Hagit thought it over and agreed. She even found a large plastic bag into which to put everything.
They were down to the third drawer. Out of its dense maelstrom innocently fell the invitation to Granot’s exhibition.
“Tell me,” Rivlin sighed, shredding the invitation into little pieces, “what will you do when I die?”
“What?”
“Who will subdue the chaos for you then?”
To his surprise, his death announcements no longer alarmed her.
“Don’t worry. We’ll find ourselves another husband.”
“But suppose he’s not as talented and efficient as this one.”
“We’ll train him. Never fear.”
He smiled, taken aback by her fighting mood yet determined to maintain his posthumous reputation.
“And if your new husband protests, quite rightly, that it isn’t his job, what will you do then? Ask your typist?”
“I told you. It’s not her job either.”
“Then what? You’ll be lost.”
“Why?” She refused to accept the bitter fate foreseen for her. “I can change. What makes you think I can’t arrange my own desk? I only let you do it because I know how much you enjoy ordering me around.”
“I enjoy ordering you around?” He laughed at the affront. “Really? What, exactly, do you think I get out of it? And who could order you around, even if he wanted to?”
His enthusiasm for the task waning, he hurried to the adjacent courtroom to look for another basket before their half-joking, half—deadly serious exchange could make him despair of the remaining papers on her desk.
He had always liked passing through the narrow archway that led from a corner of her office into the dark, windowless interior of the courtroom—which, though not large, had a solemn and dignified air. Going straight to the bench, which rose massively above the rest of the cool, dimly lit room, he surveyed from the heights of justice the dock, the witness stand, and the counsels’ table while deliberating in the Sabbath silence what verdict to hand down. He groped for the newly installed alarm button at his feet. It was there, shiny and ready for use. He fingered it before picking up the old wastepaper basket that stood beside it.
“How do you like it up there?”
She was standing by the witness stand, her hair mussed, a bit childish-looking from his vantage point on high.
“There’s definitely something appealing about being able to look down on everyone.”
“But only if you’re prepared to give them your undivided attention. That’s something you’re incapable of.”
“It depends on who it is.”
“Anyone. Everyone.”
“I’d give my attention to any person who was getting at the real truth, not just at some dry legal definition of it. I have endless patience for the truth. That’s why I can’t stand being stranded halfway toward it, either in my research or in my life.”
“Stranded how?”
“I’m thinking of Ofer.”
“Why on earth Ofer?”
“I just am. He’s only an example. We’re stuck with no understanding of what happened . . .”
“It doesn’t matter whether or not we understand. As long as he does.”
“But he doesn’t. That’s what you can’t accept. You’d rather delude yourself. If Ofer understood why his marriage fell apart, he’d be free. It’s that which gives him no peace. I’m worried about him, not myself. But who knows? Maybe now something will change . . .”
He caught himself, conscious of having said too much.
“Why now?” The alerted judge regarded her husband from the witness stand.
“It was just a thought.”
“No one ‘just’ thinks anything. What made you say ‘now’?”
“I just did. It doesn’t matter.”
“Everything matters. What were you thinking of? Her father’s death?”
“I suppose. That too.”
“But how is Ofer supposed to know about it?”
“How? That’s obvious. Everything gets known in the end.”
“Tell the truth. Did you tell him?”
“I don’t think so . . . I mean, I may have mentioned something without meaning to.”
“No one mentions anything without meaning to. Stop being afraid and tell me honestly. It’s not so terrible. Did you tell Ofer that Galya’s father died? Yes or no?”
“I suppose I did.”
“Even though we decided you wouldn’t.”
“You decided. I never agreed with you. Ask my sister. I have a right to my own opinion.”
“Of course you have a right. But you also have an obligation to tell me what you do. I’m your partner. We have to trust each other.”
“So I happened to forget.”
“You didn’t forget. And it didn’t just happen. You hid it from me. Maybe you asked Ofer to hide it, too.”
“I would never do that.”
“Why not? If you were afraid I might know, you could have done anything. Watch it, Yochi. Tell the truth. I can easily call Ofer and ask him. Don’t stoop to making me do that.”
“Who’s stooping?”
“Then tell me what you told him.”
“I suppose I was afraid. I didn’t want to upset you. Maybe it’s time, once and for all, to understand why I have to fear you.”
“You have to fear me? Who needs your fear? You should love me, not fear me. What good is being afraid? If you are, it’s because you’re a coward. And a liar to boot.”
“Don’t talk to me that way. I’m warning you. Watch what you say.”
“But I can’t help it. I’m so mad at you.”
His eyes now accustomed to the dim light, he stared at the wife who was upping the stakes.
“You’ve lost all sense of proportion. What are you making such a big deal of this for?”
“I’ll tell you for what. For the truth. And I want to know it. Stop trying to wriggle out of it and tell me exactly what you meant when you said just now that, after Hendel’s death, something might change with Ofer. What does Ofer have to do with Hendel?”
“Nothing. I just thought that, since he sent her a condolence note, they might be in touch again.”
“Who told you he sent her a condolence note?”
“Nobody told me. Stop cross-examining me. I assume that he sent her a note. It would have been appropriate.”
“You told him to do it!”
“I didn’t tell him anything. And suppose I did? He’d have done what he wanted to, anyway. If he sent her a note, that’s what he felt like doing. It’s his right. He’s not heartless like you.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“I’ll call you what I want. You started this. What have I done to you?”
“Tell the truth. That’s all I’m asking. The whole truth. It’s not as hard as all that.”
“I’m not a defendant in your court.”
“It has nothing to do with my court. I’m your wife. I’m open with you about everything. And you keep things from me like a coward.”
“I don’t understand you. What right do you have to be angry with Ofer for sending Galya a condolence note when you know he’s still neurotically attached to her?”
“Don’t change the subject. It’s not Ofer, it’s you. I’m asking you plainly. What did you say to him, and what do you know, and what are you up to?”
“Who says I have to be up to anything to encourage him to send his ex-wife a condolence note? But I suppose that’s the kind of reasoning I should expect from someone who can’t even fry an egg without burning it.”
“Stick to the point. You went to the hotel, against my advice, to pry, under the pretext of a condolence call.”
“No, I didn’t. I went there with no such thing in mind. If I mentioned the divorce to Galya, that’s only natural. You, if anyone, should know how torn up I was by it. So I happened to mention it, so what? It’s my right.”
“Everything just happens with you.
You happened to do this, you happened to do that. But you didn’t happen to do anything. You’re a lot more calculating than you let on. You’re not really naive at all.”
“Why should I be naive?”
“You shouldn’t be. You should be honest. Above all with me. Now tell me what you know. He sent her a letter. Did she answer it?”
“I don’t know. Ask Ofer.”
“I will. But now I’m asking you. Did Galya answer his condolence letter? What do you know?”
“She probably did.”
“What is ‘probably’? What kind of answer is that? Speak the truth, man! Let’s have it. I’m your wife. What are you afraid of? Even if you were foolish enough to try putting them in touch again, which could only cause more pain, that’s not a crime. The crime is not sharing it with the one person who shares everything with you. Please, don’t force me to squeeze the truth out of you bit by bit. You know I can do it. Be honest and open. Tell me what happened. What have you done? What have you said?”
“All right. All right. Just stop threatening me as though I were a traitor or a murderer.”
“You are. You’ve betrayed me. You’ve murdered the trust between us.”
“Don’t exaggerate. The truth is more mundane than you imagine.”
“Then come down from there and talk to me. What are you doing up there anyway? Since when does the defendant sit on the bench?”
14.
HE CAME DOWN from the bench, hurt and sulking. But he was not going back to her office. He refused to have this out on her turf. They would talk right here, in the courtroom. He stopped by the counsels’ table, keeping his distance from her, looking away. Although the dim light seemed well suited to a confession, he wasn’t sure how to work his way into it. Somehow, though, he did, tersely and concisely, even telling her about his second visit to the hotel, although carefully skipping over his imaginary illness.
She listened sternly, pale with anger.
“So you lied to me when you said you went to see the Agnon House.”
“I didn’t lie. I had always wanted to visit it with you. You refused because you were boycotting the neighborhood. So what are you saying—that I have to live with your sick, childish pride forever? And the Agnon House really is closed on Saturdays, which is why I decided to go to the hotel.”
“Don’t which-is-why me. Stop playing games. Nothing which-is-whyed you to go to the hotel. You did it on purpose, behind my back—and, worst of all, behind Ofer’s. I would have thought you had enough self-respect not to beg that girl to tell you what nobody wants you to know, what you have no right to know. It’s unbelievable what a pathetically stubborn man you are.”
“Fine, so I’m stubborn about getting at the truth. I’m willing to make a fool of myself to do it, personally and intellectually. So what? What have I done wrong? Maybe that’s the reason I’ve got as far as I have in life.”
“But we’re not putty in your hands to be twisted and molded for your pathetic investigations. We’re talking about Ofer. He’s your son. You owe him some respect. The minute you want something, you lose all inhibition.”
“Listen. If this is the style you’re going to continue in, we can stop now and go home.”
“First you’ll hear me out.”
“You can talk to the wall, not to me. Leave me out of this. You’ve gone totally berserk. They should never have raised your desk and chair and given you all those buzzers. You’re getting awfully high-and-mighty. Well, not with me! You can be like that with your murderers and rapists. I’ve had it. Just shut up! This is the last time I help you to do anything. I have to be crazy to be wasting my time on you. I want silence from now on! Do you hear me? Silence! Not one word.”
She stepped up to him and grabbed his hand, her eyes boring into him, and slapped him hard in an outburst of fury.
Dumbfounded, he seized the hand that hit him and twisted it without letting go.
“Now calm down. What are you . . .”
“Let go of me! Do you hear me?”
“I’m not letting go until you calm down and say you’re sorry.”
“Never!”
She tried to straighten up. His iron grip kept her doubled over.
“Watch out, Yochi. You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into by assaulting a judge in a courtroom. I can press an alarm and have the police here in no time. You’ll be locked up in solitary before you know it. It will be a week before you can open your lying mouth to anyone. . . .”
“You’ll have me locked up?” He laughed wildly. “It’s you they’ll lock up. Who hit who?”
“It doesn’t matter. No one will believe a word you say.”
“Then I might as well give them a reason to lock me up. Here’s for the slap you gave me.”
He yanked her up to give her a symbolic slap of his own. But he was too careful not to hurt her. It gave her a chance, with a savage litheness he had never seen in her, to snatch his bifocals and make off with them.
“Be careful!” he cried. “You know they’re my only pair.”
“Then stand still and don’t move until the police come.”
“You bully! Who do you think you are? This is your last warning before I ruin you. Give me back my glasses. They’re my only pair.”
“I’ll give them back if you promise to stand still.”
“What for? You swung at me.”
“You deserved it. You’re a liar and a coward. There’s nothing I hate more.”
“Be careful with my glasses. You’re bending them. I don’t have another pair. If anything happens to them, you’re ruined for good. I’ll smash your computer, and you’ll be fired from your job.”
“You can smash what you like. You’re going to jail anyway.”
“Hagit, I want my glasses!”
“Stand still and calm down.”
“Bully! Give me my glasses!”
He lunged at her. She backed away, light on her feet and wild, gripping the bifocals with both hands.
Once (he had been told by her sister), after a fight with the father she loved, she had broken all his work tools.
“If you don’t give me back my glasses this minute, I’m going to go to your office and destroy your files.”
“You can destroy all you want. There are copies of everything.”
“Aren’t you ashamed to be dragging us down to this level?”
“I’m so mad at your lies that I don’t care if I never see you again.”
He lunged again, his vision blurred, and grabbed her hair. She screamed, struggling to free herself, bent his glasses into a shapeless mass, and smashed them against the witness stand. He bent to retrieve them while she fled to her chambers through the little door and locked it.
15.
WITH THE REMAINS of his bifocals jammed hopelessly into his pocket, he hurried out of the courthouse and locked the gate behind him. Although he was angry enough to keep her locked up for a while, he was afraid she might hit the alarm button and make a scene. And so, returning the key to the guard, he asked him to open the gate for the judge, who still had work to do, in half an hour. The Russian took the key with a sigh of relief. He would be sure, he said, to get to the gate on time. “But you’ve got blood on your face, Mister,” he said. He brought Rivlin a small mirror in which the Orientalist saw a long, thin scratch on his forehead. As in his childhood fights with his sister, his first instinct was to run back and retaliate. Yet he no longer had the key, and the Russian was too curious about his cut. Forswearing immediate revenge, he walked to his car and drove carefully, through the quiet and blurry Sabbath streets, to his office at the university, the best place he could think of to abscond to. Barred even from reading his mail without his glasses, he took his old key, opened the new department head’s office, and sank irately into the large, comfortable armchair purchased during his tenure.
Yet after a while, his worry for the trapped judge got the better of him. Phoning her chambers and getting no answer, he tried her at
home. Her “hello,” quiet and friendly as if nothing had happened, told him that—as usual—she had recovered surprisingly quickly. He hung up at once, knowing that a prolonged silence was his best weapon against someone for whom conversation was life itself.
She knew it was him, of course. Soon the stubborn ring of the telephone inside his closed office reached him from the other end of the corridor. Confident, however, that it would never occur to her that he had taken refuge in his old room, he relaxed and settled back in the armchair. The photographs of Akri’s adorable grandchildren bothered him less without his glasses.
He sat silently for a few minutes. His naked eyes felt huge. It was the first time he could remember being unable to read or write. The freedom this gave him was both liberating and humiliating. Going over to the large window, he studied the reflection of his cut. Although superficial, it was a good one that would take time to heal. A powerful sense of lust, aroused by the unexpected wildness of the woman who had attacked him, vied with his ignominy and thirst for revenge. Oh yes, he thought. The punishment of silence will work best if I abscond for a while.
Before deciding which of his friends was most suitable for a Saturday morning visit, he phoned his old mentor to get some feedback on his latest scholarly thoughts. The sound of his voice was a cause for joy in Jerusalem. “Where have you been?” Hannah complained. “You only come to see us when Carlo is sick. As soon as he’s well, we don’t exist for you.”
“Carlo is well?” Rivlin teased. “I don’t believe it. There must be some mistake.”
“Shhh!” Tedeschi chortled, joining in. “I’m not exactly well, but who has time to be sick when the Orientalists have latched onto my old Turks again? Ever since Stephen Jones and his gang at Oxford started spreading their new theory that all the faults of the Arabs can be blamed on Ottoman rule, the whole world has been beating a path to my door. I’m the latest academic sensation. My old book, the one you were examined on, has been rediscovered, and since nobody has the patience to read it, everybody wants me to tell them what’s in it. Believe me, Yochi, it’s your luck up there in Haifa that you haven’t been taken over yet by the new historians who are out to prove that every venal idiot and corrupt ruler in the Arab world was a victim of imperialism. I swear, they should be called the ancient historians, not the new ones. Why stop with the Ottomans? Why not blame it on the Byzantines or the Romans? Listening to them makes me sorrier than ever that you’ve let the Terror in Algeria hold up that book of yours. Stop being so obsessed by it. If you could come to Jerusalem tomorrow, I’d take you—for your sake, not mine—to hear a paper I’m giving at a political-science conference. You’d see I’ve become a new historian myself. In fact, you’d understand that your Algerians aren’t killing each other off, God forbid, because they’re nasty-tempered, but because the Turks oppressed them three hundred years ago. So why get worked up over it, my friend? . . . Ha! They’re good for a laugh, these brand-new Orientalists. How I adore Stephen Jones, that imbecile of an Englishman at St. Antony’s with his high table. High twaddle! O men of lovely Oxford! Stick your pipes up your arses and tell us more. . . .”
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