The Lover

by A. B. Yehoshua

  A few days later I arrived there late at night. Slowly I climbed the stairs and in the dark I began quietly trying to open the door with a bundle of keys I’d brought from the garage. But after only a few minutes the other door opened and the old neighbour appeared in a nightdress and with a kerchief on her head. She looked at me angrily.

  “You again.”

  I decided not to answer, to ignore her, continuing my vain attempt to open the door with my keys.

  “I shall call the police.”

  I didn’t reply. She watched my unsuccessful efforts.

  “Why don’t you go and see the old lady herself, perhaps she’ll let you have the key.”

  I said nothing, didn’t respond. But the idea seemed to me a good one. Why not, after all? I went on trying the keys. In the end I went away slowly in the dark.

  Two days later I was at the geriatric hospital. An old building but painted green, between the orchards, on the edge of one of the older settlements. I went into the office and told them I was a relative of Mrs. Ermozo and I’d come to visit her. They sent for the matron, an energetic, vivacious woman about my age. She greeted me with enthusiasm.

  “At last somebody has come. We were afraid she’d been completely forgotten. Are you her grandson too?”

  Strange, thinking I was her grandson.

  “No … I’m a more distant relation … has Gabriel Arditi been visiting here?”

  “Yes, but for a few months now there’s been no sign of him. Come and see her.”

  “How is she? Still unconscious?”

  “Still unconscious but in my opinion there’s been some improvement. Come with me, watch them feeding her.”

  And she took my arm and led me into one of the wards. She pointed to the bed where the old woman lay.

  So this grandmother really does exist. Wrapped in a white smock, like a big ball. Sitting up in bed apd looking around her wildly. Her long hair, still dark, scattered over her shoulders, a big napkin tied around her neck and a dark-skinned little nurse, probably a Mexican from the immigrants’ settlement, feeding her with endless patience, with a wooden spoon, giving her a grey porridge that looked like soft mud. It wasn’t easy to feed her because she seemed quite unaware of the fact that she was being fed, and every now and then she’d suddenly turn her head to one side, looking for something on the ceiling or at the window. Sometimes she spat out the food and the grey liquid trickled down her face. The nurse took a sponge and wiped her carefully. There was something very sad in the empty eyes moving backwards and forwards about the room, sometimes pausing on some random object.

  There were several old women in the ward, they got up from their beds and approached us with great curiosity, standing around us in a little circle.

  “Every meal takes nearly an hour,” the matron said with a smile. I was staring at her as if hypnotized.

  “How old is she?” I asked suddenly, forgetting that I’d introduced myself as a relative.

  “I’m sure you don’t know … even though you are one of the family … guess …”

  I mumbled something.

  “Well then, you won’t believe it … but we’ve seen her Ottoman birth certificate. She was born in 1881. ’81. You can do the arithmetic yourself. She’s ninety-three years old. Isn’t it wonderful? 1881 … Do you know any history? That was when the first Bilu settlers arrived in the country … Hibbat Zion … the beginnings of Zionism … to say nothing of world history. Isn’t it amazing? She was alive then … a lady of history … a real treasure … perhaps she concealed her age from you? And her hair is still black … her skin is smooth … only a few wrinkles … it’s a wonder … and that’s the truth, although we’re used to old people here, that’s what the place is for, after all. We’ve never had such an old lady before.”

  And the matron went to her, took out from the old lady’s hair a little comb that was hidden there and started to comb her hair, smoothing it over her cheeks, pinching them gently. The old lady didn’t look at her, feeling nothing, staring at the window.

  “I tell you, if she hadn’t gone into a coma she could have carried on for years … or perhaps it’s the opposite … it’s because she’s gone into a coma that she will carry on for years … come and see … come closer … don’t be afraid … perhaps she’ll recognize you … perhaps something in you will revive her …”

  “You still have hopes for her?”

  “Why not? She’s changing all the time. You don’t know, but I’ve been watching her, and seeing her progress. A year ago they brought her here and she was like a vegetable. A vegetable? Worse than that … a stone … a big silent stone. And very slowly she began to change. She began to move like a plant, like some primitive creature, do I know. But these last few months there’s been a dramatic change. You’re smiling? Of course you can’t know. But she’s a human being again, her eyes are alive, her movements are human. She doesn’t speak of course but she’s already thinking, speaking her first syllables. One night she even tried to get away, they found her outside in the orchard. Of course we have hopes. Have you given up hope, in the family? That Mr. Arditi, her grandson, he seems to have disappeared.”

  Hesitantly I went closer to the bed, and suddenly the old woman turned her head and looked at me, screwing up her eyes as if trying to remember something. From the corners of her mouth, still full of porridge, two thin streams began to ooze.

  “No, she doesn’t recognize me … I’m a distant relation … it’s many years since she’s seen me …”

  “But even so you came to see her … that was very nice of you.”

  The old woman was staring at me, simply staring, she couldn’t take her eyes off me, she even began to murmur. Strange sounds came from her mouth.

  “The beard … the beard …” the old women around us began calling out excitedly. “The beard reminds her of something.”

  The old woman’s hands were shaking, something was troubling her, she was fascinated by my beard, as if she wanted to grab it.

  I felt a stab of panic, I started to retreat, afraid she might wake up and I’d get involved here. The dark-skinned nurse wiped away the streams of porridge.

  “You’re doing a wonderful job here.”

  “I’m glad you think so.” The matron’s face lit up. “Perhaps you’d like to have a look around … see the other wards … do you have time?”

  She, at any rate, seemed to have plenty of time. For the sake of public relations she led me from ward to ward, to see the old men and women lying there, playing cards, eating a second breakfast. She stopped to talk to them, touching them as if they were pieces of furniture, adjusting their clothing, even combing the hair of some of them. And they smiled at her, a little frightened. Meanwhile she explained to me some of the problems of the institution, the rising cost of laundry, the cut in the government subsidy, fruitless attempts to interest benefactors. Nobody’s prepared to invest in a geriatric hospital.

  “I’m prepared to,” I said suddenly, already at the door.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m prepared to make a small donation to the hospital.”

  She was stunned, and blushing she clutched my hand.

  “Perhaps we should go to my office …”

  “No need … I’m in a hurry … but …” And standing there at the door I took out my wallet and gave her five thousand pounds.

  She took the notes hesitantly, unable to disguise her joy, amazed at the size of the gift.

  “Sir … sir …” she mumbled. “But what is to be done with the money? I mean, do you have any special requests?”

  “The money is in your hands … you can buy games for the old people … or some piece of equipment … the only thing I ask is that you look after that old lady, don’t let her die …”

  “Of course … naturally … you’ve seen for yourself …”

  “I’ll be in touch again to find out how she is … and if anyone else comes here … Mr. Arditi …”

  “You’re alwa
ys welcome, we shall do all we can … even without the money.”

  She was holding the notes in both her hands, confused, and very grateful.

  “Perhaps after all some kind of receipt … I don’t even know your name …”

  But I didn’t want to give her my name, didn’t want him to know I’d been there, looking for him. I shook the matron’s hand and said with a smile:

  “Write in your books – an anonymous gift.”

  VEDUCHA

  The black hand wants to feed the eyes, to move the head and give ear. Caress of soft little white worms trickling down. Bitter milk that once was sweet. Sounds of orchards and smell of people. Wet below, a secret pool, a gushing fountain. And sunlight at all the windows. Count the people. Four six one three. But why has a walking broom come in a confusing man, an upturned broom moving about the room walking alone anxious and now approaching the radiant laughing woman wants to sweep her face. Wants too to sweep an old woman in her bed. Oh, oh, oh, come heavy broom, bearded face. I know this broom, there were many such brooms walking the narrow streets full of black brooms there there in the old place in these ruins. Suddenly not orchards but thorns, little bushes rocks and strong sunlight houses upon houses and slopes. What is this called? What is the name? Oh, oh, an unknown woman, a woman without a name, oh, oh, what is the name of the place? Must know the name quickly must think the name. A blank wall has fallen here, grey stones with little clumps of moss. How did they say? How did they say it? How did they say it? – Usalem. Oh, I have it – Usalem, that’s it, Usalam. No, not that, something else – Rusalem. Yes, Rusalem. An important place, a hard place – Rusalem.

  But that’s not the name. Something very close. Find it find it. Oh, oh, inside all is shaking but find it, it’s important, think, oh, oh, find it inside, inside is a little light, a distant light. Oh, oh, little light.

  Usalem? Usalam? But not so heavy, not lam, lighter, humbler – Usalim. Oh, Usalim. I have it. No, not that again? Rusalim. Rusalim. I’m sure they called it Rusalim. That’s the place, the rocks, the thorns, quiet now.

  The broom has gone. What? The sun at another window. What? Yes, Usalem, Usalem again. What does Usalam want. Usalam has returned. A mistake, sorry, Rusalem. Now it’s clear. Where was she born? – Rusalem. Where are they from? – Rusalem. Next year where? – in Rusalem. But did they really say – Rusalem? Not that. Just like it, but a little different. I’ve forgotten. Must rest.

  Black hands turning me. Pulling a sheet spreading a sheet. Light has gone, no sun. Dark at the windows. That place with wall and towers, with brooms, that place with a desert at the end. Suddenly a desert. What’s its name? Not Usalem – Rusalim. But there was something at the beginning. Gerusalem, Sherusalem, Merusalem, Jerusalem. Oh, oh, oh, Jerusalem. Jerusalem, Jerusalem. Exactly, but no. I weep. Great pain. Jerusalem. Simple. Ah, that’s it. Jerusalem.

  NA’IM

  And since then I had my eye on him all the time. Even without looking I could tell when he was in the garage and when he wasn’t. Like a dog almost I could sniff him out. I could tell the sound of his American car apart from all the other cars. Even though now I spent most of the time on the floor under a car tightening the brake cables and I saw the world mostly between the legs moving about beside my head. I carried the key to his house around with me all the time, passing it from pocket to pocket, at night putting it under the pillow. I was very aware of this key, it was like carrying a gun without a licence. I watched him a long way off standing in a crowd of people and I was underneath a car thinking about his house, the dark rooms and the blue sea through the big window. The clean and tidy kitchen and the chocolate in the fridge, the door opening suddenly and the pretty girl coming in from the sunlight, throwing down her school bag and smiling at me.

  I smile back, to myself, feeling the key in my shirt pocket. Whenever I want I can get in there again, I go there in the mornings for reasons of my own, quietly opening the door and wandering about the rooms, eating chocolate or taking something as a souvenir, money even, and if she comes back from school and opens the door again she’ll stand there and stare at me and I’ll say quietly, “Your father sent me to take you to the garage, he needs you.” And she’s surprised at first. “To the garage? What’s up? Maybe I ought to phone him first.” “No,” I’ll say, “the phone there’s out of order, that’s why he sent me here.” And then she’ll obey me and follow me going down the stairs with me and I lead her to the bus station, pay for her ticket, sit her down beside me and proud and serious I talk to her, asking her what she’s studying in school, and she’s impressed seeing I’m not just a thick labourer but a guy with a bit of education, I can even recite her a whole poem by heart. She takes a real fancy to me. And then we get off the bus and walk side by side through the street to the garage. Going in through the gate and straight to her father, who’s standing there with a bunch of people, he’s surprised to see me bringing him his daughter in the middle of the day. And before he has time to think I take out the duplicate key and give it to him, saying softly, “You see I could’ve raped her but I took pity on you.” And before he can catch me I flee the garage forever, leaving the city and going back to the village, become a shepherd, let them send the cops after me, we’ll show them.

  And I’ll weep in front of Father and say, “I can’t stand it any more. Send me back to school or I’ll bring you even greater shame.”

  I was so busy dreaming that instead of sealing the brake cable I let go of it and it flew out of my hand, springing back and cutting my face and hand open. I felt a burning pain and blood started to flow. Slowly I dragged myself out from under the car and the fat Jew who owned the car and was standing there waiting for me to finish the job got quite a shock seeing me crawling out all black with oil and grease and my face covered in blood.

  Seems like I was pretty well cut and the blood was pouring all over the place. Adam was talking to somebody but he stopped and came running to me in such a panic you’d think he’d never seen anyone bleeding before. He took me into the office, sat me down on the chair and shouted at the old man to bandage me. I didn’t know the old man was the garage medic as well. He opened a little first-aid box and took out all kinds of dirty little bottles and started pouring stinging stuff all over my cuts. He took out absorbent cotton and bandages as well and started to bandage me with his hard dry fingers. It hurt like hell. And Adam didn’t move from there. His face was pale. They finished patching me up and left me to rest for a while in the office, but the bandages began to go red and blood was dripping on the bills on the table. And then they decided maybe they’d better take me to the Red Cross after all. A car that was just going out on a test drive was called in to take me there. And Adam led me to the car himself. And again he took out that famous wallet of his, stuffed full of notes, and gave me twenty pounds so I could come back by taxi. The man’s just loaded with money. They took me to the Red Cross and sent me in to the nurse. And she unwrapped the bandages lightly and laughed. “Who put these bandages on you?” and then she started to clean the cuts and put on ointments and all kinds of stuff that didn’t sting at all. And they gave me an injection too and put my arm in a sling. They weren’t at all stingy with their materials. Then they sent me away.

  It was eleven o’clock in the morning. And I was alone in the big city wandering about with twenty pounds in my pocket. I didn’t feel like going back to the garage right away. I wouldn’t be able to work anyway. So I looked around the shops a bit, bought some chocolate. Then I got on a bus heading for Carmel, not knowing why, maybe I wanted to look at the sea again. But of course I went to his house, maybe I wanted to check if he was still living there. I went in and up the stairs, just to look at the door and then go away. In the end I knocked on the door softly and rang the bell too, though I knew there wasn’t anybody there. Silence. I took the key out of my shoe and put it in the lock. The door creaked a bit but it opened smoothly. And there I was in the apartment again, like in my dream, trembling a bit, suddenly seeing mys
elf in the mirror beside the door, covered in bandages, bloodstains on my face and shirt like some war hero in the movies.

  This time it might be dangerous but I couldn’t stop myself. The apartment was still dark and tidy, like it hadn’t been used in the weeks since I’d been there. I didn’t go into the living room but headed straight to the bedrooms to see the places I hadn’t seen before. First his and his wife’s room, very tidy. Again I saw that picture of the little boy. Their son? No sign of him anywhere, maybe he’s dead or he disappeared. I left the room in a hurry, meaning to go away, but I couldn’t stop myself and I went into the other room. I knew right away it was the girl’s bedroom. No doubt about it. I really trembled, I was that curious. Because this was the only room that wasn’t tidy, like it didn’t belong with the other rooms. A room full of light, blinds open and all kinds of posters on the walls. Lots of bright colours. And books and papers scattered around on the table. And the bed, the bed all messed up, a pillow here and a pillow there and some thin pyjamas lying there in the middle. I felt all weak and I sat down on the bed for a moment, lying back and leaning my head on the dip in the middle, kissing the sheet.

  I must be crazy.

  It’s like I’m really in love with her –

  God, got to get out of here before they really call the cops. But I’m not going till I’ve taken something. A book maybe. Nobody ever reckons on thieves if a book is missing. I started looking through her books. I opened one – Bialik. Bialik again, the same textbook we had in school. I opened another book – arithmetic. The next one was by some guy called Nathan Alterman. Never heard of him, let’s give him a try. I put the book inside the big sling on my arm and left the apartment in a hurry, feeling faint and very weak. The key was still in the lock on the outside. I’d make a lousy burglar. Quietly I started down the stairs but on the first floor a door opened and an old woman with a face like a witch was standing there like she was waiting for me.