In the Envelope of Memory

by Ilana Haley

  To read poetry? She paused. Okay. Where should we meet?

  Go to the woods. To our regular place, says Gill.

  In the woods, came out of her mouth like in a dream, by the Kissing Stone. The Kissing Stone? She blushed, giggled nervously, and bit her lips. It’s only a name of a big white rock in the woods. He said nothing, only looked at her with his head tilted, and she saw fine, hardly visible lines creasing the corners of his eyes. Well, she said, with a sort of daring shyness, it’s only a rock. When our parents lived inside the woods, they named it the Kissing Stone. I didn’t know the kibbutz was built inside the woods. There are many things about us you don’t know.

  He smiled at her good-humoredly. But I’m learning fast. Why did they move from the woods to the hill? They had to. Living in the woods wasn’t safe then because—oh, I don’t remember that time, I was only a little girl. Anyway, the Kissing Stone is easy to sit on, and you can’t miss it because it’s the biggest rock in the woods, and it’s very, very white.

  She looked around, uneasy at being seen with him alone. People talk. Oh never mind, she thought. Let them talk; they would anyhow. And when he said, I hear the woods aren’t exactly a safe place now either, she pulled herself up and looked defiantly into his eye, challenging. It’s safe enough, she said. I go there all the time. Then a small devil leapt inside her, and a little mischievous smile lifted the corners of her mouth. She said, except of course for the snakes. She saw the look in his eyes change. Big snakes, he asked; his voice soft but subtle, stroking her nerves like balm. She whispered, enormous, and watching him laugh, she laughed with him. But the moment was a difficult one for her; perhaps for him too.

  Now, reviewing the entire scene, each detail fresh and alive, Alya felt hot and sticky. Not quite real. He had chosen her, and she wondered how a thing like that could have happened to her. If I were him, she was thinking, I would have chosen Orna. Orna is so sophisticated, adventurous, and of course, the prettiest.

  My beautiful girl. My clever little honeybee, says Gill.

  Near the woods, Alya slackened her pace. Her legs felt strange as though her knees were made of gum. Her red hair stuck to her flushed, damp cheeks, and her shirt was soaking wet. Is that what Gill means when he talks about love? she wondered. At that moment, she wished Amos, her dog, was with her, or even Orna. Oh, don’t panic. It’ll be all right, she admonished herself.

  When she reached the edge of the woods, she stopped running and stood to listen. She listened, not only with her ears, but also with her whole person, her face assuming an odd, mystical expression. After a moment, she took off her shoes and slowly entered the woods. The stillness was complete and soothing, stroking her nerves like a mother’s gentle hand. The damp pine needles yielded, submissive and soft, under the light pressure of her bare feet, and a red winter sun, acting as a chaperone, winked at her through the branches of the trees. The ground was crimson with anemones. She sang softly, Red, red anemones . . .

  She picked an anemone and slightly caressed her face with its delicate petal, inhaling the fresh, poignant fragrance of recent rain and pine needles. She walked slowly, feeling the warmth of the sun on her back and shoulders, when suddenly the stillness was interrupted by a loud, abrupt metallic sound. She turned quickly, but saw nothing unusual: only dense blankets of scarlet, white, and yellow flowers beneath the tall grass under the trees. The wild thumping of her heart subsided. She sighed and shrugged; then, singing, entered the long, narrow avenue of cypresses. After a while, she turned to the right where the pine branches entwined, converging into an awning to shade her head. With the anemone’s flowers, she wove a red laurel with which she adorned her head and forehead, securing it with hairpins. A slight breeze began to stir. She saw the cypress tops sway gently. Sparrows, wagtails, bulbuls and red-breasted robins sang all around her. Then she saw the Kissing Stone, solid as ever. And there was Ari, sitting on its flat surface, reading from a small book.

  Dazed with excitement, Alya became, almost unconscious of her surroundings, a little frightened. Holding her breath, she crept closer and watched him from behind the gnarled trunk of an old acacia tree. She thought him beautiful. Suddenly he got up and began to recite. She couldn’t hear the words he uttered; his voice was only a murmur. But his face was entirely visible to her and she saw him grimace, and gesture wildly like a mad actor on an invisible stage. She giggled. He looked around. Alya? She crouched lower behind the tree’s trunk. She saw him look at his watch. She looked at hers. Five o’clock. She stood still, listening again, completely absorbed.

  Here I come, she said, and from among the shadows of the trees, she stepped out into the bright light of the clearing. With the red laurel on her head, she walked bravely to meet him.

  He turned and saw her standing with her shoes in her hand, her feet bare and mud-caked, and the red-anemone laurel circling her head like little leaping flames. He gazed at her, enchanted, his face white and tense, his right hand clutching the book of poetry to his chest. She looked so young and timid it scared him, made him feel uncertain of himself. The reality of their situation suddenly confused him. What were his intentions toward her?

  From the first moment he had seen her, she dominated his thoughts. He wished to be alone with her, to know her. And yet as much as he was attracted to her, something about her disturbed him, made him feel perplexed. She was completely different from anyone he’d ever met. She seemed always to be mocking a little. Not overtly, not obviously, and definitely not with malice; but it was there in the glint of her eyes, in her smile. Her smile—the most charming smile he had ever seen on a human face yet—also most disquieting. A smile that was ironic and sweet, innocent, yet knowing: pure joy and passion mixed with deep sorrow. And still he felt compelled to know her.

  Alya, you’re really here? he said softly, trying to hide his confusion. Yes, she laughed. Not knowing what else to say, he asked, Did you see the soldiers? No, she said, and he saw her body stiffen. He looked at her in wonder. She liked his shyness. It made him seem younger, and it made her feel older, a little bolder. But she wasn’t going to talk about wars or death, and she hoped he wasn’t going to talk about them either. She wouldn’t be able to bear it. She would have to walk away from him, and she didn’t want to walk away from him.

  I like him, she thought. His eyes are so gentle. She stood meditating, and looked deep into the shade of the dense foliage, listening to the songs of the insects in the grass. She was conscious of his eyes upon her and his silence. She hesitated a moment; then, with a small frown on her face, said, The woods seem somehow different. Different? he asked. How? The woods seem so calm today as if hiding an important secret. Orna would say, It is full of demons and spirits. She giggled, embarrassed at her own words. Probably because of the soldiers, he said; they seem to be everywhere.

  She said nothing but looked at him intently, her face pale, her eyes pained. Suddenly she felt trapped in her loneliness, lost inside herself, and, as if she were cold, she hugged her shoulders.

  Only a bad dream. Shah . . . , says Gill.

  Perhaps at that moment, as she met his eyes, and he saw the terrible pain in them, Ari began to understand, to know her. He reached out his hand as if to wipe the fear off her heart. She looked at him, transfixed. His fingers touched her cheek. She shut her eyes. She felt as if she wanted to hide herself in him, in his gentleness, in his strength. She opened her eyes.

  Shah . . . Nothing to be afraid of. I’m here, says Gill.

  She sat on the stone’s surface, her head turned toward the setting sun, her eyes squinting at the early-evening radiance. For a while, they sat in silence—she looking at the sky, he looking at her. Then she turned to him and said, this stone means so much to so many. And with the open palm of her right hand, she slowly, sensually caressed the stone. Perhaps she was thinking about his hand on her face.

  Tell me about it. He took her hands and held them for a moment between his. It mean
s happiness and disappointment, dreams and love and—death. When our parents were young, they used to meet here. She blushed. Oh, she said in a little voice, I don’t really know how to talk about it. It’s our parents’ secret. And suddenly she felt foolish, sitting like that in the exposed clearing with the red anemone laurel on her head and her hands held in his. But her hands felt right and comfortable in his. Perhaps more. The blush deepened on her cheeks.

  Let’s read poetry, Ari said. He jumped off the stone, pulling her with him, spread a blanket on the damp grass, and sat upon it. She sat next to him, her shoulder barely touching his. She removed the hairpins from the red laurel and let it slide down, around her neck. As she leaned back against the Kissing Stone, her fear disappeared. She felt safe again. Safe with him. He opened his book of poetry and read to her simply, his voice rich. She closed her eyes and tipped her head back until it rested on the stone, listening to the poet’s words and the man’s voice. At that moment she felt in harmony with the red sun and the tranquil universe.

  And when you’re completely silent, you’ll hear the wings of the butterflies, says Gill.

  Ari closed the book and quietly looked at her. How beautiful. She smiled. Poetry; Gill loves poetry. Gill? He looked at her questioningly. For a moment she looked at him in silence, as if not sure that she wanted to tell him. Gill is my father, she said in a quiet, soft voice. The people in the kibbutz say he was killed in the war by a bullet. But to me he’s alive. He’s always with me. He talks to me. People think I’m mad, and perhaps they are right, but I have no choice. You’d like Gill. You’re like him, a little. Would you like to know him? Yes, Ari said. Slowly she withdrew her hands from his. She sat completely still with only a smile on her lips; and her brown eyes, full of light and shadow, gazed at the sky with a sort of rapture. Perhaps she was hearing Gill’s voice at that moment.

  She spoke very softly; Gill and I come here every day in winter. Gill talks to me about the butterflies and the birds and the flowers and trees and of all the earth’s creatures. Gill and I, we have a bond between us. Gill never says, go to school, Alya. You’ve got to be like everyone else, Alya. He says, come, the vineyards are heavy with grapes, the orchards laden with fruit. Come let us go for a heavenly walk. That’s the way Gill talks. And we walk in the fall, and in winter, and we walk in the spring, and in summer. And we walk for hours. And Gill always hums a tune to himself, and his voice is joyful, his eyes are full of light, and always laughing. Gill’s eyes are green, and his hair is red and thick and curly and coarse like lamb’s wool. When Rina, my mother, wants to tease him, she says he looks like a broom caught on fire, but to me he looks like a pillar of light.

  Sometimes Rina would join us on our walks, but not very often, because she isn’t very strong. She is delicate, and tires quickly. But then Rina doesn’t care for the vineyards and orchards and woods the way Gill and I do. She says, it’s awfully hot and sticky there, and that there are millions of bees and wasps and all kinds of dangerous creatures living among the grapes, peaches, apples, and flowers. Once, in the vineyard, I was stung by a wasp, and my face was swollen for days; my eyes disappeared altogether. I looked so ugly, just like I did when I had the mumps. Gill called me a chipmunk, and said it wasn’t so bad, it would toughen me up. But Rina was terribly upset, and fussed over me as if I were in grave danger. I loved being fussed over like that by Rina. Gill kept teasing her and quoting to her from the Bible, saying that like the Shulamit, she was fairest among women. And he called her his lily of the valley, and he took her in his arms and kissed her until she stopped talking. And I saw her burrow her face in his woolly coarse red hair; and in his hair, she later told me, she smelled the fields and the earth and the air. And he made her forget all that existed outside their unity, and that was very nice, and made me very happy. Rina and Gill are crazy about each other, and Gill once told me that he kissed Rina for the first time right here on the Kissing Stone. Rina says that Gill and I are birds of a feather, and that we’ll be the death of her, we’re so wild. I wish Rina could feel him like I do. But she doesn’t. And she has that funny look on her face when I say that he is only lost somewhere, and she has to find him; then it won’t hurt so much, and she won’t feel so lonely. She looks at me, and a strange smile appears on her face, and I can tell that she doesn’t see me at all. Perhaps she sees Gill. I don’t really know. And she begins to cry silently and pulls me to her and kisses me all over my face, and her tears wet my face, and she moans and sighs so sadly I want to run away. It’s unbearable.

  Alya looked at Ari. Have you ever met her? Ari didn’t answer. He was sitting erect, his body utterly still, as though held by a terrible tension; and his face, she saw, was suddenly distorted as if he were gripped by an intolerable pain.

  Ari wiped the sweat from his brow. Someone, or was it something, was laughing at him with a piercing shriek. Shells whistled around him. The jeep he was driving blew right from under him. Three of his friends were torn to pieces. He pressed his open palm to the wound in Dan’s throat. He was drenched in Dan’s blood; the taste of it was in his mouth. He was breathing blood; blood was on his face, on his hands, in his eyes. Dan! he screamed. Dan! Don’t die! But Dan, his best friend, was dead. He stopped breathing just like that. The terrible rage of that moment threatened once more to obliterate his sanity. He felt the nausea rising up in him. The ghastly, helpless feeling was with him. In him. He was in agony, and was unable for a moment to collect himself.

  His mind was still locked on the image of his dying friend, when he felt a pressure on his hand. And when he turned his head and looked at Alya, he was looking out of his chaos down into her uplifted, faintly flushed face and vivid brown eyes. Gill says pain is only an illusion, she said. And Gill once told me that the Bushmen of the Kalahari Desert say there is a dream always dreaming us. Then she smiled and removed the red anemone laurel from around her neck, and crouching on her knees, she slowly placed it at the edge of the blanket, for Gill. She hesitated a moment, then turned her head and looked at him. You understand, don’t you? About Gill, I mean.

  Yes, he knew. He understood. She lived inside her imagination. She was chained to the ghost of her dead father as he was chained to the ghost of his slain friend. And for one breathless moment, he imagined himself setting her free, bearing her away, saving her. Suddenly he imagined the man, Gill, shot through the chest, lying on the arid ground of the Arava desert with the hot wind roughing his flame-like hair, his eyes open into a blue and empty heaven. Ari clenched his fists. And as if she were reading his thoughts, he heard her whisper, If I let go of Gill now, I’ll lose him forever. Yes, he said. They looked at each other. Pained. He took her hand again. They sat in silence, and listened to their ghosts as they watched the winter sun bleeding its dying rays over the branches of the trees.

  The moment Alya disappeared from her sight, Orna went quickly to the room she shared with her and Ruthie. She put on an old pair of sneakers, and a white sweater over her blouse, and tied a scarf around her blond curls. Suddenly she sat down on her bed, and stared in front of her as if under a spell, her heart boiling with raging and conflicting emotions. Of course she was jealous of Ari being sweet on Alya and not on her, but she also knew that wasn’t what made her feel so utterly devastated. She couldn’t understand the restlessness that came upon her with such a force. She felt bewildered, afraid, and unbearably sad. Oh, she cried and banged her fists on the bed. One day, I’ll go away... far, far away. Away from hate, from wars, from death. She kept hitting the bed with her clenched fist until her hands were raw. She felt no relief. She thought of another conversation she had with Ruthie: Ruthie had said, this Alya, she’s always up to something weird, like going to the woods where no one goes now. And the way she talks about her father; real freaky. She seems to be the only one in the kibbutz who doesn’t know that he’s dead. And the way she never cries; never. She didn’t cry the day they told her he was dead; she didn’t shed a tear at his funeral... not a tear. You
saw how she was. You stood at her side as they lowered him into the ground. You never took your eyes off her, and you didn’t cry either. I must say, Orna, you looked almost as crazy as she did. Alya, standing there like a stranger looking at the sky, smiling... I thought I’d die. My god, Orna, she’s mad... really crazy.

  Shut up, Orna hissed. Just shut up. Recalling that conversation, Orna suddenly felt, as she had felt many times, and especially since Gill’s death, that she had to protect Alya against herself. I should have found a way to prevent her from going to the woods. How could I have been so blinded by jealousy? How? How? And then finally came the tears, tears that had choked her throat that entire day, that entire year. At that moment, like many she had experienced during the war, the world seemed to her dim and grim and menacing—full of evil, infested with demons. I must go to the woods, she cried. I must go to the woods now! And with her eyes still full of tears, she ran out the door and toward the gate of the kibbutz, where Amos, Alya’s dog, was still whining, but again to no avail. Ignoring the dog, Orna studied the gate for a moment, then turned around. She decided to go through the olive grove. It was a bit faster to reach the woods that way, but the ground was still muddy from recent rain, and her feet sunk into the wet earth, slowing her pace. Above her, the olive trees stretched their bare branches, motionless, like dark arms. She could still hear the dog’s mournful whine, and trying to suppress a feeling of sudden dread, she began to whistle and hastened her pace until she reached the old acacia trunk where she crouched to observe.

  Leaning against the Kissing Stone, bathed in the last glow of the red evening light, they looked like images in a dream. Alya was talking, and Ari was listening. The red anemone laurel was around Alya’s neck, and her mouth was curved in an enchanted smile. Orna knew well that look of rapture on her friend’s face. Oh no, Orna whispered, don’t talk about Gill. Please, please, Alya; don’t talk about Gill. Would she ever be able to let him go? Would things ever be the way they used to be? Is my happy childhood over, Orna asked herself in a whisper? Yes, it’s really over, she answered herself with bitter finality. Her depression, her suffering... time alone would be the healer. Time, she wondered?