'Park yourself in that corner. It's snug over there. I'll get us a drink.' As he spoke, Gerry fished in his pocket for money. I obeyed his instruction and sat in the corner on a stool that was covered in balding crushed velvet. I watched him walk across to the bar, where a large man spoke to him. The barman was prematurely grey, his hair parted in the middle, and he wore a jacket and tie. He had the sort of face that belonged to a cigar. Clearly, appearance counted for much with this man, and I imagined that it was he who polished the brass pumps and pipes in this pub. Then Gerry looked over to where I was sitting and he smiled at me. The barman stole a glance. They were talking about me. I looked down at the table and waited for Gerry to return. In the ashtray, ashes. 'I got you a gin and tonic.' I looked at his beer. The glass was impossibly huge. 'Well, drink up then. It will steady your nerves.' Cubes of ice swilled noisily in the bowl of my glass. The other people were smoking, sitting in pairs, whispering to each other. It was unacceptably intimate. 'Drink up.' I lifted the glass to my lips, but the smell was overpowering. And then the taste. It burnt me. 'I can get you something else.' He spoke with fake enthusiasm. And then there was a deep silence, broken only by the sound of Gerry drumming a peeling coaster against the edge of the table. "The wife. Well, I told her you were a bit crackers. I'm sorry, but I had to tell her something.' Please, Gerry, do not do this to me. Do not be somebody else now that you are back home. A woman started to play the piano in the corner. 'I think I need another pint. You all right?' The wooden panelling was brown, the carpet was brown, the wooden tables were brown. I could feel the tingle of gin and tonic as it coursed through my veins. 'Look, I won't be a minute.' I watched him go. I don't want to be hurt again. I won't be able to survive being abandoned again. Not again. Through the window, I saw people snaking along the evening street. I hid behind the curtain, and I realized that Gerry had probably said all that he was going to say to me. I watched him now, laughing with his friend at the bar. No, Gerry. No. Surely you are better than this?
The doctor sits opposite me. In this room, some of the furniture is covered with white dust sheets. There is a thick rug on the floor and a pair of noisy radiators against the wall. 'It's bitter outside for this time of the year.' He notices me looking around his makeshift office. A desk with a solitary chair in front and one behind, a single bed, and a metal filing cabinet. The other pieces of furniture are shrouded. Behind the doctor's desk, there is a small uncurtained window, and on his desk there is a single flower in a thin vase. I look into this tall man's face. His eyebrows run into each other, and then his mouth moves strangely, as though he is trying to overcome a yawn. 'We're putting you in your own room.' I look beyond him to the window. It is early afternoon. Then I hear the sound of feet pounding their way towards us and a sharp knock and a door opening. I turn around. 'Hello, dear. How are you?' This woman's manner is too familiar. As she moves, she releases the scent of a cheap perfume. 'A cup of tea, doctor. Before she settles into her new room.' She glances from me to the doctor, then back to me. 'Or perhaps you'd like your tea upstairs after you've finished with the doctor?' The doctor motions for her to set down the tray, which she does. Then she smiles. 'A mixture of plain biscuits, with one or two chocolate ones.' The woman hovers. 'I've put clean towels on the chair for your bath. I'll see you up there, and let me know if you need a top-up.' Only now does the woman turn to leave.
'You know where my office is if you need to speak to me. We just need to examine you for a few days.' The tea has gone cold. In the useless afternoon light, I have sat in silence and cast my mind back across the past few years. My cheeks are tight with dried tears. If only I had a photograph, so that people could see who I was. Whenever I fell over, they would be able to look into my bag and see Eva. This hospital worries me. They have dressed me in slippers and a dressing gown. They have taken my suitcase. They have fed me lunch that was carved for a child. This tall doctor, with long fingers to match his long legs. Now he leans back and stretches. Then he stands and walks a few paces. I expect a less animated gait from a man of his height. But there is a curious optimism to his movement. Again he sits, this time on the edge of his desk, his knees forming twin-pointed hillocks on which he now rests his flat palms. He leans over me. 'You see, one must have patience. It takes time. Last night, the people in the pub, they were frightened when you started shouting. Do you remember?' I do not know what in the world he is talking about. 'When they brought you here, we just gave you something to make you sleep, that's all. You've been doing very nicely.' Now I feel the doctor's bony hands on mine. 'Why did you write the letter, Eva? Mr Alston. I mean, Gerry. He has a wife and child. As you can imagine, this has caused him some difficulties.' He takes his hands from mine. 'Did you write the letter so that you might prove something to somebody, is that it?' He does not seem to understand that I do not talk. Last night, in the pub, I finally abandoned words. 'Ah well, we'll get Marjorie to brew you some more tea. Then you have a nice hot bath and take a nap. I think you'll like your new room. We can speak again later.' I scrutinize this doctor's face, but then I realize that he cannot see, on my shoulder, the butterfly that I have become.
She followed me across the water. In fact, she follows me everywhere. I have had to learn to tolerate her. I arrive somewhere, then she arrives moments later. I leave for somewhere, then moments later she, too, leaves. At first I used to panic and cry, but she would not listen. The other girl has a jagged slash of lipstick around her mouth, red like blood. I have tried pleading with her. I have said, 'Please, I have done nothing to you. Why do you torment me like this? Can you not just leave me alone?' But she will not listen to me, and I still hear her padding along behind me. Whenever I turn, I see that pitiful face. I thought that maybe on the ship across the water I could fool her. I could pretend to be her friend, then, when she tried to nudge up close to me, I might give her a push and topple her over and into the sea. This was to be a new land, a new beginning. I didn't want her to follow me here. That would not be fair. But when we arrived, there she was, dressed in those same rags, standing behind me, waiting for me to decide my next step. Nobody else notices her, even when she tries to reach out and hug me, nobody sees. Stay away from me! I scream. But nobody sees her, nor do they hear her whispered promise that she will live with me as long as I live. I know that it was she who ate the butterfly on my shoulder. Stay away from me! I scream. But nobody sees her.
The orderly brings me a pillow and a visitor. Gerry. It has taken Gerry all day to show his face. He sits on the wooden chair to the side of the bed. Beyond him, the curtains are drawn back. My head is propped up on the new pillow and my arms lie outside the white sheet. He is a smaller man without his uniform. He has brought me a chocolate cake, and a knife with which to cut it. He can barely look at me as he tells me that he feels some shame. His voice drops a note. He was confused. He wanted me so much. Men do awful, unforgivable things in war. I listen. He does not mention the letter that I signed with his name. Perhaps he is not such a bad man. But it no longer matters. I want to ask him: Gerry, is this England of yours any place in which to plant tender shrubs? Of course, I do not ask him. I simply watch him. Has he forgotten the well that a generous word can sink? Say something, Gerry. Eventually he stands. 'I have to go.' I say nothing. 'Eva, I asked about your sister. Nobody knows anything. I don't know what else to do.' He looks as though he is going to cry. For a few moments our eyes meet, then he lowers his head and turns away. Does the sight of me frighten him? I now weigh more than sixty pounds. Not much more. But more. I watch him leave. The poor man. The poor, sad man. And now the doctor comes in. He takes the chair that has recently been vacated by Gerry. He begins quietly. 'Would you like to see him again?' I shake my head. 'Now, Eva, are you sure?' I do not want to see this Gerry again. I am alone. I look at the doctor, but he fails to understand. I am alone. He waits a few moments, then hauls himself to his feet. 'Tomorrow, then.'
It is night. I hear the sound of coughing from another room. The other girl, with the swathe of
red around her mouth. She is still here. Waiting. I look at her and wonder why this sad, unhappy girl persists. The coughing stops. I know that somewhere, buried deep inside me, is a place where I will be able to lay down in peace. And this other girl will not be able to follow me. But until then? Can I ever be truly happy? Dear Bella, without you this is not happiness. Mama. Papa. I do not know in what strange land you are buried. Or what stubbled growth or building defaces the earth above your precious bones. But I am tired. And I want to come home. For us, the hinge of generation will not move. That morning, walking to the train station, with our suitcases. A human river of shattered lives. Passing houses that had become our prisons and our tombs, the train door opening with a grating sound, one pail into which we must all relieve ourselves, stopping for hours for no apparent reason, the morning mist rising from the fields, the smoke. Mama. Papa. Dear Margot. The smoke. Once again, I hear the sound of coughing. The other girl is looking at me with sadness in her eyes, so I reach over and take first one hand and then the other. Don't worry, I say. Everything will be fine. Please. Don't worry.
HE had been watching her for a long time. She sat alone across the room, her face an impassive mask, while the other women swirled and dipped in large gestures of exaggerated joy. The hard afternoon light had long since faded, and the room was increasingly dominated by shadows. Because she was sitting, it was difficult to tell whether she was tall or short, but this woman was beautiful. He could not take his eyes from her. When the other women were passed over, they lowered their eyes and remained seated as the music played. One or two among them would occasionally betray a look of frustration, but this woman, who nobody asked to dance, simply sat as though she was indifferent to people's attitudes towards her. Once more, the music stopped and partners were hastily exchanged, and he watched as, again, this woman was ignored. She uncrossed then crossed her legs.
(Together with my parents and my brother and sister. (In our village, nobody had ever seen a light bulb or a telephone. Of course we were unprepared.) We lived as farmers and weavers. Out in the desert, you flashed your lights to attract our attention. And then you herded us on to buses. Now I can smile about it. We had never been on such a thing as a bus. And yes, it was frightening. At dawn, we discovered that we were travelling through a desert that was littered with the skeletons of camels and goats. People looked around. Not everybody was here. It was impossible to take everybody. Relatives were being abandoned. And then on to the embassy compound, where we were stored like thinning cattle. Grazing on concrete. And from the embassy to the airport. We just let it happen. I was lucky, for my parents, and my brother and sister, were relatively healthy. But many people were weak with malaria. It is true, many people were dying.)
Some of the men travelled in from nearby kibbutzim, but the majority lived in the city. They were elderly, mainly bachelors or widowers, but among them were those whose loveless marriages had long ago turned stale. A few among the young women were prostitutes, but the greater number of them were students, or unemployed actresses, all of whom were paid a small sum by the management to dance for a few hours each week. The management's chief source of income were the men, who were required to pay an annual membership fee for their weekly flights of fantasy. Other activities were continually promised, such as outings to places of historical interest, informal dinners, and lectures by prominent speakers on issues relating to the culture and arts of the country. However, in the two years that he had been a member, he was not aware of any other club activities, beyond these weekly dances each Wednesday afternoon.
Ten years ago, after his retirement, he had decided to sell his city-centre apartment, for he imagined that the profit would ease his remaining years. His new apartment, a twenty-minute bus ride from the centrally located club, was comfortable although somewhat noisy. In the beginning, it was the construction teams who disturbed his peace, for they seemed eager to work around the clock. These days it was just people's children, always shouting and playing at all times of the day and night. A little over two years ago, he had nearly died. It was after his recuperation that he decided to join the club, for, with neither work nor family to occupy him, he had finally admitted to himself that he was lonely.
Eventually, he found the courage to cross the floor and ask her to dance. Without saying a word, she stood and eased her slender body into his arms, allowing him to hold her in a manner that was both respectable and intimate. People were watching. He steered her backwards and into the cluster of dancing couples, in the hope that they might attract less attention if they could edge their way towards the middle of the floor. However, her dancing seduced his attention with its grace and surety of step, and he soon forgot his cowardly plan. He hardly noticed when the music stopped, but, as she turned to walk away, he found himself clumsily reaching out and touching her arm. The music started and he stepped towards her, and once again they began to dance.
After her arrival, she had undergone two years of intensive language study, and then she had trained as a nurse. However, at present she was not working. She would say nothing more. He suggested that he might be able to help her, for he was a retired doctor, but she continued to stare straight ahead as though he had not spoken. Her eyes were the deepest black which made the white about them appear ivory. Her hair was also black, and short and tightly curled. It appeared to have been sheared, rather than cut, close to the natural shape of her head. He began to feel self-conscious, aware for the first time that his feet may not be moving in time with the music. And then there was the closeness of her body, and the warm strange smell of her person. Suddenly he wanted to stop this dancing, and to sit down and talk to the woman. This was a ridiculous charade. He was making a fool of himself with a woman at least fifty years his junior, whose behaviour seemed designed to remind him of the frailties of old age. None of the other women had ever made him feel this way. In the two years that he had been coming to the club, it was precisely the awful reality of these frailties that the young women seemed temporarily to erase from his mind.
(On the plane there were no seats. Just mattresses on the floor where we could squat, but most remained standing. We were frightened. Together with my parents and my sister and my brother, I prayed. And then a man died while we were in the sky. My sister and I wondered, in this new land, would our babies be born white? We, the people of the House of Israel, we were going home. No more wandering. No longer landless. No more tilling of soil that did not belong to us. What is your name? Malka. Malka, do not be shy. You are going home. And when we arrived, and stepped down off the plane, we all kissed the ground. We thanked God for returning us to Zion.)
At the end of the dance, it was a polite convention for the man to retreat and allow another to stake his claim. However, he knew that nobody would challenge his right to dominate this woman's time. He asked her if she would share a drink with him at the bar. Generally, the woman was expected to feign surprise and then agree. Drinks cost money, and so this arrangement kept the management happy. But when he asked this woman, there was no fake surprise. She simply shrugged her shoulders and led the way from the dance floor to the small bar, where she quickly found a seat on a tall stool and he, somewhat less quickly, joined her. For a moment he stared at her, and then eventually she smiled. It occurred to him that she might be laughing at his expense, and he swallowed deeply.
They each drank a glass of white wine, but there was little attempt at conversation. He asked her to dance again, and so she emptied her glass and slid from the stool. As they turned among the other dancers, he whispered that he would prefer it if they could stop at the end of this dance and perhaps talk properly. Beyond the knowledge that she was presently an unemployed nurse, all he had managed to glean was that she was nearly thirty, and that she lived with her parents and younger sister at the edge of the city in one of the developments into which her people had been placed. She refused to be any more specific with regard to her domestic arrangements. She also volunteered that this was her third,
and perhaps final, time at the club. The manager had informed her that, if nobody danced with her this time, then she would not be allowed back. As she told him this, she again shrugged her shoulders, indicating that it mattered little to her, one way or the other.
When the music stopped, he followed her back to the bar. A new song began to play, one of his favourites, but he was glad that he would no longer have to dance. He wondered if she realized just how old he was. Most of the young women guessed him to be about sixty-five, which meant they really thought him to be seventy-five. He was proud of his condition, but whenever he thought of this he chuckled, for what else would one expect of a doctor? Until the heart attack, he had been blessed with perfect health. However, he knew better than most that it was impossible to insure against the ravages of old age. And then he remembered his manners.
'Another drink?'
Suddenly he was afraid that he might lose her.
'Or perhaps I could buy you dinner this evening?'
The Nature of Blood Page 20