Pain

by Zeruya Shalev

  Still slightly amused, he asks, “How old is she? It seems weird to me that you have children, I still haven’t gotten used to it. Once, you didn’t have children.”

  “Twenty-one,” she says, just as his phone vibrates on the table.

  “Sorry, it’s the hospital.” His tone changes, instantly growing more serious, as if this call is still about his sick mother. “So increase the dosage,” he instructs, “I’ll be there in a little while to see her.” Is that why Alma’s story doesn’t bother him, because he’s used to bad news, or is it because she isn’t his daughter? “I have to go, Rissi. When will I see you again?”

  “Tomorrow I’m busy until late.”

  “Day after tomorrow I have the kids.”

  She wants to shout, See me today, see me now, I’m not a teenager in love, I’m a mother whose daughter is in trouble, that’s what I am.

  But he has already stood up. “By the way, I’m going to a conference in Rome at the end of the month. Want to join me?”

  “How can I join you?” she mutters.

  “If you want it, it’ll happen. We’ve suffered enough, haven’t we? It’s time to enjoy ourselves.” He leans over and kisses her forehead, ruffling her hair slightly. “Sorry, Rissi, I warned you that today would be short, didn’t I? I have to get back to the hospital.”

  “You didn’t warn me, but that’s okay,” she says, and for the first time since meeting him again, she realizes how small a part he plays in her life. There will never be a total, absolute resolution. But that’s all right, even if you stay here for another ten hours, you can’t relieve the anxiety that’s tormenting me now, and that’s all right too, because you aren’t supposed to, the mistake is in the expectation. Alone now, she sips the warm arak distractedly, and only when she has emptied the glass does she realize that she can’t drive for a while, neither home nor to see her daughter. It isn’t only because of the law, but also because she’s dizzy and has a headache. She waves at Moussa and he hurries over.

  “Is everything okay?” he asks. “Do you want some black coffee? Mint tea? Something sweet for dessert? That’s how the doctor is, always disappearing in the middle of the meal,” he tries to console her. He seems to be looking at her pityingly, and she wonders what else he knows that she doesn’t. Does Eitan bring women here often?

  But that isn’t what’s upsetting her now, and she points to the empty chair. “Please sit down for a minute,” she says. “Do you have a daughter, Moussa?”

  “Three daughters,” he replies, “why do you ask?”

  She finds herself continuing the conversation that has just been interrupted. “My daughter is twenty-one. I think she’s in trouble. She’s a waitress in a bar in Tel Aviv. She’s distanced herself from us and from her friends, she looks different. I think her boss is controlling her. Maybe it’s not really a cult in the accepted sense, but it’s frightening.”

  As evening falls and lights come on in the village to the sound of birds shrieking for their chicks to return to their nests, she tells him everything she wanted to tell Eitan. He listens to her quietly and lights a cigarette, his pleasant young face focused on hers. “I’ll make you some strong black coffee now,” he finally says, “with a lot of sugar to give you strength. You should go to see what’s happening with her, but not alone. You should go with her father.”

  “He won’t want to come with me. I told you, I’ve been asking him for a few days, but he would rather ignore it.”

  Moussa says, “He’ll go if you really want him to.”

  A petite waitress Alma’s age comes over, and he orders a salad with a lot of lemon juice in it for her. “You have to build up your strength,” he says, “to be strong when you get there.” She eats obediently, surprised that the more she eats, the hungrier she is, she even wants to eat more of the yellow rice and roasted vegetables. His presence is soothing; finding it difficult to leave him, she asks for another cup of coffee. The darkness around her is now as thick and hot as the coffee he brews for her. People who live in the hills are unused to such nights of stifling heat, but the night they were told of her father’s death was exactly like this one. She remembers being unable to fall asleep because it was so hot, and that’s why she heard the knocking on the door and her mother’s screams. She heard orphanhood bursting into the small apartment like a mob of rioters come to stage a pogrom.

  Did she unwittingly bequeath that sense of orphanhood to her daughter? She looks westward, where the dying embers of light flicker on the plains behind the hills, where her Alma is. She must hurry before her light is extinguished as well. Just as she takes her phone out of her bag to call Mickey, he calls. “What’s happening with you, are you still at work?”

  Unwilling to lie on such a night, she says, “I was at a meeting outside the city. I have a headache. I can’t drive home, and I don’t want to drive home. I want us to go to Tel Aviv to see Alma. It’s time, Mickey. Pick me up at the interchange.” He doesn’t answer right away, and she hears his heavy breathing. “Did you hear me?” she asks.

  “I heard you, I’m thinking about it.”

  “There’s nothing to think about, Mickey, I did the thinking for both of us.”

  “I don’t like the way you take over everything.”

  “And I don’t like the way you deny everything,” she counters.

  “Okay, I don’t have the strength to argue with you. Give me half an hour.” His voice is hostile and cold, he prefers being angry at her to worrying about his daughter. How stupid it is to expect that if one man disappoints you, the other will surprise you for the better. How stupid to expect anything at all.

  FOURTEEN

  Will that argument go on forever, or will it end sometime? It seems as if, until they take their last breath, parents will be arguing about who is to blame, who is the better parent, who is right and who is wrong. She has met so many couples like that over the years, only a few rise above it, and she and Mickey are apparently not one of them. He picks her up at the interchange in hostile silence. Is he angry about the drive itself, has the meeting place aroused his suspicion, or did he read the text in the morning and no longer suspects, but knows? She prefers to focus on their mission now and not think about it, to concentrate only on what they will say to their daughter, if she is there at all, or to the owner of the place if they meet him. Will they speak to him directly or simply try to feel him out? Or maybe at this point, would it be better not to say anything and give all their attention to what they see? If only she could speak to Mickey simply, the way she spoke to Moussa, ask his advice openly, plan their course of action together. Why is it so much easier to talk to a stranger, because clearly Orit, Moussa’s wife, would be more comfortable consulting with Mickey than with her husband under certain circumstances. That is undoubtedly the most common and exasperating paradox of living together—moving closer in order to move away—so what’s the point?

  Closeness creates so much pain and sensitivity, wounds and scars, that every subject becomes too charged for a sensible conversation. But there is also no point in complaining to him now, she is clearly the last person who has a right to complain, considering her status as an unfaithful wife. Even if he doesn’t know yet, she does, and her cell phone does, because it’s ringing now. Pain is calling, and of course she doesn’t answer, but even when she mutes the ring, the vibration incriminates her because she doesn’t answer, because he doesn’t stop, and sends a text that also vibrates in the closed car. His texts thrill her, but today he thrust a dead animal into her mouth and she is trembling.

  “Are you cold? Should I turn down the air conditioner?” Mickey asks, and she says quickly, “Yes, a little.” For some reason, he raises the volume of the music at the same time. “Dad’s going back to his roots,” Omer likes to tease him about his new devotion to Iraqi music, and she herself actually enjoys the new discs he has begun bringing home, though she never listens to them with muc
h attention. Not too long ago he told her that he was sorry he changed his name from Moalem to the Hebrew name Eilam when they got married. She was quick to remind him that it wasn’t her idea, even though she supported it, that for him, it was mainly a way to cut himself off from his father, adding that as far as she was concerned, he could change their name back to Moalem. He claimed that it was too late, and she felt once again that he was blaming her. Even now, he is trying to provoke her by playing the music of his ethnic forefathers, the music of the Jews of Babel, as he puts it. She, of course, won’t ask him to lower the volume, even though she thinks the vocal cords of the woman singing in Arabic will break, because the singer refuses to calm down despite the violin’s valiant effort to console her. She seems to be in terrible pain, at the summit of sorrow and lamentation, trying to draw them to her, to that place where eyes are open forever. We’re there, we’re already there, Iris wants to say to her, you’re not alone, but the singer responds with a hoarse shout, you’re not even halfway there, you have no idea what awaits you. Iris trembles again and turns to look through the window. The glittering towers of Tel Aviv are already beckoning them with their thousands of glowing eyes, extinguishing the stars in the sky with their light. How close Tel Aviv actually is, especially at night when the traffic thins.

  Years back, they went there often, but ironically, since their daughter moved to Tel Aviv, the city seems to have moved farther away from theirs, just as their daughter has moved away from them. And now here they are, already navigating the busy, illuminated streets. So many beautiful girls are hurrying across the road in their light-colored mini-dresses, short shorts, and tank tops. The city looks open, vibrant, not the slightest bit worried. After all, it won’t stop moving because of one young girl who came from another city and got herself in trouble, it has enough other girls to be happy about. Attractive young men fill the streets as well, so why did Alma chose a middle-aged man, the owner of a run-of-the-mill bar in the southern part of the city, instead of one of them? Why, in this place so full of life and freedom, did their daughter find slavery?

  Or is it all only unfounded rumor, because now they are passing the place in their car. “You have reached your destination,” the satnav announces, and it looks safe enough and well lit, with large windows facing the street, not trying to hide a thing. Mickey finds a spot with surprising ease in the adjoining parking lot, and only after turning off the music, the air conditioner, the lights, and the engine does he speak.

  “So what exactly do you want to do, what’s the plan?”

  “There is no plan,” she says. “We’re out for a night of fun in Tel Aviv. We’ve suffered enough, it’s time to enjoy ourselves, right?”

  He laughs bitterly. “It really is time, but why in Alma’s bar, of all places?”

  She opens the car door. “Do me a favor, Mickey, put your lost honor aside for a minute and go along with me, okay? I hope I’m wrong and you’re right, but we have to check it out.”

  “How exactly are you going to do that,” he grumbles, “by going inside and asking her? Or him? Will you call them into the principal’s office for questioning? Really Iris, I thought you were cleverer than that.”

  “For once, will you be with me and not against me? Stop competing with me? I have no answers for you, we’ll just go in there and see what happens, okay?”

  “Do I have a choice? I know you, you won’t give up until you see that I’m right.”

  She takes his arm and slows them down on the sidewalk across the street from the place as they approach it, stepping carefully, as if they are in a minefield. Peering out at them from the adjacent display window is a naked doll, its plastic breasts protruding defiantly. A stray clothespin springs like a grasshopper around their legs, and she turns to look at an old woman hanging laundry through the window, bent over the lines. Now she’s hanging an old flowered robe remarkably similar to the one Iris wore recently, and a streetlamp casts yellow light on the clothes swaying limply in the sea breeze as if drained of all their energy.

  Most of the shutters they pass are closed, but coming from the shabby apartments above them is a jumble of human voices, both repellent and consoling, a quiet argument, moans of pleasure, a baby crying. There is some graffiti in Arabic along the length of the wall, and although she believes that language is a cultural bridge, she still hasn’t had time to learn that one. Above it is an Israeli flag, somewhat tattered and torn, apparently left there since Independence Day more out of neglect than pride, faded by the summer sun. And here they are, in front of the window of the Sinai Bar, the mysterious arena of their daughter’s life.

  A woman of about sixty with dyed red hair is sitting next to the window, an open laptop on her table, two young couples behind her. From a distance, they can see several more figures leaning on the bar, and a waitress carrying a tray walking among the tables. But it isn’t Alma, this one is blond and plump. Hasn’t she started her shift yet? And where is the owner? They can see very little from outside, and perhaps it will be the same inside, but she pulls Mickey’s arm and together they cross the street to the glass door that opens for them.

  “The service here is not great,” Mickey says when no one comes over to their table. “I’ll phone Alma to come and take our order,” he quips, and she says, “Very funny.” She doesn’t even notice that time has passed because she is carefully observing every single detail, forced to admit that she likes the place. It’s homey and not too fancy, the music isn’t too loud, the large blue couch in the corner even reminds her of their living room couch, and the waitress who finally comes over to them with menus is polite and pleasant.

  “Would you like to hear about our specials?” she asks, and immediately recites the list in that familiar waitresslike manner. Should they ask her about Alma? Better to wait for the time being, introduce themselves only when they have no choice. She whispers to Mickey to be quiet, but he’s busy with the menu anyway, unlike her, since she ate to her heart’s content in a different restaurant not long before and isn’t actually hungry.

  “I heard that the lentils here are good,” he says, and she’s glad that he hasn’t divulged his source.

  “Everything here is good,” the waitress says. Her teeth are slightly prominent when she smiles, and her hair, which from a distance looks pulled back, is actually as short as Alma’s. She is wearing a black T-shirt and gray pants—is that the uniform in this place? Is it the cult uniform?

  “Sorry I took so long to come over,” she suddenly adds, even though they haven’t complained. “We’re short-handed tonight.”

  “Why, what happened?” Iris asks nervously.

  “Just a few sick waitresses, but we’ll manage.” she says as she moves away.

  “Let’s cancel our order and drive over to Alma’s apartment,” Mickey says. “We won’t find out anything here if she’s sick. I’ll call to see what’s up with her.”

  But she stops him quickly. “Wait, don’t call,” she says, her voice so loud and grating that the people at the next table glance at her. Mickey, who also stares as if she has lost her mind, immediately makes a show of reading something on his phone and ignoring her completely.

  More than twenty years, and she still hasn’t solved the enigma of his face, she thinks, as she looks at him with displeasure. His face is crowded with large features that make for a very strong presence, large black eyes, a long nose, a wide mouth, but nonetheless he gives the impression of being gentle. She tries to focus on his face, to understand once and for all how that is possible, but the door opens right then and a man enters. No longer young, he is short, wearing white pants and a tight black T-shirt, and from the sudden tension, almost fear, she sees on their waitress’s face, she knows immediately that he is the owner. He is followed into the restaurant by a noisy family that hides him from her sight, parents and two older children, a boy and a girl. They are a sort of reflection of her unrealized hopes, because the four of t
hem are totally enjoying their outing together. They sit down at the table next to them, and she hears them laughing, teasing each other. The father pats the son’s shoulder and the daughter and the mother chat and laugh together, and once again a sense of failure chokes her. Instead of chatting with her, her daughter is keeping frightening secrets. Instead of the four of them going out for a family dinner, they are spying on their daughter, at which they seem to be failing too, because she isn’t here, there is no trace of her, and if she is sick, who is taking care of her? To all appearances, there is nothing worrying about the place except for her absence, so maybe it really is only a false rumor. As she looks around for the man in the white pants, he comes out of the kitchen, his face slightly red, his gray hair cut short, his eyes dark and intense. When the waitress walks past him, he grabs her by the arm and says something to her. From a distance it’s hard to tell if the movement is violent, but when she comes to their table with their food, she is upset and her hands shake slightly as she places bowls of soup, an endive salad, and warm white bread on the table.

  “Is everything all right?” she asks them the way waitresses do.

  Iris replies with a question. “Is everything all right with you?” But she walks away and returns immediately with menus for the family at the next table, who apparently know the place and all its specials very well, because they order quickly.

  She whispers to Mickey, “Did you see him? That’s him! That’s the Boaz she talks about.”

  But Mickey is engrossed in his pea soup. “You have to taste this,” he says with pleasure, “you have never eaten soup like this. Now I understand why Alma barely eats at home.” She looks at him hopelessly, but has to agree that at least as far as the meal is concerned, the chef on the other side of the closed door knows his stuff, she hasn’t eaten such superb food in a long time. Should that make her feel better?