The Wanting

by Michael Lavigne

  And then I hear them all shouting with joy, “Allahu Akhbar!

  Allahu Akhbar!”

  Was I happy then? I must have been, because I was smiling the whole time, and the smile never left my face. But as I fly from this scene, and the whole of it melts into the shoreless sea of God’s mind and becomes for me but the faintest afterglow of a long-exploded star, and I see myself standing at the bus stop in my excellent three-piece suit, my Samsonite briefcase in my left hand, and my right hand clutching the Mercedes-Benz key in my pocket, I have to wonder to myself, what, after all, did I truly believe? Where, in the end, was my happiness? Why did I press the unlock button before I boarded that bus? It was the eyes of that young and beautiful girl. Eyes I recognize, for I have seen them through their closed lids. They belong to Dasha Cohen.

  Could I have seen in those eyes my seventy brides calling me, not from Paradise, but from here in the land of the Jews? Or was it merely that I had never trusted in them in the first place and that, underneath it all, I hated Yusuf al-Faruk and Walid Bannoura?

  Then what, O Allah, my Protector, was that smile on my face?

  Dear You,

  For a long time, I was in my Fushigi Yûgi stage, which is what I always explained to Pop when he rolled his eyes at me and told me I better read Pushkin or Lermontov instead, because otherwise I’d end up as just another Israeli ignoramus. It’s a stage, Pop! I’d tell him. But now I see this was basically true. Fushigi Yûgi was merely a step in the direction I was going anyway, and I had to take that step in order to arrive where I am, which presently is a grassy area just above the Damascus Gate. I’m sitting here enjoying the shade for a minute because Yohanan needed to use the restroom. He was getting a little panicky because we didn’t know where one was. We’d already passed the hotels and the police station when it hit him. I remembered there’s a tourist place for Christians called the Garden Tomb where some of them think Jesus was buried, and it’s just off the Nablus Road. We saw a sign to it, and Yohanan said, I gotta go, so I told him, go ahead I’ll meet you down here. He hesitated to leave me because he was worried something might happen to me, I’d get hassled by some guys or something—Yohanan is very chivalrous. But what could he do? So off he went to Jesus’s tomb, and I came down here to wait. My pack is very heavy anyway, and it felt good to take it off, plus now I was schlepping his, too, because he didn’t want to go through security with the Christians. So the packs are sitting at my feet right now. (My red high-tops do make my feet look happy!) There are a few trees up here and some old stones sticking up from the ground where people can sit. Some French tourists have taken the one bench that rests against the city wall, and, as for me, I’m sitting on a piece of cardboard an Arab guy gave me when he saw I was looking for a place to put myself. It was so sweet of him. I said, Shukran! which is thank you in Arabic, and he was very excited and said, Tikalimi aravit? But I had to say, No, I only know a few words, and I had to say this in Hebrew, which was really embarrassing because I’ve been trying to learn Arabic for years, or I guess actually I’ve been talking about learning Arabic for years because I never really did anything about it. Anyway, he looked disappointed and walked away, and that made me sad. And this is exactly the kind of thing that would have set off a Fushigi Yûgi adventure—finding a stranger, the stranger being kind, but because Miaka comes from another time and place there is a misunderstanding, and then, well, you know, it gets complicated, and then you have a … well … a plot.

  The emperor Hotohori says, “Just when the empire is on the brink of destruction, a girl appears to open the portals to another world and acquire the divine powers of Suzaku.” That’s exactly how I feel today. Not that I’m really like Miaka who becomes Suzaku No Miko. But I’m also definitely not just good old Anna Guttman anymore. Rabbi Keren and Miriam made it so clear for me. God is only waiting for me. He has always been waiting for me. I don’t mean I’m special. It could have been any other “me,” anyone, like Shana or even Nirit, with whom I do not get along at all, but it just so happens that today it is me.

  I’m not saying that God actually spoke to me, because so far he hasn’t said one word to me. But as Miriam says, God works in a veil of silence.

  And guess what? The sign I got was when all the noise stopped. You would think I would feel alone and scared. No bugs and tree bark to speak to. But now I know that silence is truth. And boy, is that a load off my shoulders.

  Oh, here comes Yohanan, looking MUCH RELIEVED! He has his bounce back, for sure. Though he is not smiling, but that is because he almost never does.

  And now here I am alone. We went down through the Damascus Gate and onto El Wad Road, and, just as we were told, Yohanan went down toward Bab al-Qattanin, the Cotton Merchants’ Gate, and I walked on toward the Western Wall. I had wanted so much to share with him the vision of the space around the Damascus Gate, but by the time he arrived it was already getting late and he said we had to hurry. But when we got through the souk and were standing not too far from Bab al-Qattanin (by the way, its real name is Sha’ar HaKutna), Yohanan took my hand one more time. For those of you living in the twilight zone, really religious boys don’t touch girls, ever. They’re all shomer negia, as they call it, at least in public and a lot of them in private, too, so now this is two hand holdings in one day. And both with me! Anyway, he took both my hands in his, and he stopped us from walking, and we faced each other and looked right into each other’s eyes, and we just stood there looking at each other for a very long time. It wasn’t awkward, like you might think. We were two sphinxes impervious to the sands of time. Then he said, We have different things to do today. I know, I told him. And I just want to make sure you’re OK with your part, he said. I know what I’m supposed to do, I said. I’ve practiced it before and I’ve been over it a gazillion times. So no sweat. You can stop right now, he said. Why? I said. I’m just saying, he said. Are you going to stop? I said. No, he said. Me neither, I said. Anyusha, he said (he’s the only one of my Israeli friends who ever calls me that), you’re an amazing girl—to the eyebrows—and I don’t even know why you would want to be my friend. And then I smiled at him because he’s such a doofus. Because I like you, I had to tell him. Then he smiled at me. And then, finally (!!), he let go of my hands and went off in the direction of his gate. I watched him for a minute, then went my way, too. This is the happiest day of my life.

  Now I’m standing at the top of HaKotel Street, which is the walkway above the plaza of the Western Wall, and I’m scanning the scene and thinking about things. I noticed, by the way, in a little nook where HaKotel ends and the road goes up a steep flight of stairs toward Misgav Ladach, two yeshiva students in their long rekelekh and bowler hats sneaking a joint—I swear to God. They’re passing it back and forth beneath their coats. Below me, the square is full of people of every variety. Closest to the wall, the Haredi and knit-caps daven. They even set up arks with Torahs inside and hold services. Each little group has its own little tabernacle, so to speak. What they don’t realize is that they are all praying with the same voice. But there are also tourists without a tallit or even a kippah. They fold up prayers and shove them between the stones of the wall. Frankly, I don’t think that’s going to work. On the other side of the mehitza all the women have their chance. It’s a big mishmash there. A lot of patio chairs are set up, and mostly the women are yakking it up. But you see here’s the problem, and it’s never been more obvious than when you look at this scene. They’re praying to a retaining wall built by Herod, and it has nothing to do with the Temple. They’re praying so fervently to nothing at all because they want so desperately for it to be the thing they seek. It’s like praying to a shadow on a cave wall. That’s Plato. But the sun is actually right behind you, outside the cave. All you have to do is turn around and you’ll see it. Of course that’s not so easy. The sun is so bright it burns your eyes. But in time you can get used to the light, and once you do, you realize that everything you thought was real just isn’t. This is called philosophy.
So I ask you, why are they praying to a wall? God isn’t there! And why isn’t God there? Because he’s in his house. Where is his house? Who knows? But he’s also supposed to have a house here. It says so in Exodus. Solomon didn’t build a retaining wall for God to dwell in! He built a Temple! So when I look at these idiots praying to a stupid wall, I know God has led me here today.

  But I want everyone, and especially Pop, to understand. I don’t hate anybody, and I especially don’t hate or even dislike Arabs and Muslims. Like that guy with the cardboard. He was really nice. And I don’t hate or dislike Germans or Russians either. Maybe Hitler, but even Hitler had his good points. For instance, he enjoyed dogs and was a vegetarian and designed the Volkswagen. So what I mean is, I am not against anyone. I’m just for something. Something that really doesn’t have anything to do with this world, but a whole new world. Everybody I know hates Arabs right now, but even when they bomb us or blow up buses or shoot at us and throw stones at us, I know it is not completely their fault. I think of Nuriko who does bad things to Miaka but only out of love for Hotohori and because she has it all wrong in the first place. I think of Tasuki who is always making dumb mistakes and getting himself in trouble, but inside he has a good heart.

  But I also see now that The Book of the Four Gods of Earth and Sky is not my book. I realize that the Four Gods are not the real God, and that no matter how beautiful that world is, it’s not my world. In Fushigi Yûgi there are gods of fire, water, earth, and wood. But in our world, the real world, there is only one God, and he is the Creator of all things and speaks with only one voice. I was crazy to think that things could talk to me.

  OK, then. I’ve said my piece. Maybe not everything, but as much as I can get down on paper. I’m going to go down the stairs and through the security and into the square and up the ramp, and there I’ll be. My destination.

  So everybody, I love you! Especially you, Shana!

  And Babushka, don’t worry!

  And Pop, dear Pop, please, please feel better soon! I know you will! The world will change for you. It will change today and every day from now on. You just have to believe it will.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  IT SEEMED THE HEAT OF THE DAY HAD PASSED, and a cool breeze passed through that small window that I imagined looked out into a modest enclosed court. The window could be reached only by standing upon a chair, but I decided that in spite of its small size, I might be able to climb through it and escape through the back of the house or perhaps crawl across the rooftops without being spotted. Though how I would get out of town, I didn’t know. And if I did make it out of town, how would I find my way back to the army checkpoint? I decided I had to get up. When at last I managed to throw my legs over the edge of the bed, I felt a wild dizziness overtake me, and my arms did not have the strength to push me up. I fell back against the pillow to catch my breath. My tongue was swollen and my body ached, but for some reason my eyesight had become extremely acute and I was able to see every detail of that room; every crack in the plaster was like a map of the country over which we struggled. The whole land was laid out for me, the geography of our suffering. Oh, my country was a beautiful country, my land a land of brilliance. Each road and each river, each wadi and each deer path, led to cities and settlements, villages and farms. In the Negev, at Shizafon, I could see the flag of my army unit flapping in the afternoon breeze. Just beyond, the young American workers of Kibbutz Yahel and the scrapes and holes of the excavations at Rosh Horsha, the tourist shops at Mitzpe Ramon and the guesthouses of Keturah, the date groves of Kibbutz Samar and the camels riding out from Shaharut, the ancient walls of Mishor HaRuhot and the wild happy children of Ezuz running around half naked through the miracle gardens their parents had scratched from the sand. To the north was Tzfat of ancient miracles, and Sasa and Kfar Nahum with its neat rows of houses and gilded olive groves, the forests of Meron and the smooth calm of Kinneret whose fruitful waters receded more and more each year as a dire warning, and all the way to Kiryat Shmona in the Hula Valley, the land of the tribes of Naphtali and Dan; and in the west the beauty of the golden city Haifa and its sister Akko, and Hadera, Herzliya, and Hulda, one more precious than the other, to me, at least, to me.

  I wondered where my strength had gone. Maybe that bastard had poisoned me. I’m glad I didn’t drink his fucking water, I said to myself.

  I wondered about that little Palestine sunbird, because I would have liked to talk to him again. I should not have gotten so angry at him. Why is everyone so angry? I asked myself. For instance, my beautiful little Anyusha. From the beginning, she refused to talk about her mother. I supposed she thought it would be disloyal to me, but I always suspected something deeper. That somehow she was angry with Collette for doing what she did, for knowing she was pregnant and still going forward with her obstinate ideology, for not putting her baby first, and for simply giving her away. That’s how Anyusha saw it. She said, “You know that money Aunt Lorrette left me? I don’t want it. Give it to the starving children in Ethiopia.” But as far as I could see, there was no logic to this, or any other, anger. Like all things imaginary, it connects things that in life are not connected. Sometimes with imagination you get great works of art or science. Airplanes, for instance, or Don Giovanni. Other times you get monsters and griffins, half lion–half bird, half woman–half fish, bridges to nowhere, storm troopers, terrorists. With anger and love, who can say what the outcome will be, only that once you enter the space of the imaginary, there are no keys to let you out. There are only passages that lead to dreams and nightmares, and no mother at the end to wake you up and pack you off to school.

  I’ve only been truly angry once in my life, and that was the great disaster for all of us. I was so young, I always told myself, just a boy, really, just twenty-five years old. What does a boy know of his own feelings? What can he understand about consequences?

  I had just discovered Collette’s cache of letters. I remember quite clearly how I had entered the apartment with my stolen key, strode into the bedroom, tore open the lovely box she had hidden under the bed, and scoured the letters like a grave robber stripping the corpse of its gold and jewels.

  My mouth is still upon you (he wrote). Your mouth is still upon me. And more than that. I have fucked you in every way imaginable, and in every place—at the office, in the park, at the club, on the beach—wherever I am, that is where I have fucked you. I come thinking of you. I wake up in the morning hard and wet, dreaming of you. Never forget this, my love. No matter where you are or whom you are with, you are with me.

  I knew these words would never leave me, not for one second for the rest of my sad existence. I hated Pascal. But I hated Collette more.

  With the exquisite care of the practiced criminal, I replaced the grim letters in their pretty container and slid it back under the bed, exactly as I had found it. I could not help but notice the pleasure I took in this, in making sure nothing was out of place, that my existence in this moment had been obliterated.

  T T. That’s how his letters were signed. I puzzled over this for a long time.

  T T.

  Ah! Of course! What an idiot! Toujours pour Toujours. Always Forever. Always Forever. This was their secret bond. He signed his thus, and surely she signed hers. Always and forever, the door was closed to me. Collette and Pascal were warmed within the four walls of their love, while I was exiled into icy space, into the chaos of my injured pride, where everything else was, except for love.

  I stood up and, with great difficulty, put on my jacket. I stumbled into the hall. As always, even in daylight, it was dim and impregnated with the smell of cookery and cheap perfume. I had the key in my hand. I’d have to replace it on the hook another time, because she would know everything if she came back and the door was unlocked. I pressed the key into the keyhole, but it wouldn’t turn—the lock was jammed. Suddenly the door at the end of the hall burst open. It was Plotkina, taking her dog out for a walk.

  “Roman Leopoldovich!” she cried hap
pily.

  “Nina Yurevna, hello.”

  “It’s nice to see you. Are you all right? You look upset.”

  “No, I’m fine,” I said.

  “The key is stuck?”

  “It’s fine, I just have to jiggle it.”

  “But Roman Leopoldovich, are you sure? If there’s any way I can help you?”

  “I don’t think so …,” I said.

  “Why don’t you come in and have some tea. Vova can wait a few minutes for his walk.”

  “No, honestly, it’s all right.”

  “Here,” she said. She took the key from my hand, yanked the door hard against the jamb, and instantly the tumblers fell into place.

  “No, you’re not all right,” she said. “Come on in. Just to take the chill off. You don’t have to tell me anything. I could use some company.”

  Plotkina smiled pleasantly. As always, her eyes sparkled with kindness and cheerfulness. And yet, looking at them, I felt nothing but the coldness of death.

  She very gently shushed Vova when he pulled on the leash.

  “You know,” I said to her, “I think I will come in.”

  And then I unburdened my grief upon her, down to the last detail.

  Oh, I wanted to sleep! I lay back on the pillow and stretched out my arms. But the bed upon which I lay was like a rock, a stone, that would not accept my body. It cut into me as if it were unable to bear the weight of my bones. I understood its message to me: I, and not the twenty-three-year-old waitress Aviva Oren or the young father named Itamar Ben-Magid, should have been among those blown to pieces; my organs, not theirs, transubstantiated into goo and ammoniated gas. My existence could no longer be tolerated on this earth, and the bed was trying to cast me off.