' I repeat her question.

'Yes', she says, without smiling, 'if you want me to tell you what's in the box, I need to know you a little before'.

'Okay', I say.

The whispering couple gets up and goes towards the exit. They don't walk hand in hand, but the fingers of his left hand almost touch the fingers of her right hand while walking.

'Do you think they are going to fuck now?' she asks.

I swallow the astonishment at her direct, blunt speech. Let it slide down my throat. And say:

'Yes, I estimate so. And I estimate it will be in her car'.

'Why in the car?' she wonders. 'Don't they have a house?'

'I estimate that... they don't live in the same house', I say.

'Cheaters, meaning?' she says.

'I estimate', I say.

'Yuck', she says - in a tone that is unclear to me if it's cynical or serious - 'disgusting, cheaters'.

'My daughter locked the door with the top lock', I say.

'What?' she says.

'You asked why I'm here, no?' - I remind her - 'My soldier daughter went to sleep and locked the house entrance door with the top lock, which can only be opened from inside. I called her and knocked on the door and nothing helped. The twins are on a school trip. So they can't help either. My friends didn't answer the WhatsApps I sent them. And that's how I found myself here'.

'So basically you are stuck here until... your daughter wakes up?' she asks.

'Basically', I answer.

'Bummer', she says.

'At least the espresso is good', I say.

'Reasonable', she says and takes a sip from it.

The group of soldiers gets up and leaves, as one man. Shaking themselves and their weapons out. One of them picks up a cell phone from the table and calls after his friend, 'Compost, hey astronaut, you forgot your phone'.

'Do you estimate they are going to die?' she asks. And hangs eyes on me. As if my answer to this question is critical. As if I am the one who will decide their fate.

I think to myself: light brown. That's the color of her eyes. So light, that it almost looks green. And also think: where the hell did we meet before. And also think: is this conversation going off the rails, or are these the rails on which night conversations travel? And say:

'Not all of them will die. Maybe one'.

'Which of them?' she asks.

'Don't know', I say. 'Not sure about that'.

'I think the redhead, with the baseball cap', she says. 'He had a face of 'permitted for publication''.

'Wow', I say.

'By the way, something is missing in your story', she says. 'About the locked door'.

'What's missing?' I say.

'Where is your wife in all this?' she says, 'or are you one of those men who cut their wife out of stories when they talk to a girl at two in the morning?'

'The truth is that I am one of those men who are... widowers', I tell her - 'my wife was killed in an accident two years ago. Soon it will be two years'.

'Oh', she says and her eyes round slightly. 'Sorry that - I didn't mean to - I share your sorrow'.

'Thanks', I say.

'I don't believe I just said 'I share your sorrow' to you', she says and hits her forehead lightly. 'Tell me' - she leans towards me slightly, and I try not to let my eyes focus too much on her collarbones, which are exposed - 'what is your name, we said?'

'We didn't say. Tomer'.

'Tomer suits you', she says and reaches out a hand to me, 'very nice, Hila'.

Her handshake is delicate, like a breeze. And it surprises me. Doesn't fit with her cut-blunt speech.

'Nice to meet you too', I say.

'So what is your personal opinion, Tomer?' she continues. 'Which shiva cliché is the worst, 'may you know no more sorrow' or 'may you be comforted from heaven'?'.

'Easy', I say. 'May you know no more sorrow. After all, everyone knows that the sorrow continues and continues and continues'.

'And continues', she adds.

'Of all', I say, 'the place will comfort you is most reasonable in my opinion. Not in the meaning of God. In the meaning of the fact that you are desperately looking for your place in life after someone close to you died'.

'There is something in that', she says, thoughtful. And after a thought adds: 'But nothing really comforts. Not even the place'.

'There is something in that', I admit.

We are silent, and she places a hand on the blue box, as if hugging it. And I think: it's been a very long time since I had such a conversation. In which it is allowed to say everything. And it is impossible to know what will be the next sentence to be said. More than two years, to be precise, I haven't had such a conversation. And also think: she is capable of getting up and leaving now. This girl. She looks like someone who is capable of cutting off conversations in a second, no matter how open they are. And think - she is familiar to me from a long time ago. Not from the last years. I would say army, but despite the four-five white hairs peeking out from her smooth brown hair, she looks younger than me. So it's not logical that we were together in the army.

'So what... is the deal with the box?' I ask. 'Is it okay for you to tell me?'

'I need another espresso for that', she says. 'Can you keep an eye on it in the meantime?'

'With pleasure', I say.