From a Sealed Room

by Rachel Kadish

  The garden is dappled with light, birds flit past the wall where this man stands. “No,” I say to a spot above his head. “She didn’t believe that. She didn’t believe she was special because she’d suffered. And she wasn’t just interested in being remembered, she wanted something else. Something more complicated than that.”

  “But you’re wrong,” he tells the air behind me. “There is meaning to suffering. Our souls are tested, strengthened. We must understand, the survivors are proof of God’s will to sanctify us.”

  “No.” My voice rises. I steal a glimpse at him, but he still isn’t looking at me. The anonymity frees me to say whatever comes to mind. “Survivors aren’t proof of anything. She wasn’t just some symbol, some evidence of God’s plan. She was a person. You know, you’re as bad as that damn art critic who was so determined to figure out what you symbolized.”

  “Pardon?”

  Now it’s my turn to be smug. “Never mind.”

  He puffs on his cigarette. For several minutes he chooses to ignore me. Then he speaks once again. “The interesting thing is, it wasn’t one of the faithful who found the body. It was a woman from outside.” With a careless circle of his cigarette he indicates the entire city beyond this street. “A fancy lady,” he adds with disdain, and then explains: “Perfume.”

  He blows a stream of smoke. Together we watch it form a small cloud, then disappear.

  “A very strange thing. This lady said she wasn’t a relative, she said she’d only met the dead woman yesterday. She said the dead one left something at her apartment. A suitcase. This lady carried it all the way back across Jerusalem just to finish an argument. She wanted to quarrel with the dead woman. She wanted to throw the suitcase back in her face.” Quietly he chuckles. “God in heaven. When I arrived at the apartment—I was the first chevra kaddisha member to come, after somebody on the first floor called—the fancy lady actually ordered me away. Can you believe it? She wanted me to take the suitcase with me as well, said she didn’t want it in her sight. Said it was a filthy thing.” The man shakes ash into the garden. “Lunatic. All what was in the suitcase was a worn old dress and shoes, some dry crackers, three teabags, and a dirty old hairbrush that looked like it hadn’t been used since maybe the days of the Temple, may-it-be-speedily-rebuilt. But the lady insisted I get rid of it all. She sat beside the dead one talking insults. She said she would have nothing to do with this woman, she couldn’t stand her.

  “But when the others from chevra kaddisha arrived, she cursed us with such as. I never heard from the mouth of a woman. She didn’t want us to take the body away. Guarded that woman like it was her own best friend who had died.” Ruefully he shrugs. With his heavy sidelocks and lisp, there’s something almost likable about him. “All right, so she made it clear she doesn’t like religious people, and especially chevra kaddisha. We had to send some of our women to coax her out of the apartment. They said that at the last moment before she left, this madwoman cried over the body. And then she went and hasn’t been back since. Not for burial this morning, not for shiva.” He stubs out his cigarette against the side of the building, leaving a dark smudge. “Fickle,” he pronounces.

  From the second-floor window comes the sound of soft chanting.

  “Still,” he considers, “she sat with the dead, which is a mitzvah. The Lord puts good deeds even in the paths of those who stray.”

  I have no idea what to make of this story. So instead I imagine the funeral. I picture a cluster of men in black hats and coats, watching while a group of kerchiefed women carry an insignificant, cloth-wrapped body down the stairs. And in the cemetery, a circle of religious men and women around her grave, rending their clothing because there are no family members to do it. A Jerusalem burial, a shadeless plot of earth, voices lifted in prayer. Psalms working the hard earth, softening it to receive her.

  My companion’s gaze has wandered to a banner hanging low outside the garden. “The Messiah is coming at any moment,” he says. “We are waiting, we all wait patiently, and endure. We do what we can to hasten Redemption.” He smiles as at some private joke. “Even you wait. Even you live balanced on the innermost fence of Redemption. That’s what it means to be God’s chosen.”

  “Then how do we get unchosen?” I don’t know why suddenly I should be so enraged. “Shifra, my neighbor, she was looking for a way out of your precious holy suffering. There has to have been a way out for her.”

  He lowers his gaze and looks at me directly for the first time. His eyelids crinkle with amusement. “Americans,” he says. He makes a soft tutting sound. Then he steps forward. “May God comfort you along with the other mourners of Zion and Jerusalem.” With a motion he indicates that I must step aside so he can pass without touching me. Then he walks down-the path toward the street. He walks out of sight under swaying signs that have faded to pale yellow, their once bold lettering almost invisible against the sun-bleached background.

  A three-legged cat picks its way along the top of a stone wall edging the garden and leaps onto a dumpster. I watch its tail wave high in the air.

  In the building behind me a window opens. “I’ve got some sandwiches ready for us,” Gil is calling. His voice is kind.

  When I don’t move, he taps on the shutters. “Maya,” he cajoles.

  My chest heaves: a labored exhalation. All around me, the sun burns pale-veined buildings. The blacks’ signs sway along the street, the heat makes my eyes tear. Gasping like a fish, I make my way toward the forgiving darkness of the overhang. I lean back against the rough plaster wall and try to drive the sun from my mind. I think cool water thoughts.

  “Food’s ready,” Gil announces from above.

  He is waiting in the kitchen. He’s laid the table with care. When I’ve finished my sandwich, he brings out sliced fruit and watches me eat. I spoon the pieces to my mouth one by one. I nudge the empty bowl away; Gil looks encouraged. He stands and moves behind me. Placing a firm hand on each of my shoulders, he squeezes as if to anchor me in place.

  “Maya,” he says, “I know I haven’t given you much reason to trust me.”

  Gently he massages. “But I love you.”

  My head feels as if it’s in a vise.

  “Now you know everything there is to know about me. I’ve told you my secrets, you’ve seen me at my worst. When your mother is well, come home to me and I’ll do things right.”

  “My mother won’t get well,” I tell him.

  He kisses the crown of my head. “I know you’re worried. You’re so close to her. You say you two have problems, but I see you writing to her all the time. I see how hard you try.”

  I listen attentively, aching for his understanding.

  “I’m certain she loves you, too,” he tells me. His voice is raw. “It’s just that sometimes love can be hard.”

  “I’m afraid to go back to America,” I whisper.

  He leans closer; my head rests on his chest. His heart is racing. “No matter what, I’ll be here waiting for you. No matter what it takes, I want you here with me.” From his position he can’t see my face; his hands travel my shoulders and neck and avoid my swollen jaw. “Just say you’ll come back and stay with me. Say you’ll marry me.”

  He is clasping my shoulders so solidly, I know that his love will never falter. “I promise,” I tell him. I stare at the wall ahead of me. And as he moves forward to kiss me, as he thanks me wholeheartedly with every touch, I wonder whether it’s me making this promise, or someone who can be trusted to tell the truth.

  Twenty minutes later, Tami picks me up in front of my building. Nachum had to see to some things in the shop, she tells me, as I lay my suitcase in the trunk; now he’s showering, we’ll leave from their apartment when he’s ready.

  Traffic is still heavy, though brisk, and as we wait at a light the hourly news signal beeps from open car windows all around us. The light turns green; Tami drives on in silence, peering stiffly into intersections as if mystified by the choices of the other drivers.

>   After we park on Wolfson Street, Tami sits for a minute before removing the key from the ignition. She appears to be on the verge of speech.

  I follow her along the stone path. With a jangling of keys, she unlocks the building’s main door. We cross the dark foyer. On the second-floor landing she pauses and turns to me. “I hope everything is all right with your mother,” she says. She seems uncertain what comes next.

  “Thank you,” I say.

  We climb to the apartment. As soon as Tami opens the door, Nachum is calling to me from the back bedroom so cheerfully he might have forgotten the purpose of my trip. “I’ll be there in only a minute, in only a few minutes,” he promises. “I’m already there.” He continues to broadcast the state of his preparedness while Tami and I head to the kitchen. “I called the airport. They said we needed to get there two hours in advance.” Briefly there is quiet; then he reports, with clear pride as well as a trace of astonishment, “But I’m making sure to get us there three hours ahead.”

  In the kitchen we find Fanya and Shmuel Roseman, Fanya’s gentleman friend from the concert. He remembers my name, and takes my hand in his. “I’m hoping all will go well with your mother,” he says.

  “Thank you.” I glance at Fanya, who smiles a greeting distractedly. She appears to be deep in thought, but she rouses herself to speak.

  “I hope the same. Your mother is a lovely woman.” With uncharacteristic awkwardness, Fanya fingers the knob of her wristwatch. “This must be very hard for you,” she says.

  Across the room, Tami whirls in surprise. In an instant her whole demeanor has changed, her attention is riveted on her mother.

  Fanya goes on. “I remember how frightened I was when my husband Daniel fell ill.” She seems almost shy, unprepared for her own words. “It was the most terrible thing I’d ever gone through. I hope your mother gets well.”

  I nod my thanks. And then Fanya does something I do not expect. She rises and, before leaving the room, lays a hand on my head.

  Tami’s cheeks are flushed with concentration. She watches her mother disappear. Then her eyes, glittering strangely, fix on me. Her thin face radiates pure jealousy. She leaves the kitchen.

  Shmuel sits opposite me, his arms folded on the tabletop. Pretending not to have noticed Tami’s baleful stare, I consider first the pepper shaker, then the salt.

  But all at once, the lengthening of Nachum’s delay, the quiet of this apartment, the throbbing of my legs and head are more than I can bear. I am overcome with resentment of Tami’s selfishness. Before I know it, I’m crying in self-pity, patting my cheeks with wet fingers to keep my painstakingly applied makeup from running. Without intending to, I say aloud what I’ve been trying not to think. “My mother isn’t going to want me there.”

  Shmuel raises his eyebrows. “Why do you think that?”

  Already I regret speaking, but the tears are coming thick and fast. “She and I don’t exactly have a history of getting along well.” My voice trips over resentful laughter. Seeking a quick end to the subject, I tell Shmuel, “Just the usual mother-daughter stuff. She doesn’t exactly get my life, you know?”

  Shmuel purses his lips. He nods. “I see.” Slowly he settles back in his chair, uncrossing his arms. “That’s very difficult.”

  On the soft wrinkled skin of his forearm I notice it immediately: a number tattooed in faint blue.

  He sees me notice. Leaning forward once more, he reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. Yes, the gesture says. I also.

  “You can’t let what happened yesterday paralyze you today,” he says.

  I look up at him.

  “I mean with your mother. You can’t let whatever happened in the past make you afraid to talk with her today.”

  “But you don’t understand,” I blurt. “She’ll be so disgusted with me she won’t want anything to do with me. I’ve told her lies, I’ve been terrible.”

  “Terrible?” He inclines his head slightly, as if the word holds no meaning for him. “What’s ‘terrible’?” I see he’s reprimanding me, but without anger. Resting his elbows on the table, Shmuel waves the fingertips of one hand. “Whatever happened yesterday, however bad it was, isn’t as important as what can still happen. The most important yesterday isn’t as important as tomorrow.” From another room comes the sound of Tami slamming one bureau drawer, then another. “I’m not saying you should forget what happened,” Shmuel says above the noise. “You and your mother ought to maybe talk a little bit about all this ‘terrible.’ But, listen to an old man’s advice, if you let yesterday be bigger than tomorrow”—he pronounces his conclusion deliberately—“then there’s no hope for nothing.” He nods, pleased with himself, and burps softly. “Yesterday plus today, even, both of them added up, are never as big as tomorrow.” There is a short silence. Then Shmuel winks, and with a motion of his chin indicates the doorway where Fanya vanished moments ago. “Trust me.” A mischievous glint lights his eyes. “There’s always tomorrow. I’m counting on it.”

  I wipe my face with the backs of both hands.

  “Talk to your mother.” He nods encouragement. “Be optimistic.”

  Leading Ariela and carrying a small cushion, Fanya comes back into the kitchen. With a grave smile, Shmuel reaches across the table. For what might be only a few seconds, he cups my aching jaw with a warm palm. His face registers pure compassion. I’m certain that my tears will begin again, and never stop. Then Shmuel pats my wrist and turns in his seat to look at Fanya.

  Settling on a chair, Fanya drops the cushion on the floor. She signals for Ariela to kneel, then begins braiding pink and purple ribbons into the girl’s hair so that the colors alternate evenly.

  There’s a lively knock on the door jamb, and Nachum’s towel-draped head appears from around the corner. “Two minutes,” he calls. “I’m already there.” Ariela giggles as her father disappears, and Fanya steadies the girl with a hand on her shoulder. The banging from down the hall continues. Working the last bit of ribbon into Ariela’s hair, Fanya chatters to Shmuel about the lack of variety in the upcoming chamber music programs.

  Something is building in the apartment—a tension so obvious I wonder that anyone can ignore it. Tami is out of view, but every sound from the hallway announces her ill humor. Soon she comes into the kitchen with a washcloth and wrings it noisily into the sink. I’ve never seen her so animated. Her cheeks are red, as if she’d been slapped. No one else seems to pay her any attention; I watch Fanya, without interrupting her own sentence and without even a glance at her daughter, move her legs to allow Tami to pass. The two of them are like combatants pacing a ring before their match begins.

  Or perhaps only Tami is. Fanya speaks on—she doesn’t see Tami’s agitation, or doesn’t care. Briefly I muster the concentration to feel annoyed at them both. Then it seems to me that I don’t care, either.

  Nachum’s banter cuts the tension. “Nu, let’s go, why’s everyone sitting around?” He bends, tweaks Ariela’s chin, and teases as she reaches to touch his damp hair. “I’ve been waiting and waiting for you, what took you so long to get ready?” Flirting and coaxing, Nachum leads us down the stairs.

  The air is cool, and the street has taken on the golden cast of evening.

  “Drive safe,” Shmuel chides through the open window of the car, as if Nachum were a teenager embarking on his first independent outing. Nachum responds with a mocking salute, which Shmuel ignores as he pats the side of the car in farewell. He has refused Nachum’s offer of a ride back to his apartment over the jewelry shop. Now he stands on the sidewalk and waves while Nachum eases the car out of its spot. As we pull away, I twist in my seat to watch him. It is with an unexpectedly light step that he turns and sets off down the street. I picture him laboring well into the night, seated patiently at his watchmaker’s bench. Squinting through a single magnifying lens, he is mending what can be mended; restoring the ticking of precious seconds and hours to silenced faces and stilled hands.

  Seated in the back of the car
with Ariela and Fanya, I watch the streets of Jerusalem broaden and give out to highway. On the radio a group of men and women trade contradictory rumors of progress and catastrophe in the peace negotiations. After a while Nachum turns off the program. He whistles as he drives, one elbow propped on the windowsill. From the passenger seat Tami stares out one window; from the backseat Fanya gazes out another. The two mirror each other unconsciously, a matched set.

  I try to imagine what I will say to my mother when I arrive at the hospital. I can’t think of anything.

  We are more than halfway to Tel Aviv when it begins.

  Nachum has been speaking about a competitor of his, the owner of a shop in Katamon. Although he gossips enthusiastically about the man’s bungled business, he draws a firm line at repeating the stories he’s heard about the competitor’s divorce. “I won’t kick a fellow for his misfortune. They say she’s giving him a terrible time in a thousand different ways.”

  “And what do they say her complaint is?” Fanya prods.

  Nachum chuckles. “Who knows? You’ve got to pity the fellow, maybe all she wants is someone who doesn’t turn gold into shit every time he opens the cash register, excuse my language.”

  “Nonsense. If she loved him then she wouldn’t care about that. It’s all about love.”

  “So,” Tami says tartly, her eyes still glued to the view outside the window. “Listen to the expert.”

  Fanya makes a self-deprecating noise, but her face shows surprise. “Well,” she says, “I think I’m allowed to have an opinion about love. After all, I’ve seen a thing or two.”

  “Oh,” Tami says. “And I don’t know anything about the subject? You think I don’t know anything about love? You should talk. You’ll never really care about anyone. You’re not capable of it. You just string people along for your own satisfaction.”