by Sarah Blau
HIV? Of all people, the innocent and phlegmatic Shirley has to take an HIV test. I’m not sure she’s ever had sex. I mean, whenever the subject comes up, her stuttering, fragmented replies are so incoherent that I’ve stopped asking.
I picture her in that small, disgusting examination room Maor and I sat in when we went to take the test. It was early on in our relationship and it felt exciting, like everything else that had to do with him. Let’s just say that today I see things in a very different light.
“So who’s the daddy?” I ask, knowing I didn’t push hard enough for an American sperm bank, the kind that would let the kid know who his biological dad is, would even let Shirley herself see a picture of him and listen to his voice instead of settling for the very basic and limited data provided by the Israeli sperm bank. Anything could be hiding behind such data. But then again, an awful lot could be hiding behind the man you’re sharing your life with. There’s no telling what kind of father he’ll turn out to be, just like there’s no telling what kind of mother you’ll turn out to be.
“At first I wanted a blue-eyed blond,” Shirley says with a dreamy, faraway voice. “The kind of guy I’d want to date. But they suggested I choose someone that has my colouring.”
“And did you?”
“Yes. Fair skin and dark hair. A software engineer.”
“Smart move. Analytical skills, mechanical aptitude,” I reply with a smile, not sure whether I’m full of admiration or feeling a recoiling of sorts, and assume both are correct. In some way, the very option of having a baby via sperm donation is exactly what’s keeping me from having it. If it wasn’t an option, if that road was blocked, something inside me might have rebelled and tried to have a baby the usual way. But the mere option has set me free, I am the master of my fate and steerer of my destiny, what do you have to say about that?
We notice Efraim approaching and change the subject, although I get the feeling he knows exactly what we’re whispering about. In his distracted and discombobulated way, Efraim is au courant with everything that goes on inside and outside the museum, which is the reason I tense when he waves me out into the hallway with him.
“Are you sure you feel ready to come back?” he asks. “You’ve been through quite a shock.”
“Ready, willing and able,” I reply, and while I’m not sure I’m indeed one hundred per cent ready to come back to work, my bank account sure is.
“If it’s a matter of money, we can sort that out.”
“Really?”
“Really.” He smiles at me. That kind of monetary generosity instantly rouses my suspicion. With all due respect to other types of generosity, this one is the only one that truly counts.
“Look,” he continues, “I’ve been hearing all kinds of rumours. People talk.”
“What are they saying?”
“No one thinks you’re involved, obviously,” he rushes to clarify. You don’t say.
“But the rumours…”
“Efraim, has no one told you rumours are good for business?” I attempt a smile.
He doesn’t return it.
“I do want you back, honestly, and you can return whenever you want, including today. I just don’t want people bothering you, prying, asking unpleasant questions. I’m only trying to protect you.”
And these words, instead of further arousing my suspicion, make me want to bury my face in his crumb-littered plaid shirt and cry. My loneliness hits me head on. I realize how much I want someone to protect me, and how there’s no candidate who even comes close.
It happens when we step back into the instruction room.
One of the computers is open on the homepage of a new site, and I notice an illustration that seems familiar. The headline is screaming “exclusive details about the ritualistic murders!” But what is Lilith doing there, in that crude sketch? And why does she look so much like Ronit? And then it dawns on me. It’s a sketch depicting the way Ronit was tied to the chair during the murder. The baby doll wasn’t glued to her hands, it was stuffed into her mouth.
Yes, hog-tied, sacrificed, Mother Ronit with a baby rammed into her throat, and when I grasp the meaning of this gesture, my knees buckle and I collapse onto the floor; the last thought shooting through my mind is how strange it is that you don’t actually see black when you pass out. You see a shining dark-red screen.
15
I DON’T KNOW how many people are aware of this, but fainting actually feels rather nice.
You’re floating, suspended between heaven and earth, your soul is a flowing liquid surrounded by twinkling fairy lights, your body weightless, your spirit untethered and unruffled.
But then you wake up with a violent start, and that’s not nearly as pleasant. And when you wake up to a reality like mine, it’s even less pleasant.
Well then, we’re past the point of denying or repressing it – whoever murdered Ronit, and probably Dina as well, knew the Others, knew us, knew me. No ifs, ands or buts about it. If anything, it’s highly probable that he was at the same Purim party as us, drank the same cheap booze courtesy of the student union. He must have seen Ronit dressed up as the baby-devouring Lilith, must have watched her declare with a smile, “I am Lilith the Terrible, I am the childless mother who eats her young,” to which we gave her our widest, teeth-bearing grins. That’s why he went and shoved that baby doll in her mouth.
I have no doubt that if the papers had published an illustration of Dina in the exact position she was found, I would have known all this already, would have seen the link between that party and these murders. And maybe understood in what position YOU will be found?
I come to with a violent start.
Micha is eyeing me with scrutiny. Strangely, his presence is the only one that calms me, maybe because he seems so calm himself. Too calm.
Apparently, Efraim freaked out when I fainted. I was told that I was out for a few minutes until someone called an ambulance. I vaguely remember those moments of sleep-like haze that afforded my brief escape from reality, remember the flickering lights of a wakening consciousness, the inquisitive faces hovering above me and an authoritative voice saying, “Give her room to breathe,” and then “Did she lose control of her bowels?”
That last question I heard loud and clear, and I think that’s what made me snap back into gear. I reached a panicky hand towards my bowel region, and thankfully found said hand dry upon return. I opened my eyes to a worried Efraim who helped me up and also helped me convince the spirited (and incontinence-obsessed) medic that there was no need for a visit to the hospital.
Efraim told me to go home and “take as much time off as you need, and come back when you’re feeling better,” and I couldn’t help but think, how convenient for you, Efraim.
And now Micha, in my living room, as darkness slowly descends.
This is the first time he’s been over at such an hour. If I had a cat it would start running around restlessly like any other nocturnal predator, but I don’t have a cat. All you have is that broom over there, in the corner, and the familiar, calm Micha.
But when he starts talking about the illustration of Ronit, he loses his cool. “We’ll catch the person who leaked it,” he fumes. “It could sabotage our entire investigation.”
“Do you know who it is?” I ask.
“We have our suspicions,” he replies. “We think he got paid.”
“But why didn’t you tell me that’s how you found her? With the doll in her mouth?”
His gaze wanders to the Witch of Endor painting. “You know why.”
“The only thing I know is that the killer knew all three of us,” I say, and in the spirit of full disclosure – mostly because I can’t be bothered playing cat-and-mouse games tonight – I add, “and he knew what our costumes were at the Purim party back in college. So I’m thinking maybe he was even there with us.”
The long capes swirling on the grimy auditorium floor, the clinking glasses of cheap wine. L’Chaim! To us! Our cheeks flushed, Dina’s eyes
shining like diamonds, Ronit flashing her crimson smile like a blood-covered dagger, Naama harbouring a secret and me smiling under my pointy witch hat, smiling like I’ll never smile again. L’Chaim! And only Neria is standing on the sidelines, eyes still dry, but not for long… L’Chaim, girls, to the Others!
Micha fixes his eyes on me. “If I asked you to guess who the killer is, who would it be?” His voice is velvety soft and I can feel him close to me, feel those breaths.
“Micha, a moment ago I was your guess.”
“You know I don’t think that any more.”
Normally, I’d have something to say about that any more of his, but this is not a normal situation. I’m still weak and wobbly from my little fainting spell earlier, and being this close to him isn’t helping. Panicking that I’m going to pass out again here in front of him, I clench my pelvic floor muscles as hard as I can. That’s it, Sheila, clench!
“You’re finally afraid,” he says, still with that soft voice. “It took you long enough.”
I want to tell him that if he shared some of my memories, he’d be easily spooked as well, but when I look at him, I get the feeling that his bag of memories is packed with a few doozies of its own. He suddenly seems tired and vulnerable. Clench.
“And besides, you have an alibi for the night of the murder, although I have to say your nose looks fine to me.”
There’s something intimate in the way he says this, studying my face through keen and narrowed eyes, making me feel naked. The face is the most exposed part of our body, and I feel my mask slowly slipping.
It was cold that day at the sea.
With all due respect to Dina and her idea to “cap off the night at the beach,” Purim is still a loyal subject of winter’s kingdom. But there we are, loud and revved up, shouting into the furious waves. I’m still puffed up with power from Neria Grossman’s tears at the party, thinking there’s nothing like the tears of a broken-hearted man, believing I’ll forever be leaving a trail of teary-eyed men behind me, not knowing how quickly it will all end, and that it won’t be long before the tears will be mine.
The cold breeze whips at my face, almost carrying away my pointy witch hat, but at least I have my cape to warm me up. We all have capes, each matching her own costume.
Dina is Miriam the prophetess, obviously. Who better to play eldest sister? The tambourine never leaves her hands, and she’s pounding and pounding… It’s a top-quality instrument, wooden rim and stretched leather, and she won’t let it out of her sight, she’ll keep pounding that thing until she won’t.
Ronit is Lilith. As if you couldn’t guess. It’s not much of an effort for her. Beautiful and seductive, she’s sashaying around in her dark cape, holding a small doll in her hand and every now and then licking its head, a gesture that makes my skin crawl but I don’t say anything to her. Instead, I whisper to Naama, “Too much,” and she agrees with a brief nod.
“It wouldn’t have kept my dear husband from hitting on her,” she whispers back, and we both start laughing.
Because Naama is Michal, King David’s wife. My favourite. The small crown on her head complements her beautiful auburn hair, the reason she chose that character in the first place. The thought of them as two redheads facing off made her laugh. But she didn’t get to have the last laugh, did she?
“I understand you went as a witch,” Micha’s voice snaps me back to the present. He’s whispering, as if we’re not alone in the living room. He’s right, can’t you feel them?
“I went as the Witch of Endor,” I say. “I was always fond of her, of her unique gifts.”
“And you girls chose those costumes because…?”
I know he knows and he’s just waiting for me to say the words, so I do. “Because they were different. The Bible’s others,” I say. “Miriam, Lilith, Michal and the Witch of Endor. Strong biblical women who didn’t have kids, just like we promised ourselves we wouldn’t.”
But we didn’t all live up to that promise, did we?
The sea is rough, waves roiling so loudly we can barely hear Dina’s tambourine going Thrump! Thrump! Thrump! She really does look like Miriam the prophetess with her eyes steely and unblinking, and that drumming, which could have easily made her look silly, but it only lends her an air of power.
“Come on! Don’t chicken out now!”
Who even thought about chickening out? We’re fired up and ready to do our own thing, because we’re not like the rest, we’re not going to take the well-trodden path like all the students eager to get married during senior year, start having babies and settle down; we’re going to steer our own destinies, we’re not going down the baby trail, no, we’re going to march ahead, towards… towards what exactly? A moment of hesitation. Ronit breaks the silence, saying, “Maybe we should take a blood oath?”
“We’re not little girls.” It’s Dina’s voice, obviously, since she never was a little girl.
“I have another idea,” Ronit says and whips out her red lipstick. We extend out fingers, and she marks each of them with a red smear. Her face is screwed up in concentration, her tongue poking through her pursed lips, a snake’s tongue! Her eyes are narrowed to slits, and when it’s my turn, she presses too hard and the lipstick breaks.
“Must be some kind of sign, right, Witchiepoo?” she asks with a smirk, and I want to tell her it’s a sign, there’s going to be blood. But I keep my mouth shut.
I wish I could keep my mouth shut now, but I can’t. I keep blabbing, rambling about that night at the sea and then fast-forwarding twenty years to Ronit’s party, and finally I mention Gali Malchin, Naama’s daughter. He’s listening intently, too intently. Watch out, Sheila. But I don’t. I ignore the voice. Because I’m enjoying this, enjoying laying out my memories before him like a display of precious stones. He’s listening but his gaze is elsewhere.
“Why have you kept that painting for so many years?” he asks, pointing at the Witch of Endor.
“It’s my second Witch of Endor painting, I got rid of the first one years ago,” I reply. “There was a Flemish artist who painted the women of the Bible, like Miriam, Michal, Lilith… and we drew inspiration from his work for our costumes. A few years ago I saw this reproduction in the flea market, and it looked a lot like the painting I had back then, so I bought it.”
“But why?”
“Because it’s pretty, and it reminded me of things.” Things! It reminded you of yourself.
“And Dina and Ronit also wanted to remind themselves of things? That’s why they held on to their paintings?”
Wanted. The mention of Dina and Ronit in past tense sinks inside me like a stone to the bottom of the ocean.
“Sometimes we don’t get to choose what to remember,” I reply.
“There’s always a choice,” he says quietly, “even when it feels like there isn’t.”
It may not mean anything, but I suddenly notice his arm resting beside me at an angle that finally allows me to read the tattoo on his wrist.
“The fathers have eaten sour grapes.” I stare at the text etched into his skin. Of all verses! The letters are surrounded by a reddish aura, as if he has just gotten the tattoo, but I know that can’t be.
“It got a bit infected,” he says.
“Looks painful.”
“Funny, the first time we met you asked me if it hurt.”
“And that was before I saw what it actually says,” I remark. “No wonder it hurts!”
His lips slowly expand into a smile, and there it is again, that dimple flashing so beautifully between his light bristles, and I can’t help myself, I reach out and gingerly touch the inflamed tattoo. His skin is warm, and I imagine the words scorching him from the inside.
“Why that sentence?” I ask after a lengthy pause.
“‘The fathers have eaten sour grapes and the children’s teeth are set on edge.’ It’s just a little reminder,” he replies. “To remind me that there are consequences in this world, and that there’s always a choice, even when it fee
ls that there isn’t. Which seems to be something you need to remind yourself of.”
But right now I don’t remember a thing, certainly not when he leans in and gently places his lips on mine.
It’s not exactly a kiss, more like an exploratory gesture while we hold hands like a couple of high school students. There was no holding hands in your ulpana, Little Missy! Perfectly still with only our lips fluttering like wet butterflies, I wonder what now, and command my body not to move, because it has to be them, always them! And there he goes, pulling me into him, and I feel his body pressing against mine, feel that physical compatibility – you can never know whether it’s going to be there before your bodies meet – our tongues wrestling, entwining, and I reach out for the back of his neck, which is something I wanted to do from the very first moment, only to feel him lowering my hand, pulling away from me and saying, “This is a bad idea.”
Bad idea! Bad, bad girl! I want to tell him that he sounds like an actor in a poorly scripted crime drama, but I’m struck mute by shock, debilitated by insult.
What put him off? What did I do wrong? What? Did he not like the hand behind his neck? Was I too gentle? Maybe he was expecting me as the more experienced adult to be more assertive? But I went along with him, with his moves, in perfect, subsensory coordination, felt that it was what he wanted, that tenderness, Well then, that’s exactly the problem! Instead of thinking about what he wants, start thinking about what you want!
The insult courses through me like lava, but I can’t stop wondering what deterred him. What was it? I quickly go over every part of my body but can’t think of an obvious culprit, so I continue ruling out possibilities. I showered after fainting in the museum, changed all my clothes – other than my bra, but it’s not like he could smell that through my shirt, and even if he could, it wouldn’t be enough of a reason for him to just push me off him like that, so abruptly, and with that trite sentiment of “a bad idea.”
Suddenly Eli’s face pops into my head, and I remember him telling me that Ronit also pushed him away just before things got hot and heavy between them, and I wonder if this coincidence means anything. I keep wondering and pondering and mulling it over, anything to distract me from feeling the full sting of rejection.