The Liberated Bride

by A. B. Yehoshua

  He pushed away the newspapers and cast a friendly glance at the woman, whose attractive features caused an old memory to flicker pleasantly. Sure from his smile that he had recognized her, she was now telling him how hard it was to find his room. It wasn’t clear whether she was complaining or expressing her wonder at the size of the university. Still groping for her name, he suddenly remembered her standing guard outside a clean, fragrant bathroom and exclaimed happily, “Why, it’s . . .”

  “Afifa.” Her modest smile bared two rows of marvelously white and flawless teeth.

  Judging by his response, the name pleased him greatly. His interest in her feminine ripeness, which spoke more to an aging heart like his own than did the flaunted sexuality of the young students who flitted down the university’s hallways, was indeed growing. Was it possible, he wondered with amused alarm, that this middle-aged Arab woman had taken seriously his casual suggestion that she return to her studies?

  “How is the newlywed?” Rivlin asked. “We haven’t seen her since the wedding.”

  “That’s why I’ve come. . . .” Afifa’s face fell. “Samaher isn’t well again.”

  “Not well?” He snickered incredulously, rocking back and forth in his chair. “Don’t believe her. She’s just afraid to show her face. There’s a small criminal case awaiting her.”

  “A what case?”

  “Criminal. Jina’i.”

  “I know what that means.” She was insulted by the idea that she needed the word translated. “But what has she done criminal? She’s an honest girl, Samaher. Ever since she was a baby. . . .”

  “Why don’t you ask her? She can tell you all about how she gave old term papers of hers to friends who copied them and handed them in as their own.”

  “Copied them?” Samaher’s mother apparently knew all about it. “She just let those bums read them, to see how it’s done. Why blame her? She has a good heart. She’s too kind. That’s always been her problem. We could never even slaughter a chicken or a sheep without her crying and calling us names. . . .”

  “Shu ma l’ha issa? Shu m’dayi’ha?”*

  “Pardon?”

  “Shu indha il’an?”†

  “She has that sickness of hers again,” Afifa answered, declining to speak to Rivlin in Arabic. “She wants me to ask you for another postponement for that composition she owes you.”

  Who, Rivlin wondered, did the woman think he was—a grade-school teacher on Parents’ Day? Yet, loath to offend her, he asked gently again in Arabic:

  “Shu maradha?”‡

  The attractive woman crimsoned as brightly as if she had been to Tierra del Fuego herself. A tear, dabbed at in vain with a little handkerchief held in her hand, dropped from her large, almond-shaped eyes. The handkerchief was torn by a wail, a primitive bleat of pain that burst from her throat and sent a seductive shudder through his loins.

  When had a woman last cried like this in front of him? Only on television. Hagit was too accustomed to the sobs of her defendants to indulge in such a thing herself, while his sister cried only over the telephone—hardly the place for the cleansing, eye-dilating tears he was looking at now. As if reluctant to let go of them, Afifa went on dabbing at them with her little handkerchief even when he carefully nudged toward her a box of tissues.

  But at least now she gave in and switched to her own language. In a colorful village patois, she described Samaher’s depressions, which had grown so bad a year ago that her daughter had had to be hospitalized for a while in Safed and put on powerful drugs, which affected her concentration and ability to write. Ashamed to tell her professor about it, his M.A. student had blamed her grandmother, who loved her dearly and would do anything for her.

  Rivlin thought of, but did not mention, his wife’s opinion of psychiatrists. Why undermine the Arabs’ faith in the Jews’ ability to cure them? It surprised him that he had not noticed anything amiss in Samaher, who, her usual chatty self, had sat in the second row of his seminar class. Even in her “Hamas period,” as she referred to the year when she’d come to his classes in a long dress and white shawl, she had retained her vivaciousness. Was his knowledge of his students that superficial? Or had he become so detached from reality himself that the aberrations of others seemed normal?

  “But what is it that you want?” he asked, reverting to Hebrew before their intimacy could grow too great.

  “Iza b’ti’dar, Elbrofesor Rivlin, aazilhha shwoy elwaza’if.”*

  “Another postponement? I’ve already given her too many. . . .”

  “Then ahsan shi tilghi’ha bilmara.”†

  “But I can’t just forget about it!” He rocked again in his chair, amused by the impudence of it.

  “Because she’ll never finish it. She’ll lose a whole year’s credit. And she’s pregnant and has to stay home because the doctor says school is bad for her depressions. Why can’t you? What difference would it make? Give her an exam instead of a paper, anything to help her get the degree. Maskini, ishtaghlat ketir lisanawat adidi.”‡

  “It’s out of the question. Shu fi hon, su’?”§

  “But why a marketplace?” The affront made her flush. “Why can’t you give her an exam instead of a paper? Isn’t it the same?”

  “Not at all.”

  “But you can make it the same. Samaher says so. Professor Rivlin is the best and most important teacher, she says. Everyone listens to him.”

  “Ha!”

  “Everyone does. They all say so. You’re the one who has the power. The head of everything. That’s what she told us from her first day as a student. He’s the man, she said. The one worth studying for. The most interesting and important. Much more important than that dark, nasty man who was at the wedding. She’s always talking about you. At first her father was afraid for her. He thought she’d gone and fallen in love with some young teacher. ‘But he isn’t that at all,’ she told us. ‘He’s an elderly, dignified man. He could be a grandfather.’”

  Rivlin smiled a melancholy smile.

  “Listen,” he said. “It’s no use. This is a university. I’m not the one who makes the rules. You can’t change a paper to an exam. If it’s too much for her, she can put the M.A. off. She already has a B.A. That’s enough for the time being. She can continue later. We’ll help her.”

  “How? Once you drop out, you’re out.”

  “Not necessarily.”

  “What about me? The secretaries at the wedding said I’d have to start all over again.”

  “If you really wanted to go back to school, we could make a special arrangement.”

  “You see? You can do it if you want to.”

  He grinned.

  “Well? What do you say?”

  “I’m sorry. First she needs to shake off her depression. Let her have some children. Then we’ll see. Trust in Allah.”

  He didn’t know what in the world had made him say that. And yet why not? Allah was a handy word.

  The little room fell silent. The woman, refusing to accept defeat, remained in her seat. Her glance drifted past him to the hills of the Galilee, returning to regard him with a quiet hostility that only increased her beauty.

  “It’s no tragedy,” he said soothingly. “Unless you’re interested in an academic career, there’s no great difference in Near Eastern studies between a B.A. and an M.A. Samaher can get a government job with just the B.A.”

  Her mother placed a soft white hand despairingly on the table.

  “You’re making fun of us, Professor. Samaher, a government job? You think she needs to work? The degree is for her honor. For ours, too. We promised the groom’s parents. They didn’t like her depressions. They only agreed to the marriage because we explained how educated she was to be getting her M.A.”

  He shut his eyes for a moment, wishing she would cry some more.

  “I’ll tell you what.”

  Afifa regarded him.

  “Tell Samaher to come see me. I’ll give her a new subject. An easier one.”

&nbs
p; But she just kept at him.

  “Samaher can’t come to the university now. Her husband won’t let her leave the village. Hayif ti’malu-lo doshe.”*

  “Ay doshe?”†

  “Ma ba’aref. Huwa bahaf min el-habl.”‡

  This time the bleat was stifled. Rivlin reached out cautiously and gave the moist, pudgy hand on his desk a friendly pat.

  “I’ll give Samaher something in place of a paper. Something from the newspapers you see on this desk. She’ll read some passages and summarize them. Nothing complicated. Just a few stories and poems. She can do it at home. She won’t need a library. Maybe it will even help get her out of her depression.”

  “I’ll take them with me now.”

  “Easy does it! In the first place, they’re too heavy for you. And second, I have to photocopy them. They’re rare material and not mine. Why don’t you send Samaher’s husband to make copies?”

  “Forget about her husband. He has no time. I’ll send someone else. The cousin who drove you to the wedding.”

  “Rashid.”

  “Rashid.” She was surprised Rivlin remembered the name. “Rashid is best. He’ll take care of everything. Stories and poems are just the thing for her.”

  24.

  THAT MONDAY THE young officer was supposed get leave so that he could see his newly arrived uncle. At the last minute, however, he yielded his turn to a friend, a romantic soul with an urgent need to talk a girlfriend out of leaving him. Not knowing when he might get another pass, Tsakhi asked his parents to bring Yo’el and Ofra to the base that evening.

  And so once again they drove the winding roads of the Galilee. While the two sisters sat in back recollecting childhood trips, Rivlin patiently questioned his brother-in-law about developments in the Third World. Although these were enough to drive anyone to despair, he thought a knowledge of them might help him to understand his own tortured Algeria.

  Early for their rendezvous on Mt. Canaan, they stopped for a bite at the same restaurant in which they had met the two corpse freezers. But Yo’el did not seem upset when told the story, perhaps because his travels in impoverished lands had inured him to the fate of corpses.

  It was getting dark when they reached the double gate of the intelligence base and parked in its improvised picnic grounds, now ominously deserted. Rivlin opened two director’s chairs for the women and took the émigré, who had never lost his love of the Israeli landscape, along the fragrant goat path running up the mountain. A full moon risen in the east bathed the mountains in a generous light that enabled them to keep an eye on their wives below, sitting near the gate. Confident that they would spy Tsakhi when he appeared, they walked on in the brightening night.

  A large lizard scurried across their path.

  “Watch out nothing bites you,” Rivlin warned his lanky brother-in-law, who was still wearing his biblical sandals.

  “After all the times I’ve been bitten in Africa and Asia, what do you think the Middle East can do to me?”

  Rivlin felt a wave of warmth for the man.

  “I’m afraid you don’t take us very seriously.”

  “I do. But you’re all terribly spoiled. You think all the tears in the world belong to you. As if there weren’t a big, suffering universe all around you.”

  The Orientalist lowered himself onto the same large rock that he had sat on ten days before and cast a glance at the two sisters below, who were looking lonely and abandoned. He was about to shout something encouraging down to them when his wife, catching sight of him and Yo’el, waved first.

  The silence around them was profound. Little animals, satisfied that the invaders meant no harm, resumed their hidden munching. Yo’el looked around and breathed deeply, taking in the approach of the Israeli night. It occurred to Rivlin that he and Hagit hadn’t made love in a week, nor could they possibly do so until their two guests departed. It was remarkable how, as the years went by, his desire for his wife grew stronger, as if their psychological intimacy only increased their physical passion.

  Yo’el sat chewing on the stem of a plant. Now was the time, Rivlin decided, to talk about the facts of married life. If the two sisters were at all alike in their makeup, some pointers might be gained from it.

  “I’ve been wanting to ask you,” he said, broaching the topic. “It’s a small thing . . . you needn’t answer if you don’t want to . . .”

  “Answer what?”

  “Just don’t get annoyed.”

  “But what is it?” The longer Rivlin’s prologue, the more bewildered Yo’el became.

  “I’ve been wanting to ask you . . . just don’t get annoyed . . . it’s an odd question, I know . . . but do you and Ofra . . . ever shower or bathe together . . . I mean would she agree . . . because Hagit, you see . . .”

  “But what makes you ask?” Yo’el gave him a puzzled smile. “I’ve never tried. How could I? You know Ofra. Half an hour in the shower is her minimum. My maximum is five minutes.”

  An armed soldier emerged from the hidden entrance to the base.

  “That must be Tsakhi,” Rivlin said, cutting the conversation short even though he knew it wasn’t his son. And indeed, back in the parking lot, they saw it was the blond, baby-faced sergeant. He had been sent to inform the visitors that something had come up to prevent the young officer from leaving his post. There was no point in waiting.

  “But what happened?” Rivlin asked, disappointed.

  “There’s a problem with some instrument.”

  “What instrument?”

  The sergeant gave him a forbearing smile.

  “Tell him to come for just a few minutes,” Rivlin tried cajoling the messenger. “Just to say hello. His uncle has come especially to see him. He’s leaving the country in a few days.”

  “He knows that,” the sergeant replied calmly. “Don’t think he doesn’t feel bad that . . .”

  Rivlin interrupted him brusquely. “Go tell him anyway.”

  “Forget it,” Hagit said. “If he can’t come, he can’t come. Take his word for it.”

  The sergeant nodded in approval at her common sense.

  25.

  AT THE UNIVERSITY the next day, in the narrow hallway of the twenty-third floor, he found the messenger from Samaher. Sturdily built, sable-skinned, Rashid was eagerly awaiting his mission. Rivlin placed a pile of North African journals and newspapers in his arms and sent him to the library to photocopy the excerpts marked by the murdered Jerusalemite, plus some additional passages checked by himself.

  Three hours later the Arab returned, with two thick binders of photocopies, red for the poems and green for the stories. Each entry had been indexed by author, with the date and place of publication in red ink. The originals, too, had been reorganized and were now arranged chronologically. Explanatory flags in Hebrew and Arabic, written in a clear, curling hand, were attached to them.

  “About these stains, Professor . . .” Rashid pointed to the yellow flecks on the newspapers. “I didn’t make them. . . .”

  “Of course not.”

  Rivlin revealed the awful truth.

  Rashid cursed the suicide bomber roundly. “That’s life,” he said.

  Rivlin was taking a liking to the young man. “Tell me,” he asked him confidentially, “what really is the matter with Samaher?”

  “Ya’ani, she has moods. It’s her nerves. She’s feeling low. But she’ll get over it. She’s strong. And smart as a whip. Believe me, I tell everyone: Just wait, in a few years you’ll see Samaher in the Knesset.”

  “The Knesset?”

  “Yes. Someone like her belongs there.”

  “Because she’s so depressed?”

  Rashid laughed.

  “Because it’s so depressing.”

  His handsome eyes, the color of coal, had a hypnotic warmth.

  “But really, what’s the matter with her?” This time his tone was sterner. “What’s going on?”

  “She’s tired. Exhausted. And her husband is the nervous type. He has n
o patience for her.”

  “She should have married you,” Rivlin blurted unthinkingly. “You seem patient enough.”

  “Me?” The blood rushed to Rashid’s face, as if a leak had sprung inside him. He gave a start. “Why not?” he laughed. “Her father would never have agreed, though. . . .”

  “Because you’re cousins?”

  “Because I’m dark. Too dark for his taste.”

  The Orientalist asked the affable young Arab about himself. For two years, Rashid said, he had been a university student too, in the electrical-engineering department of the Haifa Technion. Then he left. Engineering didn’t interest him, nor did he believe he could find work in the field. He had bought a minibus and made good money transporting passengers. Perhaps next year he would audit a few classes.

  Rivlin handed him a sheet of paper and dictated the demands he was making of his ailing student.

  One: A precise but literary translation of all the poems into Hebrew.

  Two: A Hebrew summary of all the stories.

  Three: A list of motifs common to both.

  That was all. It was pitifully little for an M.A. seminar paper. Yet what else could he do? He was beginning to feel sorry for Samaher. And there was all the more reason for her to hurry, because he was tired and ill himself and no one else in the department would put up with her shenanigans.

  “Ill? With what?”

  “Never mind. Just don’t tell anyone. Not everything has to be public knowledge. That’s something we Jews need to learn. Life needs its little secrets. Just see to it that Samaher is warned. There’ll be no more postponements or excuses. Let her do what I’ve asked within a few weeks and she’ll get her grade. And please—let’s leave her mother, father, and grandmother out of this.”

  26.

  18.4.98

  Ofer,

  It would have been the right thing not to reply. Not only so as not to violate our “honorable silence,” as you call it, but also because a condolence letter with poisoned arrows in it doesn’t deserve a reply. You’ve forced me to violate, not only our silence, but the sacred vow of fidelity made to my husband, since I am concealing this letter from him.