“Have some, it’s very good,” she urged him gently. Yet when he handed it back to her after two spoonfuls, she waved it off, her appetite gone, and stared at it as if it were the corpse of the music teacher’s father.
“But why make me eat it?” Rivlin protested.
“Because you’re paying for it. It’s a shame to leave it. Cheer up and have another spoonful, my love. It’s not like you to be so squeamish.”
5.
LATE THAT SATURDAY night, after many long conversations, endless rounds of tea and snacks, numerous phone calls to near and distant cousins, and a visit from a friend who dropped by “for a minute” and didn’t leave, Ofra went downstairs to shower and Rivlin summoned his wife to the bedroom, shut the door, and declared:
“Before you and your sister become any more symbiotic, I want to know what your plans are and where I fit into them.”
“Fit in?” wondered the tired woman stretched out on her bed. “How do you mean?”
“You heard me. What are your plans, and where do I fit in?”
But there were no new plans, Hagit said, only old ones. On Tuesday they had a concert. On Thursday the two sisters were going to the movies. And on Saturday they were all driving to Jerusalem to visit their aunt in her geriatric institution, whence they would proceed to the airport to pick up Yo’el.
“And apart from that? What more do I have to do for your sister?”
“What do you have to do? Nothing. Be patient and kind.”
“That’s what I have been.”
“Until this afternoon. You were snappish and sarcastic with her when we returned from the Galilee.”
“How can you say that?”
“You know exactly what I mean.”
“I don’t like a whole day to go by without a chance to talk to you in private.”
“To talk about what?”
“There’s always something.”
“But why didn’t you use the time to nap this afternoon? We made sure the house was quiet.”
“I tried. I can’t fall asleep without you.”
“Read something. A story. A novel.”
“I can’t. Life is too turbulent.”
“Life is too turbulent? That trip to Jerusalem did you in.”
“It wasn’t the trip. It was your reaction to it. Your hostility.”
“I hardly said a word. There was nothing to upset you.”
“It just wasn’t like you, a strange notion like hiding Hendel’s death from Ofer.”
“I wish you’d stop poking around in dead ashes.”
“If they’re dead, what do you care?”
“It takes one live spark to start a new fire.”
“What kind of fire?”
“It’s been five years. The divorce is final. Galya is remarried. You knew she was pregnant when you hugged her.”
“I never hugged her. I put my hand on her shoulder. And I never said she was definitely pregnant. . . .”
“It doesn’t matter. If she’s not, she will be. What do you want? For Ofer to be burned all over again?”
“For him to catch on. To understand.”
“There’s nothing to understand. Some things just have to be accepted. Even your Algeria, which you’ve spent years studying and writing about, keeps surprising both itself and you to the point of writer’s block. Why can’t a young woman surprise herself and break up her marriage?”
He said nothing. The bathroom door opened below. Their guest had finished her shower. Hagit listened alertly, seeking to determine whether her sister might need an extra towel or anything else.
“So what about tomorrow?”
“What about it?”
“Do you need me in the morning, or do I have a free day?”
“Of course you do. I’d just be grateful if you dropped Ofra off at Pesi’s boutique in the mall on your way to the university, so that she can try on some clothes. It opens at nine-thirty. I’ll be late for court if I take her myself.”
“I was thinking of leaving earlier.”
“When is your class?”
“At noon.”
“Then you’re in no hurry. She has to find something nice for the wedding. All that traveling has made her neglect herself. Yo’el has forgotten how to dress, too.”
“All right.”
“She’ll try on a few things and then show me what she likes.”
“All right.”
“There’s a little café next to the boutique. You can have something to drink and read the paper there.”
“Are you trying to tell me I’m supposed to bring her back here?”
“Of course. How else would she get back?”
“What do you mean, how else? By bus.”
“Two buses.”
“So two buses.”
“With all those clothes from the boutique.”
“How heavy can they be?”
“Ofra isn’t taking any buses. I can’t ask her to do that.”
“She’s traveled all over the world, she’s crossed whole continents—and she can’t take a bus in her own country?”
“All over the world she has Yo’el. He looks after her. Here I’m responsible.”
“For what?”
“Her pleasure and well-being.”
“But what’s wrong with a bus? Just because I’ve arranged your life for the past thirty years to keep you away from public transportation, do you think having to take a bus is a tragedy?”
“It’s not a tragedy. But no sister of mine who is here on a short visit will be made to get on and off buses with packages. If you can’t wait half an hour, then don’t. I’ll adjourn the trial, take a taxi, and bring her home myself.”
“I surrender. I’ll bring baby home. But only on the condition that she doesn’t have to decide what clothes to buy. You’ll help her make up her mind. Because if she has to do it by herself, I really will miss my class.”
“You’re an optimist. If she had to make up her own mind, you’d miss the rest of your life. But don’t panic. She doesn’t want to. She’ll pick out a few things, and we’ll decide here. You’ll help, too. Why shouldn’t your opinion count?”
“Forget my opinion,” Rivlin said, with a modest grin. “Let her blame you, not me, for making her buy what she doesn’t want or not letting her buy what she does want.”
“She won’t blame you if you don’t pressure her, my dear. She’s not your wife. Just be helpful.”
“By the way, I tried phoning Ofer an hour ago. There was no answer. I left him a message on his voice mail.”
“What did you say?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“Nothing special. Nothing.”
6.
3.4.98
Galya,
Yesterday my father left a message on my voice mail that your father died unexpectedly a few days ago. He said he was at the bereavement and that you asked him whether I knew and how I had reacted. He also said he was telling me against the better judgment of my mother, who thought it pointless to involve me.
Of course, she was right. We haven’t exchanged a word since we broke up, and it’s best that way. Not that your father’s death isn’t a serious matter, but it, too, should have been spared me.
That’s why I debated whether to break the vow of silence that both of us have kept honorably until now. But since I realize how terrible all this must be for your mother, I thought I would (should?) let her know that, despite our divorce and my estrangement from your family, I understand what she’s going through and wish to express my sympathy.
She’s a woman I always liked. (And who liked me, if I’m not mistaken.)
I won’t say anything about your father. He’s gone now. Quite apart from the horrible things he did, it’s frightening to hear about such a sudden death. At least (or so I understand) he didn’t suffer. And so if you, too, Galya, need a word of sympathy (or however you call it) from me, here it is.
Although only on the conditio
n that you don’t write back.
Ofer
7.
EXCUSE ME. Are you new here?
There used to be another salesgirl . . .
Pesi, of course! Pesi.
This is my wife’s sister. She spoke to Pesi about her.
They agreed she could try on a few things, take home what she liked, and return what she didn’t want this evening. My wife can’t come now because she’s at a trial . . . I mean, she’s the judge . . . and so we thought we’d do with my sister-in-law what we do with her: pick out a few things and decide in a relaxed way at home.
No, this is my sister-in-law from abroad. But my wife buys here all the time. Practically all her new clothes come from here. I’m sure you’d recognize her.
You do? That’s odd. I suppose I’m the only man who ever walks in here.
For sure. If you’d like me to leave a check as a deposit, there’s no problem. Pesi knows us.
This way, Ofra. Everything in this section is on sale, isn’t it? You see, I’m an expert on this place.
She’ll tell you what she’s looking for.
Israeli. Of course.
But it has to be suitable for other occasions, too. Not just weddings.
Look at this, Ofra. It’s gorgeous. What do you think? It’s certainly dignified enough.
Do you have a skirt that goes with this?
Two weeks ago you had a tunic, with a three-quarter-length sleeve—light brown velvet, with a strip of green embroidery. My wife tried it on. It was a bit tight on her, but it might fit her sister. She’s much thinner.
I wouldn’t call it summery. More demi saison, as the French say. . . .
Something along these lines. Not this, though. The fabric was richer. With a strip of green embroidery. Maybe it’s been sold. It was lovely. But my wife said it was too tight. Ofra, how about this ensemble?
For goodness’ sake! What are you afraid of? You can’t keep dressing as though you were in the youth movement all your life.
It’s not fancy at all. It’s cute. Try it on. Listen to me. What are you afraid of?
I’m in no hurry. Don’t worry about me. As long as we’re here, let’s take a little longer and pick out some nice things that we can think about afterward.
You’ll find a bigger dressing room to your right, Ofra.
In the time I’ve spent dodging women in this store, I could have written at least two more articles. But it’s been worth it. We’ve bought some nice things here. There’s something about the design, the way you cut things, that suits Hagit’s figure. It hides what needs to be hidden. I must say that your prices are high. But as long as she listens to me, what we buy doesn’t end up forgotten in the closet.
Go on, try it on. You can’t tell a thing just by looking.
Of course. I’ll wait out here.
Me?
She lives abroad. Her husband works for UNESCO. He’s an adviser on Third World economies. They spend more time on airplanes than you do in your bedroom.
I suppose you could call them émigrés, even though they’d never admit it. They’ve been globe-trotting for thirty years. But they’ll make sure to be buried here.
Of course. Where else, in Africa?
So you do remember my wife.
Exactly.
Yes. She’s very nice.
A district judge. There are six of them in Haifa. She’s one.
In the past few years we’ve bought nearly all her clothes here. When I retire from teaching, I can open a rival boutique of my own. But only with clothes made by your designer.
No. She’s a few years older than my wife.
Because she’s so thin and girlish. She never had children to make her go to seed. And she has a husband who looks after her. He’s not in Israel now, which is why I’ve been drafted in his place. It takes two shrewd sisters to have found such devoted caretakers.
Let’s have a look, Ofra. It’s not bad.
Turn the other way.
She’s right. The hem needs to be shortened.
Too see-through? I don’t see anything. Believe me, Ofra, I have a good eye. It looks fine on you. It’s classic. It just needs to be shortened and taken in at the back. You don’t want to look like you’re on your way to Yom Kippur services.
I sometimes drive my wife crazy too. But I have to. Everyone needs somebody to keep an eye on them. She could buy some catastrophe that would go straight into her closet and never come out. It’s my job to veto that. It’s the husband who suffers most when his wife buys the wrong clothes. . . .
What did you say your name was?
If you could pin up the hem for us, Na’ama, we’ll take it home. My wife will convince her.
There’s no obligation, Ofra. You heard what Na’ama said.
You like this one? But it’s so dreary! You’ll be the only person dressed in mourning at the wedding. It will make you stand out, which is just what you don’t want.
Trust me.
Yo’el is a wonderful man, but he’s no judge of clothes. Just look at how he dresses himself.
Never mind. Forget I said it.
All right. Try it on, if you must.
They’re close even for sisters. She and her husband come for short visits every two or three years. We give them the royal treatment.
I teach at the university.
In the Near Eastern Studies Department.
Of course. Mostly Arabs. But also Turks and Iranians and various other madmen.
We Jews still suffer from the delusion that we’re not part of the Middle East. We think we’ve stumbled into it by accident.
Rivlin. Professor Yochanan Rivlin.
Really?
In what department?
That’s a good one to be in if you’re looking for a husband.
Ours is a good one if you’re looking for a wife. An Arab one.
Let’s have a look. I don’t like the combination. The other was much nicer. It’s not bad in front, but we also have backs. And from the back you look like a receptionist in a mortician’s office. In fact, this color makes you look like a receptionist with jaundice.
Not if you ask me. But I’m only the driver. If you feel you must, we’ll take it home for consultation. Meanwhile do yourself a favor and try on this little item. It won’t cost you anything.
What do you mean, too loud?
It’s cheery, not loud.
This flower?
Can’t it be removed?
But she can if she wants to, can’t she?
You see? It’s a lovely dress. You’ll come alive in it. Try it on for my sake.
Don’t worry about me. I have time. My class isn’t until noon. But we do have to get a move on. You should try on a few more things. Don’t forget, the wedding is next week. And whatever you choose will need alterations . . .
8.
THEIR GUEST RETURNED home in a dither with three shopping bags full of dresses, skirts, pants, and blouses. Pesi, arriving on the scene at the last moment, added a few items for the judge. “Your sister,” she told Ofra, “is my best and favorite customer. Her husband is fun, too, even if his taste is a bit conservative.”
Ofra thanked him profusely for his efforts. Her gaunt face was ruddy from the morning’s adventure, which had been more exhausting than a transoceanic flight, not only because of the colorful array of clothing set before her, a Spartan woman accustomed to her wardrobe of what her husband liked to call her “uniforms,” but also because of her officious brother-in-law, who kept trying, rather insensitively, to talk her into buying what he liked. The freedom with which he told the salesgirl what alterations to make left her feeling that her body, so fragile and delicate, was a plaything in his hands.
Rivlin, too, felt he had gone too far. Had his wife known how he would behave, she might have preferred sending her sister in two buses. And yet he was satisfied. Even Ofra needed a face-lift now and then. It would keep her from drying up too fast.
9.
THERE WERE TWO messages on th
e voice mail. One was from Professor Tedeschi in person. In a despondent tone, he informed the Rivlins that the doctors had again despaired of diagnosing his condition and were sending him home to let it make up its own mind. The second message was from Ephraim Akri. With an insistence not typical of his pliant Oriental nature, he requested his colleague to stop by the departmental office on his way to class.
The secretaries in the office were waiting for him. Clearing out the students who were hanging around, they shut the door and ushered him with secretive glee into an inner room. There he was presented with two nameless term papers and asked to confirm that the comments in the margins were his own.
They were in his handwriting. Obviously, he had read the papers thoroughly and thought little of them. Yet, idiotically, the secretaries informed him, they had then been photocopied and submitted for another course with his marginal notes still on them.
“I just wanted to make sure,” one of the two said triumphantly. “I knew the comments were yours.”
“From their handwriting or their brilliance?” Rivlin asked, with a smile. He glanced at the gloomy Akri, whose pessimistic view of the Arab conception of freedom was in no way lessened by so primitive a deception.
“Can you identify the student who wrote these papers?” Akri asked. Rivlin shrugged.
“Whoever it was could have copied them from someone else,” said the older of the two secretaries, who took pride in seeing through students in general and Arab students in particular. “They just might have done a better job.”
“I’ve been told that in the English department,” the younger secretary volunteered, “they’ve got papers that were written in Beirut and Damascus, even Baghdad. There’s a market all over the Middle East, especially for Shakespeare.”
“Shakespeare?”
“He’s the safest bet.” The younger secretary had studied English literature herself for two years. “Every day someone publishes a new book about him. There’s no way to tell what’s original and what isn’t.”
The Liberated Bride Page 10