Pain

by Zeruya Shalev

  As she turns the key in the lock, she reads the names scribbled carelessly on the door, Noa Varshavsky, Alma Eilam, and the first one sparks a memory—Noa! The day after they signed the lease, Alma told them excitedly that her roommate had found her a job in the bar where she had been waitressing for two years and where she was really happy. They had been so proud of their daughter for finding an apartment and a job in a single week, and now she understands the trap. If Alma hadn’t moved into this apartment, she wouldn’t have fallen into the arms of that man, and they were here with her, looked in all the rooms, read the lease, wrote checks. If only they had ruled out this apartment, their life would be different now because this is where her roommate Noa, their waitress, ambushed her. She was apparently doing her assigned job of finding another victim, another girl who had turned into stone and now needed to hew the stone in order to find something beautiful in it.

  “Isn’t it a bit Spartan?” she remembers asking, but Mickey loved it. “She’s my daughter, she’ll make do with little,” he said, sneaking in a dig at her, the way he usually did. “It reminds me of our first apartment.” But she actually thought there was too much traffic outside, the apartment was too neglected and it was on the ground floor, an invitation to Peeping Toms and insects. Recalling their first apartment gave her no pleasure at all, but Alma and Mickey were so persuasive, and now, with a heavy heart, she walks into the place that proved to be a booby trap. She hasn’t been here since then and it seems that the neglect has only spread and deepened, clothes tossed on the floor beside dust balls, dirty dishes on the bed, the sink filthy, and the toilet bowl even worse.

  Tensely, she walks through the cursed apartment that ambushed a young girl only recently discharged from the army, who had just left home. But she has to admit that not every young girl recently discharged, who has only just left home, would fall into this trap. What is there about Alma that allowed her to fall—she’ll think about that another day, the question now is how to save her, and even more urgent is the question of how she will fall asleep on that bed, in this room. Alma is right, this isn’t for her. She collects the dishes and removes the stinking linens, looks in vain for others in the closet, and having no choice, she turns a relatively clean shirt into a pillowcase, a towel into a sheet, and does without a blanket on this stifling night. Tomorrow she’ll buy her more linens, send these to be washed, buy detergents and towels, dishes and food. She’ll scrub the toilet and the floor and make a nest for her daughter, even if it’s a bit late for that. Before falling asleep in her clothes on the makeshift sheet, she sends a message to her secretary to cancel all her meetings for the next day and texts Mickey not to expect her tonight, hesitating near the letter P, yearning to write that she hasn’t given up on him, that he should wait for her. The pain seems to spread from the letter to her fingers and she presses them tightly together. She mustn’t write to him now, it might weaken her position with her daughter, she mustn’t even think about him because it suddenly occurs to her at this moment of pain and dread that only if she herself relinquishes this man can she demand that her daughter relinquish hers.

  SIXTEEN

  What’s the connection? She rebels when street noise intrudes into her sleep early in the morning, garbage trucks, buses, horns. She has become used to the quiet of the high floor they live on, and here she seems to be sleeping on a street bench. The sun is hot on her cheeks, passersby shout in her ears, their phones ringing constantly, motorcycles and cars exhale into her mouth, no wonder Alma has gone mad. But what’s the connection, why does she have to give up the love of her life so that Alma can give up a psychopath who is abusing her? Nonetheless, when she reaches for the phone to see if he has texted, she once again feels the strange pain and she drops it, walks cautiously over to Noa’s room, and peers inside. There they are, lying side by side on their stomachs on the low futon, still wearing their black uniforms, their hair cut short, exhausted soldiers in a small, insane army.

  They must have only just returned, because the kettle is still hot. Maybe it was their voices that awakened her and not the street noises, but she doesn’t want to wake up yet, she’s on vacation in Tel Aviv. A few days off at my daughter’s place, that’s what she told her secretary, and she looks in vain for earplugs or at least cotton, and finally makes do with toilet paper that she rolls up and sticks into her ears to mute the noise. Slowly the sounds melt into a more bearable blend that enables her to drift into reverie, because she sees herself and Eitan walking behind his mother’s coffin. An ominous, early summer sun beats down on their heads and she seems to hear a voice on a loudspeaker, surprised and almost annoyed, calling out, “A woman dies and the world turns upside down?” Then the funeral turns into Daniella’s mother’s funeral in the pouring rain. If only she had looked up she would have seen him, walking alone, a black umbrella over his head. How did she not see him? It wasn’t a particularly large funeral.

  If only she had seen him, she would have joined him under the black canopy of his umbrella and they would have left the cemetery together, just as they did almost thirty years ago, walking toward the parting that lay in wait for her exactly a week later, toward the worst summer of her life. Will he be at her side next summer? She yearns to call him now and tell him that they could have met again a year and a half ago, that they missed out on yet another year and a half. He needs to know that, he needs to mourn with her, because that might have been the right time. When she thinks of the last year and a half of her life, she has to admit that nothing happened in that time that justified losing the opportunity, nothing that gave it meaning. But what does one thing have to do with the other? How can she break the connection, separate Alma from Boaz and herself from Eitan, and not only from him, but from their history, because the young girl she once was demands that she right the ancient wrong, and the young girl who is her daughter demands that she release her from the trap. The two tasks seem contradictory, because in order to release Alma, she has to offer her stability, at least for the next few months. But it isn’t about that, it won’t be hard to create the impression of stability for her even in the present circumstances. No, it’s about the magical, implausible connection that she can’t break with her painful fingers.

  When she wakes up again, the apartment is empty. They must have just left because the kettle is still hot again. Their voices awakened her once more after she fell asleep, and while her eyes were closed, the industrious little worker bees went out to do their additional jobs. When do they have time to focus on their spiritual work if they work for him without pay and also support him? How can they not see the shameful exploitation? She makes herself a cup of black coffee and gulps it down quickly, there is no time, the situation is intolerable and needs to be changed quickly. She has to buy bread, milk, fruit and vegetables, oil, rice, lentils, and pasta, because except for the coffee, there is nothing in the kitchen. She also has to buy pots and frying pans so she can cook for them, and detergents, of course, and sheets and towels. She has to buy a change of underpants for herself, a few simple summer dresses and flip-flops, she doesn’t need to wear much in this heat, and she has to find a Laundromat, there isn’t a single piece of clean clothing here. She puts all the clothes she finds on the floor into a quilt cover, adding Noa’s clothes and sheets, as well as the towels from the bathroom, collecting all the filthy items rapidly, as if she is cleansing the apartment of all signs of idolatry. His pants are so clean and white, and they live in such squalor.

  She goes out onto the sweaty, bustling Tel Aviv street, a heavy, filthy sack on her back. Why is the sack so heavy? Each separate article of clothing is light, but together, their weight is unbearable, and she wonders about the obvious, as if she has made a remarkable discovery in physics.

  When she finally rids herself of the dirty laundry, it feels as if an unbearable burden has been lifted from her and she can now look at the colorful display windows, the street stalls that eventually turn into an outdoor market. She hasn�
��t walked in the streets for a long time, usually shopping in an air-conditioned supermarket after she leaves the air-conditioned school, and here, the heat strikes a blow at her as does her life. How close the market is, summer fruit breathes on the stands alongside the hanging dresses that sway in the breeze coming off the sea. She can’t keep wearing these clothes, the dirty blouse and the tailored black pants she wore to work yesterday stick to her skin, and she feels as if they are about to spontaneously combust. Without trying them on, she buys three tricot dresses, two short and one long, a package of underpants, a hairbrush and toothbrush, face cream, fruit and vegetables, groceries, detergents; and little by little a new burden accumulates, so she buys a red shopping cart and quickly puts everything in it. She feels strangely cheerful as the bags pile up, promising cleanliness, food, a home, simple, soothing chores like scrubbing sinks and toilets, washing floors, cooking, organizing cabinets. A few days off at my daughter’s place. My vacation.

  She never liked the vacations they organized for themselves every summer, mainly for the children—the recommended kind of family bonding—usually with Dafna, Gidi, and their children, and sometimes other families, in Israel and abroad, depending on their financial situation, Corfu, Ahziv, Eilat, Crete, Croatia, Lake Kinneret. She couldn’t bring herself to admit that she missed work, that spending a prolonged period of time with people who weren’t her family depressed her, and that sometimes spending a prolonged period of time with her family also depressed her. When the children were small, Mickey occasionally organized trips for just the two of them to the north or the south, for a night or two. She used to go along reluctantly, putting aside her reservations, although they usually enjoyed the rest and the relaxed conversations they could have when there were no children to interrupt them. Mickey was at his best on those trips, and she used to rediscover his sharp, dry humor, the pleasant quiet along with the surprising powers of observation. They made fun of the guesthouses they stayed in, which called themselves cabins even if they were made of concrete, with the clumsy jacuzzi placed like an altar in the middle of the room, with the embarrassing bathrooms that had almost no dividers. Once, they found peacock feathers and a rabbity fur tail in a closet, and Mickey placed it on his rear end and skipped around the room as she roared with laughter. But she could never erase her feeling that other couples, Eitan and his wife, for example, even though she knew nothing about them, enjoyed things together on a deeper level, because youthful memories of perfect love still glowed inside her, even though it never entered her mind that Eitan would ever return to her.

  She acquiesced totally to the sentence imposed on her as confirmation that she was unworthy of him, as if his abandonment of her placed her in a lower caste, which of course reflected on her husband, who belonged to her caste, and also on their children. The submissiveness that dominated her after she recovered from her breakdown intensified, for some reason, during vacations, while at work, it disappeared completely, which is why she always secretly looked forward to getting back to her routine.

  But now, pulling a full shopping cart along the streets of south Tel Aviv, far from her routine, she feels a pleasant vibrancy that is inappropriate to the troubling circumstances of her stay here. She relishes the freedom and the knowledge that no one knows her, whereas at school, she can’t take a step without being stopped at least five times. Teachers, pupils, parents, they all require her attention, her answers, and that naturally reinforces her sense of worth. But now, for some reason, she doesn’t need it, it’s enough for her to be a woman pulling a shopping cart back from the market who sits down in a café and orders iced coffee and carrot juice, and actually, why not breakfast?

  “Coming right up,” the waiter says warmly. Everything in this part of the city is done with warmth. She has never been called such affectionate nicknames as she has in the last hour—dear, sweetie, baby, honey—and has never had so many people hoping so amiably that she has a good day, as if this is the last one of her life. Of course, it all appears completely staged, but at the same time, genuine, if not totally wholehearted. There is no doubt that a thin layer of warmth has been formed here, something she’s not used to, and she enjoys wading around in it, like a toddler in a kiddy pool. And she enjoys eating the hot, fresh bread she slathers with spreads she doesn’t recognize, but they are all absolutely delicious. She enjoys watching the passersby, most of them clearly foreign workers, and she is proud to have been the first principal in her city to enroll their children in her school.

  When she finally sets out on her way again, she is surprised when someone suddenly stops her, even in this city. “Iris? Is that you?” And she looks up at a handsome young man with short blond hair and bristly cheeks. The eyes, green and slightly slanted, are familiar, but she can’t remember from where until he helps her, saying with an amused grin, “I thought you’d never forget me! I was sent to you every day for punishment!”

  “Sasha!” she laughs in relief. “You’re all grown up! It’s so good to see you! What’s happening with you?” She calculates quickly. “You’ve already finished the army, right?”

  “Yes, I’m on my discharge leave now. You won’t believe it, but I was in a combat unit,” he says with the pride of a rejected child who didn’t fit into the system for many years.

  “Good for you, of course I believe it. And what are you doing now?”

  “I was accepted into the medical school in Tel Aviv, so now I’m looking for an apartment and a job.”

  She nods enthusiastically. “That’s wonderful, Sasha, I’m so happy.”

  “To this day, my mom says that it’s all thanks to you, Iris. Do you remember how you fought to keep me in school? They wanted to transfer me to a special education program! My mom told me that the parents threatened to take their kids out of school if you didn’t get rid of me, but you didn’t give up.”

  “That’s right,” she says, growing happier as the memory becomes clearer. “That was my first year as principal, and there really was enormous pressure. I remember that you were in my office constantly for almost the entire year. I’m so pleased, Sasha, this is such wonderful news. Your mother must be thrilled.”

  “Yes, Mom’s on cloud nine. And what about you, Iris, how are things in school? And what are you doing in Tel Aviv?”

  “I came to see my daughter—I mean to clean her house.”

  He blinks with interest, and says, to her surprise, “You mean Alma moved to Tel Aviv?”

  “I didn’t know you knew each other.”

  “I don’t really know her, but I saw her a few times in the city.”

  “Here in Tel Aviv?” she asks fearfully, because who knows what he saw.

  “No, in Jerusalem. I’d love to get in touch with her. What’s her number?”

  “Why don’t you give me yours and I’ll pass it on to her,” Iris says quickly, afraid he might catch Alma at a bad time, in the middle of one of her insane missions. It’s because he looks eager, because she might like him, that she has to wait for the right time. There aren’t many opportunities in life, no one knows and understands that better than she does, and Alma has to get healthy before she is offered this one.

  In the end, Alma will realize your dream, she thinks, mocking herself for the excitement she feels. Dreams are sometimes hereditary, like genetic diseases, this Sasha will be her Eitan and you’ll relinquish yours. There appears to be a similarity, the light eyes, the thin face. She remembers how much she supported his mother, a new immigrant from Russia, and how they both fought for the boy, who was undoubtedly gifted but whose behavior was impossible. He was the most difficult pupil she had ever dealt with, the most violent and also the smartest and most consistently able to incite everyone around him. A day did not pass without complaints about him. He didn’t let the teachers teach, constantly disrupted and provoked. She kept him close to her for days at a time because no one else could control him, and gave him various jobs to do, private le
ssons whenever she could, built a special class schedule for him, mainly sports and science. She tried to empower him, as they say, by providing more of the subjects that interested him and raising money for special courses and therapy, until he gradually settled down. She hadn’t heard from him since he went on to middle school, and even thought they might have left the city.

  She didn’t have much time to find out because many like him came to the school, not exactly like him, but each a challenge, because the rumor that she performed miracles led endless numbers of parents with such children to her door. She had forgotten most of them, but she remembered Sasha very well, the way you remember your first, the way she remembered Eitan. Now that rejected child, the son of a poor, hardworking new immigrant, has been accepted to medical school, while Alma, the principal’s daughter, hasn’t even tried to get accepted anywhere because she would rather sleep with strangers and serve a psychopathic tyrant. The anger floods her again as she enters the apartment, changes clothes, pulls back her hair, and attacks the filth furiously.

  Here and there, she sees a beautiful painted floor tile—strange how they are strewn haphazardly among the ordinary tiles. She wanders from room to room, beats the mattresses, sweeps, dusts to destroy any trace of the sick, moldy air, and scrubs the walls and windows with white sponges. She never cleaned her own apartment with such determination, attacking every corner, wiping away again and again all the dust that has collected. She finds only the most basic items in her daughter’s room, as if she hasn’t finished moving all of her possessions into it, but Noa’s room is much more crowded, and she dusts the furniture, the carpet, the pillows, the CD player, and the books.