by Eshkol Nevo
Dikla thinks all those lies are cute.
I’m beginning to be a little disturbed by the sheer quantity of them. And am waiting to see whether there will be fewer of them when he starts school.
In any case, we definitely should take into account that he, our youngest child, will write a story about what has been happening in our house lately.
His opening sentence will be: At some point in his life, almost every kid is afraid he was adopted. Through my whole childhood, I was afraid that my parents would split up. And one autumn, after my sister left for boarding school, I was sure they would.
The hero of the story will be: Smarter than his age. Yet also very naïve.
The style: Poignant detective story. Yanush Korchuk meets Axel Wolff.
That is to say, the very naïve kid who is smarter than other kids his age will observe his parents carefully and look for signs.
He’ll sit down and write a table of the signs.
In one column will be good signs like: Today Dad made Mom laugh.
After dinner, on the way to the sink, he put a hand on her shoulder. And she didn’t push it away.
They didn’t argue until after we went to sleep.
Next Saturday, they’re taking us on a hike in the woods. I heard Mom talking to her friend about it. That means that they’ll be together at least until Saturday.
And he’d write the bad signs in another column:
Dad slept in the studio he used to have. Instead of at home.
They don’t sit on the balcony to talk anymore after they think we’ve fallen asleep.
Mom goes to the movies with her friend Gaia, instead of with Dad.
When I used to climb into their bed on Saturday morning, there was always a small space I had to squeeze into, and lately, the space between them is so large that I can almost spread my arms to the side when I’m between them.
On the way back from the hike in the woods, their song was on the radio. It starts with the word “sometimes,” and the singer has a funny name: Johnny Shuali. I know that song because whenever it’s on the radio, Dad makes it louder, Here’s Mom’s and my favorite song, but this time, Dad didn’t make it louder and he didn’t say that.
* * *
—
As the story progresses, there will be more bad things. And fewer good ones.
But what will really make my heart ache when I read it (he’ll let me read it a week before the book is published, and he’ll warn me not to look for myself in it: You know what that’s like, Dad, he’ll tell me, it’s never one-to-one), what will really pain me is that the boy in the story believes he’s responsible for the crisis between his parents. And he’ll start to behave like a perfect little boy. He’ll do his homework on the same day he receives it. And he’ll make an effort to do better in English, even though it’s difficult for him. Because he knows how important it is to his mother. And he’ll give his father a big hug when he goes off to school in the morning so he’ll remember the hug and won’t feel like leaving. And one weekend, when his sister Noam is on a trip with the scouts, he’ll tell his parents that he can stay home alone, without a babysitter, so they can go out, maybe to a movie? And he’ll restrain himself from making a scene when they say he still isn’t old enough, because he knows that his scenes always drive a wedge between Mom, who says that the first thing to do is to put him in his place when he behaves like that, and Dad, who says that first, they have to understand where it’s coming from. He’ll secretly read the Internet sites written by authorities on relationships, and realize that the most important thing is to keep the channels of communication between the couple open, and it all begins and ends with trust. On Friday, after their family dinner, he’ll suggest a game of falling: every player in turn closes his eyes and falls back into the arms of the person standing behind him. He’ll insist that not only the kids fall back into their parents’ arms, or into each other’s arms, but that Mom will fall into Dad’s arms, and he’ll ask her to try again, and again, after the first few times, when her foot pushes out in distrust. He’ll applaud when Mom finally succeeds, and even lingers in Dad’s arms for a second longer than necessary, as if she’s resting for a moment from the effort of being angry at him—
But the bad signs will grow worse. And one night, when his dad is at work and his mom is sure he’s sleeping, he’ll hear her say to her friend Gaia, “I’m waiting until after Noam’s bat mitzvah. I don’t want to break the kids’ hearts,” and the next day, he’ll get his hands on the phone number of the hall where the bat mitzvah is supposed to take place and ask to speak with Coral, who is organizing it. He’ll explain the situation to her, all the signs and implications, and beg her to postpone the event, only for a few weeks, and maybe by then, Mom and Dad will make up, they always make up in the end. He won’t accept Coral’s explanation that the hall is very much in demand and dates are scheduled six months in advance, and they can’t just shift an event at the last minute because, even with the best of intentions, it would be a violation of their contract—
A few hours before the bat mitzvah, he’ll stop being a perfect little boy and eat twenty apricots, one after the other, and drink half a bottle of vinegar, and vomit it all up on the kitchen floor. He’ll be disappointed to see that his parents don’t cancel the party, don’t even consider canceling it, but just call their neighbor’s son, Ariel the babysitter, to sit beside his bed.
* * *
—
This is how the story will end: Later on in life, I learn that parting is a force of nature. Like falling. But that autumn, I believed with all my heart that I could stop it.
The name of the story will be: “The Perfect Little Boy.”
How do you combine family life and writing?
I wrote my first book when I was brokenhearted after a breakup. And single.
I thought: When I have love, I won’t be able to write.
I wrote my second book when Dikla was pregnant.
I thought: When I have kids, I won’t be able to write.
I wrote my third book when Dikla was pregnant again.
I thought: One daughter is okay, with two daughters, there’s no chance I’ll be able to write.
Now I have three kids. A house. A family.
And I think: If all this falls apart now, who gives a damn about writing?
* * *
—
We had a kind of ritual, Dikla and I. After the last kid fell asleep, we sat out on the balcony. Without phones. And drank red wine. One glass each. She finished hers quickly. I finished mine slowly. And as we drank, we talked about everything unrelated to the kids: A song she heard on the radio and liked. Insults one or the other of us had suffered. Places we wanted to visit. Clothes suitable for the change of seasons. Moral issues. The texts changed with the years, but not the rhythm: A sort of jazz. Unpredictable. Filled with leaps from subject to subject. We had rhythm, Dikla and I.
Now I’m waiting for her on the balcony. She’s avoiding me.
Awake? (I text her. Even though we’re both at home.)
Yes.
The men in my family die young.
Not funny.
Will you be joining me tonight?
No.
Because of Colombia? Because I told you that…
It’s not because of Colombia.
So what’s actually happened?
This isn’t the life I wanted to live.
Want to come out to the balcony and talk about it?
No.
* * *
—
Then yesterday, suddenly—we had sex. After weeks without any.
In the middle of the night, as if in our sleep, her body began to caress mine.
Her hands undressed me.
Her hot mouth.
Her tongue.
But after she came, she didn’t put
her head on my chest.
She went to take a shower, came back, and burrowed under the quilt, even though it was summer, and turned her back to me.
I stayed awake for a long time, and when I finally fell asleep in the early hours of the morning, I had a lightning-quick dream of only one scene (or I remember only one scene): I’m climbing the stairs of Atarim Square in Tel Aviv, but instead of going up, I’m going down.
I think about the strange similarity between the beginning and the end of love. From the moment Ari introduced us, in the club on Kibbutz Cabri, I felt as if everything that would happen between Dikla and me from then on was inevitable, because the attraction drawing us together was stronger than both of us. And in fact, now too, I feel the same thing: That no matter what we do, this new force pulling us apart is stronger than both of us. And it’s only a matter of time until—
* * *
—
We haven’t been arguing at all these last few weeks, maybe because at the heart of every argument is the hope that something will change.
Yesterday, we walked quickly past each other in the house, and my shoulder bumped into hers as if we were strangers in the street.
She suddenly looks older to me.
And I must look old to her.
As if each of us had held on to our youth for the other, and all at once, it dropped away.
What crap. “Held on to our youth.” “All at once, it dropped away.” I escape to pretty sentences because I don’t have the courage to tell the truth.
The truth is much more concrete.
Cell phone. Suddenly you need to punch in a code to get into her text messages.
Subscription for two to the Cinematheque. Not renewed.
Melatonin pills. Originally purchased to overcome jet lag when I came back from Colombia. Now I keep them beside my bed. To overcome insomnia.
The 2014 Docaviv Film Festival. Another way to overcome insomnia. My favorite summary: The graffiti on the Berlin Wall, specifically the picture of East German leader Erich Honecker kissing Brezhnev, has become a symbol of the protest against the Communist regime. But who painted it? The film documents the search for the artist and the story behind the kiss. The results of the search are not only surprising but also scandalous, and raise the question: Who determines the significance of a work of art, the one who created it or the ones exposed to it?
Axel Wolff’s book. Another book by Axel Wolff. The fourth one she’s read over the last few months. Spread open on her nightstand. From the back cover, Axel looks at me euphorically, as if he’s the new man in her life.
The living-room air conditioner. Needs to be fixed. A pretty expensive repair. Maybe we should wait until the situation becomes clear (we both think but don’t say, and no one calls the repairman).
A stapler without staples. (We are like…)
Our wedding album. Lying uselessly on a shelf in the living room, until the day Noam is asked to bring a family picture to school for her bat mitzvah project. She browses quietly through the album until she finally chooses a photo that was taken before the guests arrived (or after most of them had gone?). In the picture, Dikla and I are sitting at a table of friends. In one corner, you can see a piece of Hagai Carmeli’s rusty mop of hair. But we have our backs to him, leaning completely into each other, deep in conversation, and you can see how very close we are. Noam shows us the picture, first Dikla, then me. And I suddenly suspect there is no class project and that the clever girl simply wants to remind us of us.
Tax invoices/receipts. Every month Dikla gives them to me to send to the tax consultant. I usually forward them automatically. This month, for the first time, I go over them carefully, searching for evidence of a secret affair. I find a receipt for a mediation course, and another receipt for a course in business English. She’s been taking courses ever since I’ve known her. Always challenging herself. I find a receipt for three Watsu treatments. That’s the only way she manages to let go of her ambition for a short while. I find a receipt for acupuncture, and for the monthly sum she contributes to ERAN, the emotional first aid NGO, because once, during a long stint of guard duty in the Arava desert when she was in the army, she almost went crazy, and a guy from ERAN spoke on the phone to her all night and saved her. I find another contribution to Shahal, a cardiac emergency service organization—her mother died of a heart attack—and three different receipts for CDs she bought. Because, single-handedly, she is keeping the dying CD industry alive all over the world.
I don’t find any evidence of an affair, and strangely enough, I’m more disappointed than relieved.
The gorgeous balcony table. That we bought in the Moroccan Fantasy store up north. Who will keep it if we separate, Mom or Dad?
Army shoes. I once came home from reserve duty in the Gaza Strip, and she was in the middle of the Coen brothers’ film O Brother, Where Art Thou? She barely looked over at me, and I was afraid that this would be like the time I came home from the Arad music festival and Tali Leshem didn’t look at me, and two days later, I left our apartment. I was wrong. You can’t infer anything about one love relationship from another one. O Brother, Where Art Thou? is a film you really can’t take your eyes off. And Dikla and I had another ten good years after that time I was on reserve duty.
Night shoes. In movies, people always look at their kids when they’re sleeping. When my kids are asleep, I look at their shoes: collect them after they fall asleep, pick them up from the living-room carpet, the bathroom, the shower. Then I arrange them in their rooms. In pairs. I look at them. And think about what I might lose.
The carpet in the living room. We made love on it once when we came home from seeing Burnt by the Sun. Or am I imagining it? Dikla is in charge of our couple memories, and now I can’t ask her.
The carpet on the wall. My aunt Noa gave it to us as a gift. Shortly before her death. Framed. Rectangular pieces of somber, dark-hued fabric placed one on the other. Like a Band-Aid on a Band-Aid on a Band-Aid. Or like the wooden slats of a parquet floor. Meant to be impenetrable. Meant to imprison. Under those densely packed strips is the buzzing of protest, subversive activity: flowered fabric whose shape, before it was hidden, looked to me like someone dancing. And lately—like a demon.
Alarm. Installed during one of my trips, and since then, Dikla has no longer been afraid to sleep alone. Recently, she also sets it when I’m in the country and come home at night. I’m supposed to deactivate it when I come in, but sometimes I remember too late. Then it goes off. I hurriedly punch in our wedding date—18301—which stops the alarm but wakes the phone—the girl at the alarm company wants me to give her my password. To make sure I’m not a burglar. I feel like a burglar, but give her the password, and she says good night in a soft voice. After she hangs up, I’m sorry I didn’t try to start a conversation with her. Once, before the alarm, Dikla couldn’t fall asleep without me. During the day she was independent, active, a lone wolf. During the day she sometimes made me feel superfluous, an unneeded man. But at night she needed me. And waited for me in bed, awake, until I came home from the workshops. No matter how late. We didn’t manage to do much. A hug. A few words. She didn’t need more than that. I didn’t need more than that. But now the house is silent and she’s sleeping under the protection of the alarm. I walk through the rooms, gather the kids’ shoes, and then read the program of the 2014 Docaviv Film Festival until I’m drowsy enough to fall asleep.
Another summary from the Docaviv program. For the 65 residents of Maladhu Island in the Indian Ocean, global warming is not a theoretical problem. Barring unforeseen events, their small island is about to disappear because of the rising ocean waters. Inside their straw huts, Maladhu residents prepare to bid farewell to the place where they have lived their entire lives. But on nights when there is a full moon, they gather and pray to their gods in the hope that, at the last moment, there will be change in the plot.
Decaffeinated c
offee. (We are like…)
Remote-controlled model airplane. We bought one for Yanai. It cost a fortune. We took it to the park, and on its maiden flight, it got entangled in a treetop. A city worker with a ladder managed to get it down and return it to the boy, but the wings were broken.
Dikla’s screensaver. A photo from a family trip to the Black Forest. From three years ago. The photographer, a German who happened to pass by, chided us: Smile, why aren’t you smiling? After the picture, we got into our rented Opel, and during the drive to the campsite, all the kids fell asleep, even Noam, who never does, and the car filled with the kind of quiet that comes after a great effort. Dikla put her hand on my thigh, I covered her hand with mine and looked at her. Eyes on the road, she said, and I said, That’s a problem, you’re too beautiful. Then she said, I think I’ve figured out this whole business of family trips. So tell me, I said. You shouldn’t expect to enjoy yourself all the time, she said, the thing is to collect the good moments, the moments of quiet joy.
A red Hapoel Jerusalem basketball scarf. Hanging on the wall in the den. It moved with me to all the apartments I’ve lived in since I left my parents’ house. The only permanent element in my life. On the scarf is the team logo and the sentence “Love conquers all.” I bought it with Ari after a game. We split the cost and agreed on a custody schedule, a year with me and a year with him. In the end, somehow, it stayed with me. Lately, Dikla has stopped saying that the scarf makes the room ugly. On one of my recent visits to Ari in the hospital, he told me, to my surprise, that she’d left a few minutes before I arrived and he laughed at us, saying that we were the most mismatched married couple he knew. He said, You know, she looks sad, your wife. Don’t tell me that, now that I finally understand why you married her, you’re going to split? No way, amigo. You know, he said, that if she came to see me, she hasn’t given up on you, right?