Disobedience

by Naomi Alderman

  But, she decided, it must be attempted again. She was sure she had become thinner, even since last month. Her breasts, she thought, hung unexpectedly on her chest as though she had slung them in a hurry from her neck. She twisted her arm. Her elbow seemed a bare hinge, jutting and forlorn. She ran her thumb along her torso, feeling the undulating ribs just below the surface. It would not do.

  She trimmed her nails hard, so that her fingertips ached. She collected the clippings and brushed them into the dustbin. Wrapping herself in her robe, she summoned the attendant and proceeded along the short passage to the pool of still water. She hung the robe on a hook and, naked, walked down the steps into the water.

  When she was first married Esti had entered the mikvah with a sense of awe. On the day before her wedding, her mother accompanied her to the mikvah for the first time. It is a mother’s role, a mother’s duty to guide her daughter in the complicated and delicate matters of family purity, that is to say, matters concerning menstruation. Esti, the youngest of three daughters, had witnessed both her sisters accompany their mother on their own prewedding journeys, leaving pale and nervous for the mikvah, returning two hours later wet-haired and smiling softly. She had imagined that perhaps it would be a secret female ritual, a celebration. And, in a way, it had been. Her mother, a small, slight woman yet a person of tremendous force, had shown her how to trim her nails and clean under them to ensure that not a particle of dirt remained. She had done so with a wooden point; the cleaning was painful but Esti had not complained. She watched her mother take each finger, one by one, and make them pure and holy once more.

  In the bathroom, while they waited for the attendant to take them to the pool of cleansing water, Esti’s mother had run through the many tasks that still needed to be completed, ticking them off one by one on her fingers: final check of the flowers, final conversation with the caterers, a hem to be sewn up, the floral barrier between the men and women at the reception to be erected. Esti wished, and felt guilty for wishing, that her mother would stop talking about these tiny concerns. There seemed to her to be a larger matter here. At last, her mother seemed to notice her failure to respond to each issue and she, too, became quiet.

  Esti’s mother took her hand and stroked its back with a fingertip. She smiled to herself, a secret mother-smile in which Esti knew she could have no part. Still holding Esti’s hand, she said:

  “You may not like it at first.” Esti remained silent. Her mother continued. “It’s different, for men and women. But Dovid…he’s a kind man. You’ll be surprised; in the end you might quite enjoy it. Just”—her mother looked up at her—“try to be kind to him. It’s more important for men than it is for us. Don’t push him away.”

  Esti thought she understood. She was twenty-one years old and the words had weighed on her, the delineation of the duties of a wife. At this moment, at the point of marriage, she had imagined that she understood all that would be required of her, and that she knew where the pitfalls lay. She nodded solemnly at her mother’s words.

  When the attendant took them down to the mikvah pool, Esti had spoken secretly with the Almighty. She had said: “Please, Lord, cleanse me and make me whole. Remove that in me which is displeasing to you. I will forget all that I have done. I will be different. Sanctify my marriage and allow me to be as other women.” She remembered entering the mikvah and feeling that her skin was porous, that she was infused with the water, which is Torah, which is life. She remembered knowing that all would be well.

  In recent years, though, she was only able to utter the first word of her prayer. “Please,” she would say in her heart as she entered the water, “please.” Each time, she wanted to continue the prayer, but did not know what to request.

  Esti realized that she had been standing in the water, unmoving, for a little too long. The attendant, a woman in her late fifties, was looking at her curiously. She took a breath and ducked under the water, lifting her feet. She bobbed upward, pulling in her knees to her stomach, lifting her feet up from the smooth tiles beneath. She felt her hair stream out, washing around her face. She counted one, two, three and then rose again, gulping air, water pouring down her face.

  Walking back to the house, wet-haired and warm, Esti thought of Dovid, watching the night with the Rav, reciting psalms as he had done so often in prayer for the old man’s recovery. She saw that she had been mistaken in thinking that nothing had changed; everything was the same, but everything was different. Dovid was reciting the same psalms, but for the dead and not the living. She had visited the mikvah to purify herself for her husband, but now Ronit was coming home. Walking home, under the waning moon, Esti felt, faintly, the turn of the tide.

  In the morning the men of the Chevra Kadisha began their work on the Rav. They met in the small antechamber at the burial grounds. They were four: Levitsky, Rigler, Newman, and Dovid himself.

  Dovid had watched the night by the body, reciting psalms. A small headache began to pulse at his temples. He spoke to the headache, asking its nature. The headache answered with a single, light touch. Very well, not serious then, merely a symptom of fatigue. He sat, watching as the men began to strip the body and clean it.

  Levitsky was a small man, with a mustache and thick glasses. He and his wife, Sara, had four sons, each as blinking and molelike as Levitsky himself. But the man had deft, quick fingers and a lightness of touch. Newman, in his late thirties, was rotund, thoughtful, and calm. He was strong; it fell to him often to lift and carry, to support the dead or to move them. Rigler was taller, thinner, and easily angered. His cheeks were perpetually red, his eyes darting here and there. He was observant, though, and had often accomplished a task before the others saw that it was necessary.

  They had worked on many taharahs before; these men and the five or six others who volunteered for the solemn task. They each knew the jobs that were to be done. The men worked in almost complete silence, but the little room at the burial grounds rang with a certain music of order, audible only in small, confident movements, as each one took up his place.

  Rigler combed the Rav’s hair, collecting every strand that fell. Levitsky held each finger gently—for it is forbidden to hold hands with the dead—and trimmed the nails, before beginning on the toenails. Dovid watched. He was not unfamiliar with the task. Many times, the old man had been unable to hold the scissors steadily. Dovid noted that although the Rav’s fingers were a little stiff, his yellowed, ridged nails were the same. Levitsky collected the spiky parings in his hand. When Rigler had finished combing the hair, they laid these human shavings onto the soft earth lining the coffin. Every piece of the body must be buried. Not a hair, not a nail, is to be defiled.

  It was time to pour the water. Dovid rose from his place and, with Newman, began to fill the large enamel jugs. They would each take a jug and pour, one after the other. The water would have to be continuous, one jug beginning before the previous one ended. If there was a break, even an instant, between the first jug and the second, they would have to begin again. The job took a certain amount of physical stamina. As Dovid lifted his jug, hefting it to the level of his shoulder, he felt the headache pulse once, loudly, above his right eye.

  “Okay?” said Newman.

  “I’m ready,” Dovid replied, and nodded slowly, so as not to disturb his pain.

  Rigler raised the metal slab a little, at the head, so that the water would drain away. And they began. Newman poured evenly, the water streaming across the face, the chest, down the arms and legs. Dovid looked at the old man’s face, beneath the living water. It seemed almost grave, as though he were experiencing troubling thoughts.

  “Dovid!”

  Newman spoke sharply. Dovid looked up, startled, and realized that the other man’s jug was poured out, only a few drops remaining. He had no time to position his own jug, to begin to pour. The water cascading down the Rav’s face and body ceased. The room was silent.

  Newman said: “No matter, no matter, Dovid. You’re tired. We’ll start agai
n. Reuven and I will pour.”

  Feeling foolish, Dovid paused. He looked at the faces of the men around him. They were all pinched and yellowed, but less tired than his; they had not watched the night with the Rav. It would be so easy simply to say yes, I will go home to sleep for an hour or two. He would return to the burial grounds for the funeral later that day. Esti would be at home, she would make him some chicken broth. What husband would refuse an hour or two with his wife at a time such as this?

  “No,” he said. “No. We’ll begin again.”

  They poured the water. This time, Dovid poured first. Newman was ready as his jug emptied, and began to pour exactly as the flow dwindled to a trickle. And as the water played across the Rav’s face and naked body, Dovid felt his headache pulse softly, quieter with each beat, until finally it had melted away and he was, like the Rav, silent and at rest.

  The men dried the Rav’s body with large, thin towels and began to dress him. The linen garments had been prepared and lay, orderly, waiting to be worn for the first and final time. First, they placed the linen headdress on the Rav’s head, pulled it down over his face, and fastened it at the neck.

  When he had first attended a taharah, Dovid remembered feeling that the body, clad only in its headdress, had an uncanny look, a dreadful anonymity. Now, however, he saw the beauty in the order of dressing. Once the head was covered, the body lost its force of personality; it was transformed into a holy object, to be disposed of with respect and honor, as ancient Torah scrolls are buried in the ground once they become unreadable. Covering the head was the proper place to begin; after it was done, everything became easier.

  Newman helped to raise the body a little, at the hips, while Rigler slid the linen trousers up. Without a word being said, Levitsky moved to tie the special knot in the band at the top of the trousers. Gently, Rigler fitted the Rav’s feet into the sealed ends of the trousers, as though ensuring that they rested comfortably. Rigler and Newman lifted the body a little, to pull over the white shirt and jacket.

  As they did so, bending the body at the waist, a little moan emerged from the hooded head, a groan that an old man might make when his movements gave him pain. The men stopped, looked at one another. Newman, his hands clasped around the body’s abdomen, pursed his lips. He readjusted his grip and another smaller sigh came from beneath the white headdress.

  “Perhaps,” said Levitsky softly, “you should not press on the chest so firmly, Asher.”

  Newman nodded and carefully moved his hands, so that he was supporting the body from under the arms. The dead man made no more sounds as he was clothed in his white shirt and jacket, each tied with the same special knot.

  By now the body was completely covered. The jacket’s sleeves were closed, like the trousers, so both hands and feet were hidden from view. It only remained to wind the linen belt around the waist. The men did so slowly, to avoid expelling more air from the body. Levitsky bent to tie the last knot in the belt. He paused. His fingers hovered, trembling, over the final fastening. Still bent over, he raised his head to look at Dovid.

  “Dovid,” he said, his voice clipped, “it would be right for you to fasten the belt. You are his nearest family here.”

  Levitsky moved away from the white-clad body, and Dovid moved toward it. He took the ends of the white linen belt in his hands. This was the final knot, in the shape of the three-pronged letter shin, the first letter of one of the names of the Almighty. Once this knot was made, it could not be undone. He had tied such knots many times before, for many men, but felt oddly unwilling to begin this time. This knot would be the end of it, this knot that could never be untied, this thing that could not be undone. Once this was done, there could be no denying it; something would change. Well, he said in his heart, so be it. Nothing could remain the same forever. He tied the belt.

  Together the men moved the body from the table into the waiting coffin. As they rose, the four men found themselves suddenly a little dizzy. Simultaneously, they reached out their hands to steady themselves, resting the flats of their palms on the wall, or gripping the edge of the central table. As one, they looked up and, each seeing the others, began to smile. A chuckle rippled among them, like the sound of running water.

  “Have we done all that is needed?” asked Levitsky.

  There were nods, closed-mouthed smiles of agreement.

  “Then it only remains,” he continued, “to ask the forgiveness of the Rav.”

  The men turned to the coffin, and each spoke quietly in his own words asking for the Rav’s forgiveness if they had, in any way, behaved without proper respect to his body.

  After a pause, Rigler began to screw down the lid of the coffin. Dovid turned and walked from the small room. He was unsurprised to find that the world beyond was suffused with early-morning sunlight.

  It’s difficult to work out the meaning of life in Hendon. I mean, it’s difficult to work it out for yourself, rather than allowing other people to tell you. Because in Hendon there are plenty of people just dying to explain the meaning of life to you. I guess that’s true in New York, too, but in New York, everyone seems to disagree with everyone else about what the meaning of life is. In Hendon, at least the Hendon I grew up in, everything faced in one direction, there was nowhere to get a grip. You need that disagreement, we all do, so that we can realize that the world isn’t smooth and even, not everyone agrees with everyone else. You need a window into another world to work out what you think of your own.

  For me, growing up, it was magazines. I used to sneak into WH Smith on my way home from the Sara Rifka Hartog Memorial Day School and read magazines. It didn’t much matter what. I’d pick something at random off the shelf. I didn’t properly understand the differences. I couldn’t have told you about their target audiences or demographics. I read Loaded and Vogue, Woman’s Own and Rolling Stone, PC World and The Tablet. In my mind, they became jumbled, those scraps of other lives. There seemed to be so many different things to know about: music, films, TV, fashion, celebrities, and sex.

  These days, I buy magazines all the time; I go into Barnes & Noble, choose one I want, and take it home. There are stacks of them all over the house, covering half the surfaces, and yeah, I know I’m proving something to myself, but it’s something worth proving, so I go on accumulating piles of glossy paper.

  Strangely, though, I find there’s no magazine called Death. You’d think one of them would at least run an article. Some helpful household magazine could do a feature: “Homemade Coffins: A Cheaper Alternative.” Cosmo could do: “Grieving: Do It Better, Faster, and More Often.” Even a Vogue special on funeral outfits would be some help. But no, nothing. It’s like this essential feature of human beings simply doesn’t exist in the full-color magazine world.

  So, there’s always therapy. I thought of calling Dr. Feingold, but I didn’t want to listen to her answers masquerading as questions. Not then, anyway.

  I thought of saying okay, he’s dead, but I never liked the old sod anyway. I’ll call some friends, go dancing, get drunk.

  And then I thought of the garments that they would be dressing my father in: white linen with closed arms and legs. Every human being, whoever you are, whoever you had been, gets the same. And I thought: in my father’s house, they would know what to do. In my father’s house, they wouldn’t need any magazine to tell them.

  So, this is what you do, this is what I ought to be doing, the Jewish mourning ritual for close relatives: parents, children, siblings, husband or wife. In the first week, you tear your clothes, you don’t cut your hair or wash in hot water, and you cover your mirrors (because this is no time for vanity). You sit on a low stool and you don’t leave the house, unless you really have to (because grief needs space and time). And you don’t listen to music (because music will remind you that somewhere in the world, someone is happy).

  That’s the first week. Then, in the first thirty days, you can leave your house and wash, but you don’t listen to music or buy new clothes or attend part
ies. Then, after the first thirty days but still in the first year, you don’t buy new clothes.

  And at the end of the first year, they set the tombstone at the grave and you go, and you pray. And every year from then on, you light a candle on the anniversary of the death. It’s very orderly, very precise. I could map out the whole of my next year, or next month. It’s supposed to make everything simpler.

  Except that for me, now, it makes nothing simpler. Because this stuff only works if everyone else knows what you’re doing. It works if you’re sitting on your low stool, in your torn clothes, and your friends and family come to visit. They bring food, they talk in low voices, they pray. But I’m here, and I’m not that anymore. And somehow it wouldn’t work to call up a friend and say: “I would now like to participate in the ancient Jewish grieving ritual. For this, I will need some volunteers.”

  I sat for a while. I thought about what would be happening now, in England. I thought about the end of the world, and what’s supposed to come after. I thought about eternal life in the next world. I couldn’t bear that anymore. I fished a pair of nail scissors out of my makeup bag and sawed through the hem of the jogging top I was wearing. It ripped with a fairly satisfying noise, scattering little gray fibers in the air. It felt good, I’ll admit it. It felt like I was doing something, which I suppose is the point. And then it felt like nothing again, like I’d ruined a perfectly useful item of clothing.

  So I called Scott. Late at night, but hey, he did always say: “Call me anytime.” “If you really need to,” he’d add. “If you have to.”