by Galia Albin
Chapter 4
London was damp and dreary in the middle of August. Exhausted and tattered, she arrived at the posh hotel room and lay flat on the double bed with its inviting, shining sheets; but sleep was beyond her reach. A few hours still remained before the meeting that had been set for a late hour that night, so she left the hotel, clutching her handbag tightly. Her light black raincoat and purple woolen scarf provided inadequate protection against the sudden drenching shower.
The sun was shining brightly the previous day when she said goodbye to Jonathan, buried under a black tombstone. She had chosen the imposing stone two days after the funeral, and the tombstone maker acceded to her wish to erect it on the grave at the end of Shiva. The stone-laying ceremony was short and dry — Talia had no more tears to shed. Jonathan’s mother, displaying even more self-control than was her wont, led the people to a burial plot originally bought for herself, but now given to her only son. She had engraved “Jonathan, my dear son” in gold letters on the black stone, and the names of her daughter-in-law and grandchildren preceded “Our beloved husband and father.” Talia allowed her to choose an inscription according to her own taste. She, herself, refused to believe that underneath the stone lay the body of her beloved Jonathan, the tall, lanky body that only eight days earlier had been so robust and full of life.
London greeted her with indifference. Against the gusts of blustering rain and wind, she tried to warm her soul with thoughts of Jonathan. She reminded herself that according to the Hebrew calendar, the date of his death was the fifteenth of Ab, the day of the Festival of Love. They had met on that day, seven years earlier. Was there special significance in the conjunction of those two dates, or was it nothing more than cruel, ironic randomness? She turned to him in her mind, as she often did in the last few days, “What does it mean, Jonathan, that you died on the Day of Love, the day of our love, that we celebrated every year? I know what it means; that you loved me from the moment we met until our forced separation. And I want you to know, my love, that I will never stop loving you, all my life, for as long as I live.”
She continued to walk at a fast pace, her salty tears mingling with the raindrops and forming rivulets streaming down her cheeks. She had thought that after the Shiva and her visit to the grave, the wellspring of her tears would dry, but now she was relived at its renewed vigor. With her head cocked to the side, against the wind, she ignored the cab drivers who slowed down at the sight of the tall, slender figure in black raincoat and high heels. With a gesture of her hand, she declined their offers, wishing to savor every step and prolong the way. There was something comforting in the anonymity of a great, bustling metropolis, in the unfamiliar cold weather at this time of year, at the sight of people scurrying about their business with an inscrutable expression of resignation and dejection on their faces. “Despondency,” her London friends used to call this typically English existential gloominess, and she asked herself what were the components of this kind of despondency; sadness? Despair? Unspecified misgivings? Or, perhaps, was she merely imagining things?
About half an hour later, she found herself in front of the lighted sign of the restaurant.
“Bona sera, Signora,” a waiter greeted her at the entrance, leading her to a large dining hall. “Where would you like to sit?” he asked, smiling like an old acquaintance. Her heart pounded with excitement and relief when she pointed to a small table by the window. All the way over, she had hoped that the two seats by the window on the right, the exact two seats that Jonathan had booked for them, would be free.
“Are you waiting for someone, Madam?” another waiter asked, as he handed her the menu, his white, starchy apron rustling. “We can wait, if you wish.”
“No, sir. The man I’m waiting for is not going to come. And I don’t need a menu. I was here two weeks ago, and I want to order exactly the same dishes: zucchini soup, spaghetti Portobello, Carpaccio on a hot brick, and for dessert, tiramisu with fruit.”
“Belissimo. And what will you drink, Signora?”
“I will drink exactly what I drank then, two glasses of Toscana red wine. But please bring me a whole bottle and two glasses.”
“Of course, madam. You will be served immediately.” The waiter hastened to leave, with what seemed to her a quizzical expression on his face.
Talia sat on the very chair she had occupied two weeks earlier and stared at Jonathan’s empty one. She sipped slowly from her wine glass, her eyes fixed on the full glass in front of her, as if seeing Jonathan’s face in the delicate glass. She remembered his every look, his every word, every gesture he had made, and she dwelt on each detail. Their spirits had been high. Just a few days earlier, he said to her, “Talinka, I know you are exhausted. Let’s have some fun; let’s spend a few days together. “She agreed then and there. It had been such a long time since he allowed himself to relax. The last year, a little before Michali was born, something in him had changed; his normally good mood became somber, though at home he tried to maintain his good humor, and she went along with this front. No, she hastened to defend him, it was not pretense. Her mother would call it “keeping up appearances.” Talia, too, had felt exhausted since they had come to live in London.
Yes, she remembered everything, even the way she found herself sitting in that very same Italian restaurant, where she was now all by herself. A few days before it all came to an end, she had asked him to take her to Venice, to the town that to her was the most romantic place in the world, to make an old dream come true.
She knew that this dream would have to be postponed, and that postponed dreams, taking offence, rarely come true, and yet she importuned him, in that pleading, pampered child’s tone that he liked, masking her real concern for him, “Yoni, you promised me Venice, remember?” She used to call him Yoni whenever she was in a playful mood. Now both of them burst out laughing; with two small children and an inexperienced nanny, Venice looked oh, so far away, an unattainable land hidden behind an impenetrable curtain.
But they knew that the children were not the real obstacle. There were other hurdles along the way, and perhaps that was the reason Jonathan did not give up. The almost forgotten twinkle appeared in his eyes. “You want Venice, Talinka, you’ll get Venice. A promise is a promise.”
The next day they set out on their way, dressed festively, at his request. The car windows were covered with dark drapes, and she closed her eyes, surrendering to the motion of the vehicle and to Jonathan’s hand caressing her like a feather. “Open your eyes!” Jonathan commanded after an hour’s drive. They were approaching the entrance to an elegant restaurant in an unfamiliar neighborhood, and Talia let out a shriek of delight. The ornate letters of the sign, lodged in a lit neon gondola, spelled “Venezia.” The name of the restaurant was Venice.
Led by the hostess, a beautiful, Italian girl reminiscent of Sophia Loren, they entered a small but splendiferous room. Crystal dripstones shimmered from the golden chandeliers. The furniture was antique, real Venetian, Jonathan said knowingly, pointing at a tall chair with sculptured arms that was displayed in the comer, cordoned off by thick rope to prevent use. The walls were adorned with dark oil paintings, and heavy, wine-colored, velvet drapes covered the rounded comers and windows, separating the diners from the bustle in the street. The waiters, dressed in white shirts, black pants, bow ties, and long, white aprons that hugged their slender hips, spoke a mellifluous Italian. When they swished by from table to table, their aprons rustled softly.
“Well, Talinka, I made you a promise and I’m keeping it. Did I or did I not take you to Venice?” Jonathan exulted like a high school kid who succeeds in surprising his girlfriend. Talia tasted the wine. “Oh, this is good,” she cooed delightedly. She had not felt so relaxed and mollified in a long time. She looked at Jonathan through misty eyes, her cheeks flushed with sudden heat. Was it the wine? Was she overwhelmed by a wave of love for Jonathan? She was not sure.
“I love you so much, Jonathan. Let’s drink to ourselves, to the childre
n, to our love.” She raised her crystal glass to him.
“Sure, Talin, let’s drink, to life, to you, to the kids.” Jonathan drank from the slender glass and then his thin, long face suddenly darkened.
“Why did you say ‘to you?’ What about you? Talia’s heart sank. She felt a change in the atmosphere, an elusive yet definite change, as if an invisible shadow had crept into the room and stood between them. It was only at difficult moments that he called her Talin. “It’s either us or nothing,” she said, “You know, Yoni, that even in the grave nothing can separate us.” She twisted her face in an attempt to make him laugh.
His eyes were riveted to hers and he stared at her with an uncanny concentration. This was how he penetrated people when he wanted something from them, or when he attempted to fathom their motives. But he had never looked at her in such a way. Between them everything was open, easy-going, flowing. His look scared her. She was slipping into an abyss of sadness. “Jonathan, why are you looking at me like this?” she probed gently, “is something wrong?”
“No, lambkin, why should anything be wrong? You know how dear you are to me, but if anything should happen to me, do you think you’ll be able to manage? I just want to know.”
“No, Jonathan, I won’t be able to manage without you, so get this out of your head. And don’t call me lambkin, you know I don’t like it.”
“Well, you act like such a meek, little lamb, but I know you; you just pretend to be spoiled and incompetent. You think this makes me feel manlier. Deep down, you know that you really are clever and capable. When the need arises, you will find great strength inside yourself.”
“Jonathan, this is all such nonsense. You know perfectly well that I wouldn’t be able to manage without you for one moment!” The weariness that had plagued her the last few weeks suddenly descended again. She pushed her plate away. A film of tears covered her slanted green eyes.
Jonathan looked at her with unbounded love. He could never resist her tears. “My sweet girl,” he said solicitously, “I didn’t mean it, you know I was just kidding. But isn’t it a good idea to be prepared for the worst, just in case?”
“Jonathan, so long as I live, nothing is going to happen to you, do you hear me? So, please, don’t ever say such things. We came here to have a good time, didn’t we?”