Now she sees the owner making his way to the neighboring table carrying a tray, helping the only waitress, who is collapsing under the burden, and he exchanges a few words and smiles with the diners. “You look fantastic, Boaz,” the stocky man compliments him. “How do you manage to keep your figure? I wish I could.” She doesn’t hear Boaz’s reply, he speaks in a quiet voice, slowly, but the fact that he is a person in the world, a person whom people know by name and speak to, calms her a bit. Now their main dish arrives, mung beans and polenta, which is absolutely delicious, and a risotto with asparagus that puts a broad smile on Mickey’s face. He reads something on his cell phone as he eats, exactly as he does at home, and there is no doubt that this place has a homey atmosphere, she’s ready to stretch out on the couch in the corner and take a short nap, but it’s too soon to calm down, too soon to go, and apparently too late to expect Alma. They are left with no choice but to ask about her, otherwise they’ll leave soon with full stomachs and no information at all, so when the waitress reappears to make sure that all is well and suggest desserts, she asks her, “Tell me, isn’t Alma working this evening?”
Although she hasn’t said she’s Alma’s mother, her question makes the waitress uneasy, who blurts out, “Alma? She’s not here now.”
“Obviously she’s not here,” Iris says with a smile, “but she still works here, right? When is her next shift?”
The waitress replies curtly, “I’m not authorized to give out information,” and disappears without asking what they want for dessert. When Mickey finally looks up from his phone, she sees that, for the first time, he is worried too, and they anxiously watch the waitress walk away.
“She went to report to her boss that we asked about Alma,” Iris whispers. She won’t pass up an opportunity to be right, even though she would be so happy to be wrong, and very quickly indeed, two glasses of vodka arrive at their table.
“The drinks are on the house,” the waitress says with a frozen smile and leaves. Iris looks around for the host and sees him sitting at the bar, a similar glass in his hand. He raises it to them with a smile and takes a sip, but she doesn’t return the smile. She expected him to be hostile, but his amiability doesn’t calm her, and neither does the fact that the waitress is openly avoiding them even though Iris is signaling her.
“What do you want from her?” Mickey asks, and she replies impatiently, her hand still waving in the air, “It’s time for dessert, don’t you want something sweet?
“Wait, don’t drink,” she warns him as he raises the glass to his lips, and he asks, “Why, is it poisoned?”
His question brings a wide grin to the face of the owner, who is approaching them with glass in hand, his black shirt clinging to his body, revealing a tensed, muscular back. Bending toward them, he asks, “How may I help you?”
His speech is slow, as is his glance, which is focused unwaveringly on their faces as if he has nothing to hide, while they do, spies who sneaked in pretending to be innocent diners. Without waiting for their reply, he pulls out a chair and sits down at the head of their table for two, equidistant from both of them.
“Where’s Alma? Is she okay?” Iris asks quickly, not bothering to introduce herself.
He smiles serenely, exposing perfectly even white teeth. “Alma is fine, but I don’t think you are. Why are you so stressed?” He emphasizes each syllable, his eyes fixed on her lips, waiting to hear what she has to say.
“Why am I stressed? Because I’m worried about my daughter!” she replies, already knowing that she will regret missing the opportunity to begin their conversation more pleasantly, regret that she attacked him right away without trying a friendlier approach first.
“To Alma,” he says, raising his glass and drinking its contents in one swallow. “Drink up, it’s great vodka.” He smiles amiably at Mickey, who empties his glass. “It’s very hard to live when you’re worried all the time.” He points to her full glass, “Look at how wound up you are,” and turning to Mickey, “you probably agree with me.” The beginning of an annoying smile appears on Mickey’s face.
Looking at both of them angrily, she says, “I’m not worried all the time, I’m worried about my daughter now. She’s changed since she started working here. I want to know what’s happening to her, what kind of relationship you have with her, what working for you entails.”
“It’s not good to be so suspicious, it contracts the muscles of your soul,” he says, again shifting the conversation to her, again fixing his eyes on her. His physical closeness oppresses her the way the closeness of an unpredictable animal would. “Look,” he says, “you’ve come to a new place with your husband, you ate well, you had a drink, and you can’t enjoy yourself! All that suspicion!” He clucks his tongue as if he is really and truly concerned about her welfare. “Look at how you respond to me the first time you meet me. Have I done anything to you?”
“The muscles of my soul are not the issue here,” she says. “I asked you a simple question. What is happening to my daughter? Where is she now, for instance? We thought she worked evenings here, we came to see her.”
He replies immediately, stressing every syllable as if she is deaf or dimwitted. “Alma is working now, but not here. She is doing very important work, spiritual work. You have nothing to worry about, I assure you. If she’s changed, it’s only for the better. Right now you still can’t understand what this is about, you still don’t have the tools, but she needs this, let her do it.” He looks directly at each of them as if studying the impression his words are making, and then pulls a toothpick out of the holder on the corner of the table and begins to pick his beautiful teeth.
“Spiritual work?” she repeats in horror. “What does that mean? Where is she now? I want to know where my daughter is!”
Still picking his teeth, he smiles. “Tell me, Iris—your name is Iris, isn’t it? Is the flower you’re named after the child of the sun or of the seed that created it? Is Alma your child or a child of the cosmos? You raised her, educated her, worked for her, gave her everything you have, but now you don’t have enough anymore, you don’t have what she needs. Now it’s time for you to release her, now it’s time for her to work for herself.”
“You can’t tell us how to behave with our daughter,” Mickey finally snaps out of his silence, his face heavy and gray, and he looks ill.
“Of course not,” Boaz says quickly. “It’s just a little advice, and it’s not meant for you, but for your wife. You see your daughter, I know, and you’re not alarmed by what you see, but your wife doesn’t see. It’s not easy to live with someone who doesn’t see. By the way, where did you acquire your knowledge?”
“The Hebrew University,” Mickey replies, confused.
But Boaz clarifies, “No, I mean where did you acquire your deeper knowledge?”
As Mickey wavers between rejecting the compliment and accepting it with open arms, she interjects, “Turning us against each other won’t help you. What do you mean, spiritual work? What are you hiding?”
“I should ask you what you’re hiding, Iris. But I don’t really want to know. Look at you, you’re practically collapsing. Why don’t you trust me?” He touches her arm with a gentle and surprisingly small hand. “Your daughter is training, she’s doing very important work, she needs to rid herself of preconceptions, accumulations, attachments. Let her go, release her, she’s not your property!”
His voice is firm and gentle, and he seems to believe totally in the truth of his words, neither avoiding nor denying, but proud of what he is doing. Should that worry her or reassure her? This is precisely how she tries to train her teachers to speak to their pupils, with gentle firmness. Would she have hired him? The fragrance of aftershave or men’s perfume rises from his smooth cheeks and he runs his fingers through his hair in satisfaction. She hasn’t met such a well-groomed man in a long time. Should that worry or reassure her?
“She’s not you
r property either,” she hisses, “and I’m not sure you remember that. I’m also not sure that everything that goes on here is legal. I’m about to call the police to check out this place.”
He smiles as if he has heard a good joke. “You’re calling the police because your daughter cut her hair? Because she doesn’t come home every day? I can save you the call. That’s the district commander and his wife at the next table, he eats here regularly. Do you want to talk to him? Please, go right over.” He stands up nimbly and brushes an invisible crumb off his white pants. “I’ve had enough of this conversation.” He looks darkly at them, as if accusing them of something serious. “You know what? Maybe you should talk to Noa. Come here for a minute, Noa’le,” he signals the waitress. “Come over and explain to Alma’s parents what we do here so they won’t worry so much. I’m sorry to say that I couldn’t do it, I give up.”
With hands raised in surrender, he walks away from them and slaps the stout man on the back like an old friend. He seems to feel remarkably comfortable in his small kingdom, and she watches him in horror. She has never met such a person, and she feels as if his very existence in the world cancels out her own, challenges her world so much that she begins trembling uncontrollably. She puts her hand on Mickey’s, who immediately responds by lacing his fingers through hers, and that is how the waitress finds them when she sits down in the seat he vacated. But unlike Boaz Gerber, who sat comfortably, his back pressed against the back of the chair, she perches uneasily on the edge of it, her eyes darting.
“It’s awesome that you’re holding hands!” she gushes. “I never saw my parents hold hands.”
Finding it difficult to accept the compliment, Iris says, “It’s rare with us too,” dampening the girl’s enthusiasm. “Explain to us what goes on here, what this ‘spiritual work’ is that you do.”
“It’s hard to explain to an outsider,” she says with a quick, rabbity smile, the robotlike tone of her voice becoming almost excited. “I’ve been here for almost two years and I’m only just beginning to understand! Alma only came four months ago. You can’t really learn something about one person’s development by looking at someone else’s. Noa is not Alma! Alma is doing her own thing! Why do you think that Noa is Alma?” she suddenly bleats.
“Of course you’re not Alma,” Iris says quickly. With Noa, she at least feels comfortable, trying to reassure her as she would a frightened pupil, while in the face of Boaz’s smug confidence, she herself became a frightened, aggressive pupil. Was she too aggressive? Would the appearance of trust have made the conversation more productive? It’s too late anyway, and she is in the midst of another conversation, no less important, so smiling warmly, she reassures Noa, “Naturally, everyone’s development is different, but since you’re an old-timer here, I’d love to hear about your experience, what you’ve been through since you came here.”
“It’s really hard to explain. At first, everything, like, falls apart?” she says, her lips moist, her slightly watery eyes moving between them. “You meet someone like him and you realize you’ve been living a lie? Not that you’re, like, liars, you’re her parents, but you don’t know her, and she met someone here who could see everything that was holding her back and help her liberate herself from it. When I first came here and he told me all the things that were holding me back, I was in shock.”
“What, for example?” Iris interrupts the confused, breathless monologue.
Noa answers quickly. “For example, I always knew I was a bad person!” she declares almost proudly. “I was born that way, it’s not my fault, I was born a bad person who can’t give. It gets in my way, not anyone else’s! I can’t love, can’t empathize, I’m not a generous person, and no one would ever tell me that! They all stabbed me in the back. They said to me, you’re good, you’re fine. No one ever helped me. Until I met Boaz, no one dared to say to me, Noa, you’re a bad person! You’re a bad soul, you need to liberate yourself!”
“How did you liberate yourself?” Iris asks, stunned, trying to hide her horror, to conceal any criticism in her tone.
Noa sighs as if she hasn’t been properly understood. “That’s exactly what the spiritual work is!” she cries. “Boaz teaches us to set ourselves free, he teaches us everything he’s learned in life. He makes us a gift of all the knowledge he’s accumulated, bit by bit. I came looking for work and found a teacher, a real teacher, there’s no other way to explain it!”
“I understand,” Iris says softly. “I’m sure you’re doing excellent work. But exactly what kind of work is Alma doing? Is she a bad person too?”
Noa shakes her head. “No, Alma’s different! Alma’s a delicate soul! But she’s not open. She needs to open up! She’s too restrained, she doesn’t know how to free herself. Her ego is strong,” she adds excitedly, her cheeks flushing, “she has to learn how to let it go, to, like, shed it? With the spiritual work she’s doing, she’s hewing her path herself! It’s like being reborn!”
“Hewing?” Iris asks.
“Yes, hewing! Because she’s turned into stone, just like me. Until I came here, I lived twenty-two years that turned me into stone. Now she has to hew away at the stone and turn it into something beautiful. It’s hard, what she’s going through, but it’s the only way!” she adds passionately.
“What you’re telling me is very interesting,” Iris says, her tone contemplative. Then she adds casually, “Why are you short-handed this evening? Where is Alma now, is she sick?”
Noa shakes her head firmly. “She’s not sick, she’s fine, it doesn’t matter where she is now, the important thing is that she’s doing work, she’s freeing herself from the preconceptions.”
“What preconceptions?” Iris tries to wrap the question in a reassuring smile, but her lips seem to have ossified. She is apparently hewed out of stone too, and if only she hadn’t asked, because Noa is already on her feet.
“I have to get back to the customers.” She bows oddly in farewell. “All kinds of preconceptions, our lives are full of preconceptions, like the idea that we have to have possessions? And attachments? Like we should be paid for working? Like we have to know someone before we sleep with him?”
She immediately returns to her professional, almost robotic voice as she turns her back to them and begins suggesting desserts to the family at the adjacent table. Mickey, who has been listening to the conversation with his head lowered, looks over at her slowly, and he seems shocked and upset. His eyes are red and the corners of his mouth turn downward as he says in a hoarse voice, “I want to get out of here.”
“Me too,” she whispers, almost laughing to learn how strong those preconceptions are, because it’s a fact that of the entire flow of manipulative clichés, it is the last bit of information, served as dessert, that has defeated them. She wants to say, in a pathetic attempt at humor, that they apparently have much spiritual work to do, but the way he looks alarms her no less than the information they have just received.
He drops her hand, clutches his chest, and whispers, “I don’t feel well. I have pressure in my chest.”
“Oh Mickey,” she says, frightened. “I’ll call an ambulance.”
But he refuses, “Don’t get carried away, let’s just go home.” He takes some money out of his wallet, puts it on the table, and stands up heavily without waiting for the check, leaning on her as he walks. To their great relief, if it is at all possible to feel relief, they don’t bump into the owner, who has apparently disappeared into the kitchen. Only Noa watches them in concern, but the sight of the money on the table satisfies her, and she waves goodbye as the door closes behind their defeated backs.
“Should we drive straight to the emergency room? What exactly are you feeling? Does your arm hurt too?” she asks as he holds on to a lamppost, panting.
“I have pressure in my chest, it’s hard to breathe, I want to go home. Oh, Iris, I’ve never felt so humiliated in my life.” With her arm around h
is waist, she leads him to the car, sits him down in the passenger seat, and tilts it back. When she sits down beside him, in the driver’s seat, a hand knocks on the window, and she is so startled to see bills pressed against the glass that she opens the door instead of the window, revealing a pair of white pants glowing in the dark.
“You’re my guests,” Boaz says, “I don’t take money from you,” and he vanishes as the bills float onto her thighs.
FIFTEEN
Like a distorted mirror image of lovemaking, mourning shared by a couple is not expressed in words, but only in moans and sighs that rise from a tortured mind struggling against painful knowledge. As they drive home, she realizes why this is so much like the night she learned of her father’s death. It is a night of disasters, a night so cursed that, let not God inquire after it from above, neither let the light shine upon it. Even though their daughter has not died, she has been taken captive. How can they save her, and if she can be saved at all, how damaged and battered will she be? Black winds envelop the car as it ascends from the coastal plain to the hills, winds of ignominy and ire, of disgrace and degradation. She can barely see the road on that night of overwhelming grief. The still-hidden moon makes a mockery of the meager illumination of the headlights and she drives with wide-open eyes, her head almost touching the windshield.
Every now and then, the honking of a nearby car warns her that she is veering out of her lane, and she straightens the car in a panic. If only he could take over the driving, but he is in worse shape than she is; after all, she was ready for the news, while it hit him like a lightning bolt. He lies on his seat moaning, one hand on his chest, the other clutching the door handle.
“Iris, I have to throw up,” he shouts suddenly. “Pull over to the side for a minute!” She groans. How will she get to the side of the road with all the traffic? Everyone seems to be fleeing Tel Aviv tonight, cars race forward on either side of them, and even if she does finally manage to pull over, the shoulder is so narrow it’s dangerous. But why shouldn’t a car hit them, she almost hopes for a moment, as she slows and turns to the side, exhausted. One blow will release them from this humiliating existence that has suddenly taken control of them, or perhaps it has always been there and only now do they see it.
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