Riding Lies

by Eshkar Erblich-Brifman

  “Why aren’t we riding in single?” she asks as they cycle along, trying to overcome the wind whistling in her ears. The helmet makes it even hard to hear.

  He shouts out that there’s no need to in the city. There’s room to ride side by side. They turn toward Sukkat Shalom Street. The streets are still mostly empty, making for a pleasant ride. She knows that the market must be bustling with activity by now, but the inner streets are still quiet. Old laundry lines heavy with bright laundry decorate the street. The birds chirping warm her heart. When was the last time she noticed birds chirping, she wonders to herself, and an uncontrollable smile spreads across her thin, sculpted lips. Her fashionable sunglasses, which she bought on sale on their last sprint in Milan, don’t protect her much against the strong rays that suddenly come piercing through, making it harder to see. He, too, is wearing sunglasses, but naturally they aren’t as new and as high-end as hers. That’s two-zero to her.

  Eyes ahead, she reminds herself, stop staring at the shabby instructor. Her butt starts to burn within minutes of setting out. It’s only been a few days since the previous ride and her muscles are not quite over it. They’re approaching Mishkenot Yisrael.

  “It’s time to change to a lower gear!” he advises her, “Shift your weight forward!”

  She does as he says, she’s obedient, and clears the sharp turns through the narrow alleys, the inner courtyards and stone houses that are closing in on her, yet protecting her from harm.

  “You’re a champ!” he roars and raises a fisted hand.

  She laughs. Her body is bursting with energy. Her pulse is rocketing. A sense of release overwhelms her and at once, she gets it: She’s enjoying herself.

  They schedule another lesson for later that week. Koby thinks that it’s best to train twice a week, if, of course, she has the means. Hagar is ready for battle. Twice a week is just what she needs. She’ll beat this thing, she’ll learn how to ride properly in record time and then she’ll be able to join the group, join Amnon, and conquer the world.

  ***

  Of all mornings, that morning Ilai wakes up with a fever. But she has no intention of canceling the lesson, certainly not at such short notice. Clearly Amnon can’t take a day off, but nor can she. She also has an important job. She, too, has endless meetings and discussions. On the days she rides at six-thirty in the morning, Amnon takes Ilai to preschool. She rings her mother and wakes her. “Mom, can you look after Ilai-chick?” she asks.

  Grandma Esther quickly cancels her plans for the morning and the matter is resolved. By six o-clock she’s out the door, after blowing a kiss to Ilai, who’s lying on the sofa in the living room, and another to Amnon sitting beside him, bleary-eyed and disgruntled. Ofer is still sleeping.

  She gets into the jeep, starts the engine and drives off, the bike on the roof. “Sorry I’m late,” she says and walks around the jeep to try to take the bike down herself. “My youngest suddenly came down with a fever…”

  “Oh no,” Koby says empathetically, “I know what it’s like when they’re ill…it’s a nightmare.” He helps her lower the bike and stands it on the gravel path. This time, he’s chosen an off-road trail, the kind Hagar likes, and they meet in Sataf, on the western outskirts of the city.

  “Do you have kids?” she asks. She doesn’t manage to hide her surprise.

  He laughs. “You really can’t see me as a dad, can you?”

  “No, it’s not that,” she apologizes quickly, feeling the blood creep up her cheeks. “How old are they?”

  “My eldest son is eighteen, before the army,” Koby tells her, “my middle boy is fifteen, and my youngest is ten. She’s a real wild one…”

  She can’t imagine his as the father of three kids.

  “Nice,” she says because she has nothing better to say. She adds a little about Ofer and mentions Amnon in passing. He tells her he’s divorced. It’s been five years now. Okay, she thinks to herself, that somehow makes a little more sense; she can’t see him as a family man.

  “Come on,” he urges her, “we have a trail to do. We can chat later, over a cup of coffee, if you feel like it.”

  “We’ll see what the time is,” she hesitates. She really should get to work.

  She steadies herself on the bike, gets into ready position and off they go. The mountain air fills her lungs, and she feels as free and happy as a lark. They’re alone, in the middle of nowhere. There are no cars, no roads, only the birds singing. She listens to the sounds of nature, t while concentrating on not falling. Rocks…pines heavy with needles, the scent of their yellow blossoms, which give Amnon loud allergy attacks.

  The trail is covered with dry, brown needles, and she enjoys the crackle they make as they snap under the bike wheels. There is still mud here and there, but it’s hardened, and a few discarded wrappers, mostly from Bamba, not the new kinds they keep trying to expand their market with, but the traditional salty peanut puffs that everyone loves so much. The indigenous wrappers seem to sprout straight from the ground. Dried leaves from withered winter bulbs also trim the narrow trail. She wants to say something, she’s not sure what, to share this beauty with him, but they’re riding in single file, and he won’t be able to hear her.

  She concentrates on her breathing, on inhaling and exhaling, on her heart pounding from both excitement and effort. She wants to scream with joy, but she’s embarrassed. If she were alone, she might have dared.

  He shows her how to use the brakes correctly, without flying forward, gently, how to play with the saddle height on slopes, up and down. As he explains, she stares at his hard butt and wonders how the elastic in his underpants doesn’t show through the tight riding pants. Hers are right on display.

  “You’re amazing,” he compliments her when they finish the trail. “I haven’t seen anyone so highly motivated in a long time, and you’re making such fast progress…”

  She’s flattered. She’s thirsty for compliments, at home she hardly gets any. Her stomach is churning with excitement. This is the first time in ages that someone is really seeing her; that she’s seeing herself, in expensive cycling gear that she found time to buy, in new, matching cycling shoes, so different from her everyday clothes, from her tailored suits and high heels. So nice to meet you, Hagar, I’m Hagar too, but I’m different.

  “Do you have time for tea?” he asks as he takes the old gas burner from the car without waiting for an answer. He opens a kit and takes out two cups, sugar and even a tea bag, in case they don’t find sage. “How many sugars?” he asks and she says none.

  “So that’s why you look so good,” he winks and she explains that it’s her physique, it has nothing to do with food.

  He crouches over and picks some fresh sage to add to the finjan after filling it with water. A minute of silence passes and then he asks about Amnon. She’s a little surprised.

  “Sorry, I didn’t mean to pry,” he backs off, “I was just making conversation. Drop it.”

  “No, no, it’s all right,” she assures him, and talks about how they met, when they were young. He was actually her first boyfriend. She’s not sure if that’s a source of pride or embarrassment.

  “I think it’s fantastic,” he praises her, “to spend so many years with one man without getting tired of him. It takes a great deal of openness, of acceptance…”

  “I understand it didn’t work out for you,” she notes with a sympathetic smile. He tells her about the ugly divorce he went through as he watches the tea before pouring it into two cups.

  She’s sitting on a white chalk boulder. He hands her a cup and sits beside her, spreading his legs so that their thighs touch. Embarrassed, she almost recoils. She wonders if this is his way of flirting, or if he’s simply a warm, open man.

  He goes on to tell her about his children, his ex-wife who never helped him with the housework, how lonely he felt in the relationship, and how incredibly frustrated he beca
me. He was surprisingly open. He told her how everything in the marriage was on his shoulders: earning a living, maintaining the house, taking care of the kids. One day, he decided he’d had enough. He felt like he was collapsing, suffocating. He sips the steaming tea, exposing his heart to her like a naïve child who’s unafraid of being hurt. He tells her how he’d missed feeling free and about the realization he’d come to: that marriage doesn’t allow for true freedom.

  She raises an eyebrow and disagrees. “If you live with someone who is willing to accept you, who truly loves you, he’ll also give you the freedom you need.”

  He sips his tea. He clearly thinks otherwise.

  “And besides,” she adds, “not everybody wants freedom.”

  “Everyone needs freedom,” he says with a wink, “even if they don’t know it.”

  She finds herself telling him about her parents and Amnon’s, laughing as she describes the feeling of suffocation that comes with being surrounded by family like that

  “Freedom,” he repeats, “is the key.”

  She sighs. She has everything she needs, all that she could ever imagine. Perhaps it was time to plan the next vacation, maybe for just her and Amnon this time. They could take four days off in one of Europe’s capitals. The kids would stay with their grandparents, she didn’t expect it to be an issue. But in the meantime, she remembers, they’re waiting for her at work. She stands up, allows herself another brief moment to enjoy the tea, the fresh wind, Koby’s delightful smile, the inexplicable calm that she’s suddenly feeling.

  ***

  She arrives at her mother at five to fetch Ilai.

  “His fever’s been a hundred and three all day,” Esther says anxiously. “I gave him paracetamol at noon. You can give him another dose.”

  She picks him up and feels his forehead with her hand. “You’re burning up, sweetie,” she kisses him, “we could fry an egg on you!”

  “I don’t want a fried egg,” he replies sleepily and rests his heavy head on her shoulder.

  “You should take him to the doctor tomorrow, Garili,” her mother advises. She wants to tell her not to interfere, that he’s her child, that she knows how to raise children, but in light of the fact that Ilai spent all day with her, she restrains herself and says, “We’ll see how the night goes.”

  Esther clucks her tongue. She’s obviously not happy.

  For years she’s been trying to please her, first by being accepted to a good university and graduating with honors, then by landing a good job and climbing the ladder, marrying well and raising talented children. But her parents never seem satisfied. There’s always another peak to conquer and the chain of mountains before her appears infinite.

  “Okay then, we should get going,” she says to her mother, “I have to pick up Ofer and Yoni from practice.”

  “How did he get there?” her mother asks and she answers wearily, “Like every week, with Yoni’s mother.”

  “Do you want to leave Ilai-chick here in the meanwhile?” she offers anxiously, “ so you don’t have to lug him around in the car.”

  “No, that’s all right,” she replies, and she’s out the door with Ilai in her arms and his backpack slung over her shoulder. She realizes that the bag is going to slide down her arm before they reach the car.

  “Take this,” her mother hands her a sealed plastic container, “at least you’ll have something to eat tonight.”

  “Thanks, Mom.” She can barely hold the container and her arm muscles are screaming.

  And again, she has to deal with the traffic jams. Shit. How can it be a quarter to six already? Ilai wants to listen to his disc of animal songs. Ugh. Where will she find it now? She remembers how much air there was for her to breath at six that morning, how quiet it was; the taste of sage. Someone cuts in front of her. She honks without thinking twice. Idiot. She knows that Ofer and Yoni must be waiting outside, and she, irresponsible as usual, is late.

  At five to six, she pulls up at the soccer field. “It took you so long!” Ofer complains, “We’ve been waiting for an hour!”

  “You’ve been waiting for exactly ten minutes,” she corrects him. “How was it?”

  “Okay,” they answer in chorus. “What’s up with Ilai?” Ofer asks, cringing away and squeezing Yoni into the corner.

  “He has a fever,” she answers, “he’s not a leper, Ofer, you can get closer.”

  “A leopard? Why, do I have spots on me??” Ilai asked and looked at his arms.

  Exhausted, she chooses not to answer and leaves the question hanging in the air.

  ***

  Her phone makes a short, annoying buzz, and then another message appears to add to the collection. She wonders how many have accumulated. The light’s red and she’s tempted to peek. There are two messages in total. One is from Neta, asking if they feel like popping in for coffee on Saturday. Boring. She moves to the next message. Her heart skips a beat as she reads it: “We had a fantastic session today. And afterward, too, was great.” And then a yellow winking emoji. She hears a beep from behind. The light’s green. She tosses the phone on the seat and drives away.

  ***

  They meet in the parking lot on Mount Herzl at six thirty, by the light rail station. Koby has a beautiful trail planned. She parks the jeep in the parking area and waits for him. The anticipation is intense. She inspects her face in the mirror and fixes her make-up, which is still perfect, because it’s only six-thirty. She glances at Alexander Calder’s intimidating abstract sculpture. She’s never been able to understand what it’s meant to mean, or how the red arches are supposed to resemble the Jerusalem hills.

  A few moments later, she sees his old rattling car approaching. Her heart is pounding and a bright smile spreads across her face, making her look like a little girl. She steps out of the jeep and waves happily to him.

  “It’s great to see you,” he says and touches her arm.

  “You too,” she gives him a light hug and quickly let’s go.

  “Do you feel like Turkish coffee, or should we have some later?”

  “To be honest, I really could do with a cup,” she admits. “I haven’t quite woken up yet.”

  Before she finishes the sentence, he’s taking his funny kit out of the car trunk. He sets down the finjan, fills it with water from a reused water bottle and adds heaps of black coffee.

  “Whoa?!” She exclaims and bursts out laughing.

  “To keep us alert,” he laughs back.

  The wonderful aroma of coffee fills her nostrils. Her mouth is watering. She can’t wait.

  The fire is lit, the flames flickering yellow and red.

  “You do know that you shouldn’t stir it, right?” he says knowingly, “That’s the best way to make it.”

  She doesn’t know, and it doesn’t really matter. She’s never made coffee in a finjan. At home she uses their fancy espresso machine, which Amnon bought her for their wedding anniversary, and besides, she usually just buys her coffee.

  “We’ll be riding through Nahal Ein Kerem today,” he tells her without taking his eyes off the whispering finjan. “It’s a terrific trail, but we’ll have a serious slope to deal with.”

  She nods enthusiastically. She can do it, she’s sure. “How many years have you been an instructor?” she tries to make conversation, or maybe just to learn more about him. She’s thirsty for details.

  “Something like five,” he tells her. “Believe it or not I was in hi-tech before.”

  She breaks into short laughter. “What?”

  “I swear on my life,” he lays his hand on his heart, “but I was really crappy at it…”

  Again, she laughs in surprise. “Why do you think that?” she asks, “You don’t look like someone with low self-esteem.”

  “I’m not,” he says, “but I’m highly self-aware. I really was hopeless at it. I couldn’t find my feet. I
didn’t enjoy it and I didn’t do a good job. So I left. You know, I don’t give a damn what others think. I think that a person has to be where it feels right. If it doesn’t work for you, then leave!”

  “Like in your marriage?” she blurts out and immediately regrets it. She may have overstepped the boundaries, infringed on his privacy.

  “Exactly!” he says, looking pleased with her observation.

  She’s relieved. Just before the bubbling coffee boils over, he removes it from the flame and immediately pours it into two cups. She swallows in anticipation and impatience. “Do you drink your coffee without sugar too?” he inquires.

  She nods. “Yes, black and bitter, a little like me,” she tilts her head to the side and studies his reaction.

  “You’re everything but bitter,” he hands her a cup and with his second hand, lifts a wisp of her hair from her face and slips it gently behind her ear.

  “Thanks,” she whispers.

  “You know,” he begins hesitantly, “I can’t stop thinking about our conversation…I haven’t opened up that way to a woman in a long, long time…”

  She sips her coffee and burns the tip of her tongue. Anything is better than dealing with the situation she’s suddenly found herself in. What is she meant to do now? Admit that she felt the same way? Tell him that she’s never spoken so honestly with any man other than Amnon? She bites her lips.

  “Have I made you uncomfortable?” he asks and again plays with her hair. His touch feels good. She wants to lay her head on him.

  “No, not at all,” she replies immediately with certainty, “it’s all right…I’m glad you opened up to me.”

  “Am I the only one who found our talk liberating?” he checks.

  “I felt the same way,” she says and smiles, looking away, wanting yet not wanting to admit it. “I didn’t stop thinking about you all evening.”

  “About our talk, or about me?” he asks teasingly, and she just smiles. He takes a sip of coffee. “It’s good, right?”

  “Excellent,” she lifts the cup to her lips. The touch of warm liquid reminds her of how lips feel. Warm and caressing, like Amnon’s lips, or perhaps others.