Disobedience

by Naomi Alderman

  “Do you remember I told you about Esti? That girl I was at school with?”

  Another smile in the voice. “Sure do. You guys were an item at school, huh? And then you both went your separate ways?”

  “Yeah, except…well, it looks like she didn’t go anywhere. She’s still here. She got married. To my cousin.”

  Scott laughed. I hadn’t been expecting that; I hadn’t realized it was funny.

  “Married? Hey, well I guess that happens. Maybe you put her off girls, my dear. Good thing there are a few of us still around who aren’t immune to your charms.”

  “No,” I said. “It turns out I didn’t put her off girls at all. Last night she made a pass at me.”

  Scott laughed again and I wanted to say no, don’t laugh, it’s not funny at all, there’s nothing about this that is funny.

  “You gonna take her up on it?”

  “No,” I said. “That’s not what I—”

  “Hey, well, up to you, I guess.”

  And I thought of saying a whole bunch of things. About this place, about how the thin sticky strands of it get all over you, encircle and engulf. About the horror and the desperation of living a narrow little life here. Of how I could feel that life start to close around my neck again. But instead I just told him I had to go but I’d call soon and not to forget that the McKinnon analysis still had to be completed. He told me sure, and that he was looking forward to seeing me when I got back, and for a moment, I felt warm. But when I put the phone down, the room was still cold. I sat in the empty house, and waited.

  Chapter Eight

  Rejoice and make joyful this precious couple, as You brought joy to Your creations in the Garden of Eden before the beginning.

  From the Sheva Brachot, sung at a wedding banquet

  The more we examine marriage, the more absurd it seems. Marriage is only permitted between those who have little in common. One may not marry a close relative. One may not marry a person of the same sex. God, Who created the heavens and the earth, might easily have ordained that a brother and sister could marry, that two women together could produce offspring. He could have so ordered the world that those who were the closest were able to mate. And thus He might have given His creations more comfort. Why, therefore, did He not do so?

  To answer this question, we must first understand that this world exists to teach us. It is to be enjoyed, true, but also to be studied and pored over, as is the Torah, which is also the world. Just as every tiny stroke that goes to form a letter in the Torah contains an infinity of meaning, just so does every aspect of creation. Nothing is arbitrary, nothing has been left to chance. All has been foreseen and all has been intended.

  What, then, does marriage teach us? It teaches us to strive for closeness. That intimacy cannot be attained or retained without effort. And what is the spiritual analog of this earthly manifestation? It is the burning of the spirit for its Source, and His burning for us. Those who believe that marriage is an end in itself, that it is a guarantee of contentment, are fools. Marriage is difficult. It is painful. And it was meant to be so. For in trying to approach more closely to a human being who is so different to us, we begin to understand the task before us in approaching the Almighty. This is our work upon the earth, and the work of marriage prepares us for it. And although marriage may, in slow and unexpected ways, bring us much joy and satisfaction, nothing of the sort has been promised.

  We may abandon this truth, but if so we shall have to abandon everything. We may declare that marriage stands for nothing but the desire in the hearts and the minds and the loins of two people. We may insist that our Creator could not have intended us to live in discomfort. We may, if we desire, stand atop a low mound of earth and declare ourselves lords of creation. But we should not then be surprised if we cease to burn with desire for the Source of the world, and if we cease to feel the warmth of His yearning for us.

  Dovid spent six nights and five days in Manchester. At the end of those days he returned home to pass the Sabbath with his wife. And in the midst of the days he passed in Manchester there was a telephone call.

  It was not an easy visit. His mother was more distressed by her brother’s death than Dovid had anticipated from their measured telephone conversations. She was restless, tearful, and agitated over small details: a rescheduled appointment, an unexpected caller. His father, uncertain of how to respond to his wife, retreated frequently to his dental surgery, claiming an urgent need to deal with paperwork. On Monday night, they ate dinner with Dovid’s brother Binyomin and his new wife. Pnina was already pregnant and looked tired and gray, despite declaring that she felt wonderful. They both seemed oddly deferential toward Dovid, with fixed smiles and enquiries after his health. Dovid wondered if they still thought that he might be the next Rav of the community.

  That night, Dovid and his mother sat alone in the living room. She began to cry after Binyomin and Pnina left. Dr. Kuperman left the room immediately, muttering about his backlog of work, the likelihood of several emergency appointments in the morning. Dovid sat with his mother, watching her cry, wishing that he had felt able to retreat, like his father. He passed her tissues and she patted his hand, thanking him and apologizing. He wished she would not apologize. After a few minutes, her tears ceased, she dabbed at her eyes with a fresh tissue, and drank a few sips of water. She gave a flat-lipped smile.

  “They seem happy, Binyomin and Pnina.”

  Dovid nodded.

  “I wouldn’t have thought it at one time; it took them long enough to decide on each other, but now they seem so happy.”

  Dovid nodded once more.

  “They’ve been married only a year, and already a baby on the way.”

  These are simple little statements, thought Dovid, surely they are only gentle words, to bring comfort to the lips.

  “I don’t suppose…?” His mother broke off.

  Not here, not here. Let her not speak these words, not now. Let there be silence.

  She leaned forward and said to him:

  “Dovid, are you happy?”

  “What?”

  “With Esti. Are you and Esti happy?”

  “Yes,” he said. “I’m sorry, I’m very tired now. I really would like to go to bed.”

  Dovid knew that some people in the community considered him stupid. Even though he had completed his time at Yeshiva and become a Rabbi, he was not the spiritual heir who could have eased this rough and unsettling time for them. Even while studying at Yeshiva, he had not been a brilliant Torah scholar. He did not have the quickness of mind of the great ones, the easy grasp of new material, or the ability to hold each step of a complex argument in a separate vessel of his mind, combining and reordering them at will. The knowledge that he gained had been hewn each day from solid rock and would crumble into sand and stones if not constantly revisited and reshaped. The Rav used to remind him of the story of Rabbi Akiva, famously a slow scholar and yet one whose Torah knowledge was beyond compare. The community did not appreciate this possibility. His mind was not quick, and there was a slowness to his manner that sometimes gave the impression that he had not fully followed a line of conversation or understood what was being asked.

  And it was for another reason, too, that the people considered him foolish, a reason not connected to his lack of rabbinical stature. Dovid was aware, bitterly so, that there were those who had noted his public demeanor with Esti, and hers with him. They had taken notice of her uncanny stillness, of the strength of her silence. Esti was not well liked among the women of the community; she did not participate in their lives of chatter and busyness. He knew that one or two members of the synagogue had gone so far as to ask the Rav, quietly but insistently, if it might not be best if Esti were to leave. They had questioned whether she was a suitable wife for one as near to being the Rav’s successor as Dovid.

  The Rav, who had understood that not every relationship is easy, and that ease is not necessarily to be prized above all, had told him of these opinions, so tha
t he might be prepared. Dovid had not passed this news to Esti. He had not attempted to change his behavior, or to influence her to alter hers. His demeanor with her had remained as it had always been and he had borne the glances, the knowing looks, and whispered comments, in the synagogue or on the street.

  It is a terrible, wretched thing to love someone whom you know cannot love you. There are things that are more dreadful. There are many human pains more grievous. And yet it remains both terrible and wretched. Like so many things, it is insoluble.

  The remainder of the visit passed a little more easily. His mother appeared to regain a certain amount of calm. On Wednesday, Dovid’s elder brother, Reuven, brought two of his children to visit—the two-year-old boy and four-year-old girl. Dovid’s mother drew them into the kitchen and showed them how to make chocolate-drop faces on the tops of fairy cakes.

  “Do you remember,” she said, as she brought in the tray, “do you remember how you two used to enjoy this? Dovid, do you remember how you used to eat the cakes from the bottom, so you could save the faces for last?”

  His mother’s face became anxious, as though she were concerned that he might have mislaid something of vital importance, or perhaps concerned that she had only invented this thought, that he would challenge her over its authenticity. Dovid remembered; they passed a happy afternoon.

  On Thursday, Dr. Hartog telephoned from London. To update Dovid on the plans, he said. The plans? For the hesped, naturally. Hartog was proud of the progress of his plans. Several learned and widely respected Rabbis would be attending the memorial service. Also some significant figures in Jewish life in Britain—not those who were the best known, the well-recognized faces, but those, like Hartog himself, who provided the money, who purchased the influence, whose backing was all-important. Hartog had reserved a place of honor in the schedule of speakers for Dovid.

  “You will speak, Dovid?” he said.

  Dovid was silent.

  “It will please the community,” Hartog continued, “for you to speak some personal words about the Rav. To discuss him as he was. As a man. He was a father to us all, but to you above any.”

  Dovid remained silent.

  “I have prepared some thoughts for you, Dovid. For you to look over when you return. Just some suggestions.”

  “I will consider the matter,” said Dovid.

  When Dovid was eighteen, he began his rabbinical studies in Israel. The week before his departure, the Rav had requested that he visit him in London. Dovid thought the Rav was going to give him a blessing for his trip, or for his study. Every word of blessing spoken has power, but the Almighty hearkens in particular to the blessings of the wise and holy. He imagined that the Rav would place his hands upon his head and ask the Lord to make his study deep and fruitful. It was only right; the Rav, the community, hoped that they would one day benefit from Dovid’s learning. And, indeed, the Rav had certain words of blessing for Dovid. But once they were seated, alone and quiet in his study, the books around them softly inhaling and exhaling musty, mildewed breaths, the Rav spoke of another matter.

  “We should speak,” he said, “of your marriage.”

  Dovid blinked and tried not to smirk. This conversation was surely a little early? Girls could be married at seventeen, but a boy should wait at least until he was twenty. Why were they discussing this now?

  The Rav paused to observe Dovid’s reaction and continued in a dry and measured tone:

  “It will be more difficult to find a wife for you, Dovid, than it is for most. It is not enough that your wife be kind, modest, and observant, although these things are important. She must be…mmmm…sympathetic. We must find you someone who will understand your gift, who will allow you to have time and quiet. No one too noisy, not one of these chatterers. Someone”—the Rav sighed a little—“someone who sees to the heart of things, someone who hears the voice of Hashem in the world. Someone capable of silence.” He removed his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose, then looked up at Dovid.

  “Dovid, you need not worry. It is not time yet. I simply wanted you to know that your parents and I have discussed the matter, that they are happy for me to locate a suitable girl. Perhaps we will have one or two for you to meet when you come home for Pesach, perhaps not. It may take a little time, but we shall know her when we find her.”

  The Rav clasped one of Dovid’s hands between his and squeezed it.

  Dovid had left this interview feeling both reassured and unsettled. He had the sensation that currents of air were moving far above his head. Now they merely ruffled his hair and kissed his forehead, but one day they would sweep him up and bear him lightly but firmly to a new and mysterious shore. He wondered who the Rav would introduce him to and on what basis he would make his choice. Although the Rav had said that they would know her, how would he, Dovid, know?

  On Friday morning, early, in his parents’ house in Manchester, Dovid received a telephone call from Mench, with whom he learned Gemarah on Tuesdays and Thursdays.

  At first, Mench spoke hesitantly, then, as though gaining confidence from the utterances of his own lips, he proceeded with greater speed and ease. Dovid listened in silence. Once or twice, Mench grew concerned at the quiet and said, “Hello?” panic rising in his voice. Dovid said, “I’m here,” and continued to listen, saying nothing. Mench spoke of the things he had heard, the things that had been told to him. “The people,” he said, “the people are saying,” and Dovid thought: our words will swallow us. We have spat them out, but in the end they will drown us.

  As Mench continued explaining what might be said in the future, what could be said of him if he did not speak, the fluency he had developed became verbosity. Dovid, listening, had the sense that Mench was no longer in control of his words. He began to feel that it would be a positive service to the man to call a halt.

  Without waiting for Mench to finish a sentence or pause, Dovid said, “Thank you.”

  Mench stopped speaking altogether. Dovid could see that he had been correct; the words had taken Mench over and he was clearly glad to be rid of them.

  “Thank you,” Dovid said again. “It was good of you to call.”

  “But don’t you want to…”

  Evidently the words had not utterly loosened their grip.

  “I understand why you called,” said Dovid. “Thank you for your kind intentions.”

  “Well, I…”

  “I must go now, I’m afraid. Good-bye, Ya’akov.”

  Dovid replaced the handset. He sat down on the small upholstered bench in the hallway of his parents’ house. He stood up again. He ran his hand down the spine of the telephone handset, almost picking it up before withdrawing his hand completely. He stood, hands in pockets, and examined the pictures on the walls, the same ones that had hung there when he and his brothers were boys: a photograph of the Western Wall in Jerusalem, a painting of a man blowing the shofar, his parents’ ketubah, decorated with pomegranates, wheat sheaves, and fat-bodied bees. The pictures, he noted, were covered in a fine film of dust. He supposed that his mother no longer had the energy, or possibly the inclination, to dust pictures.

  It was time to leave. He had promised his wife he would return to London for Shabbat, and Friday does not tarry for any man. His mother prepared him several packages of sandwiches, pieces of fruit in paper bags, little cardboard boxes of juice. His father clasped Dovid’s shoulder and thanked him for coming, as though, Dovid thought, he had been a doctor paying a house call, or an unexpected and distinguished visitor. He felt a sudden sadness, hanging like a stone pendant within his throat, the cold, smooth mass preventing him from speaking. He swallowed two or three times, kissed his mother, wished his parents a good Shabbat, and left.

  As it fell out, he had known, just as the Rav had said. It had been in one of his holidays from Yeshiva. After Ronit had left, just after. During that time that Esti had seemed most vulnerable and most alone. It was at the end of a week he had spent bathed in a constant film of light, rose-co
lored headache, sharp points of iridescence at the corners. Esti had attended the house as though she expected Ronit to return at any moment, as though if she waited she might find her still in her old bedroom. As though Ronit had not explained to them, with all excitement, that she would not return, that she never would. Esti had been waiting. She had the look of someone who might wait forever.

  And Dovid had simply looked at her one day and known. It had not been utterly simple, for no true knowledge is ever reached without pain. At the instant of knowledge, his rose-colored headache had put forth a bloom from his mouth, and he had run, retching, to the toilet basin. But in that moment of viscous certainty, he had known, as the Rav had told him he would. Unwilling to trust, he had sent her away. But when she returned the next day, he still knew, more strongly, even, than he had the previous day. And the knowledge brought with it its own sadnesses and burdens, but it was not to be denied. And when his parents and the Rav had told him that it was not yet time, that he must return to Yeshiva, he had held the knowledge within him, a pool of deep water, its surface untroubled by the tempests that raged without.

  As Dovid pondered these things, he felt an ache in his heart for his wife, an eagerness to see her. It was like a sudden craving for a food he had not eaten since he was a child, a flicker of taste in his mouth, reminding him of a sensation he had long forgotten. He felt, with brief clarity, that she was there beside him, and the next moment could not bear that she was not. He turned the nose of his car toward London and began his journey.

  Over the years, I’ve had a lot of conversations with Dr. Feingold about silence. Generally, they’ll go something like this. She’ll say that I’m concealing something, that I should be honest with myself, and there’s something I’m not saying. And I’ll say, well, I’m English, it’s difficult for me to talk about anything except the weather. And she’ll say I don’t buy that. And I’ll say maybe I’m just repressed. And she’ll say yes you are; the way to become less repressed is to talk to me. And I’ll say but silence. You see, silence. When in doubt, silence. To most things, silence is the answer. And she’ll say no, it’s not. Silence is not power. It’s not strength. Silence is the means by which the weak remain weak and the strong remain strong. Silence is a method of oppression.