—Yes, exactly, how did you know? But it’s not just the President, Mother. It’s the Prime Minister and Foreign Minister too, they all live near that big, beautiful plaza, although I could have walked right by it without knowing if not for this policeman sitting in a little hut who I asked for directions. I also asked him what he was guarding, and he showed me the President’s house and even let me peek past the gate, and I had this most wonderful feeling, Mother, of having entered the true heart of the city...
—No, you’re wrong. I was never there. As far back as I can remember, I was always brought to Jerusalem in groups of schoolchildren or soldiers, always for some ceremony or field trip that took place in some museum or archaeological site, or else on the walls of the Old City, which we had to ran around on in this sweltering heat after some nuisance of a tour guide. And if we spent the night there, it was always in some youth hostel on the outskirts of town, either next to the military cemetery on Mount Herzl or in that frightening forest near the Holocaust Museum, never in the city itself, in the true inner heart of it. And so with the help of that policeman who was guarding the President, I didn’t have to get back on the bus but took a shortcut to this neighborhood called Ghost Valley through an empty field and a little woods that led me straight to Efi’s father’s street, which I entered contrariwise...
—I mean from the wrong end.
—You don’t know it. It’s called The Twenty-ninth of November Street. You have to walk down a hill behind the old leper hospital. It’s a long, narrow street you’ve never been on.
—The German Colony?
—I don’t think that’s its name, Mother. On the map it clearly said Ghost Valley. When I first looked up the address I had been given at the university, I thought that only a Jerusalemite could live in a place with such a scary name, because no Tel-Avivian would ever stand for it—and now this fog was drifting all around and it took me forever to find the building because I was coming from the wrong end of the street, and when I did I was so wet and cold from the rain, and my shoes were so full of mud, that I just stood there in a corner of the entrance, pulling myself together. And then, Mother, right there in that dark stairwell, it suddenly began, do you hear me? Do you?
—This strange feeling, which I kept having all the time I was in Jerusalem ... as if, Mother, I wasn’t there just by myself but... how can I put it ... as if someone had put me on the opening page of a book...
—A book. Some novel or story, or even a movie, for that matter. Mostly it was the feeling of eyes being on me all the time, even my own eyes, which kept watching me from the side as though tracking me. I don’t mean in reality, but in a book ... as if I were being written about on the first page of some story, where it said ... something like ... something like ... an old book that began like this: “One winter afternoon a fatherless student left her grandmother’s apartment in the coastal metropolis on an errand for her boyfriend, who had asked her to find out what had happened to his father in the inland capital, all contact with whom had been lost...” Something simple- and innocent-sounding that was about to become very complicated. Next you see her step into the entrance of a plain but respectable apartment house on a cold winter evening—where, after a few seconds, the light goes out, so that the camera shooting her from outside has to grope its way in after her and finds her standing before a greenish door on which is the single word: Mani. That’s how it starts, this story or movie or whatever you call it, Mother, with & light knock and a quick ring, and then a second ring and a third. But the man inside doesn’t want to open up, even though our heroine, the young lady from the metropolis, will make him do it in the end, and by forcing her way into his apartment, Mother, will save his life...
—Just a minute ... listen...
—Just a minute...
—One minute.
—One minute. No, there was no answer. And maybe, Mother, it was that feeling I had on the stairs that I was in a story and not in real life that kept me from giving up, because I was sure that he was hiding there inside the apartment and not coming to the door for the same reason he hadn’t answered the telephone. In the end, after ringing and knocking in every possible way for a good ten minutes, I pretended to leave by walking back down the stairs, and then I tiptoed up again as quietly as I could and stood pressed against the door in the darkness, almost hugging it while holding my breath, just like in one of those thrillers, until I heard faint steps and realized that he was coming to the door, that he was standing right on the other side of it. And then, in this soft, friendly voice that wouldn’t scare him, I said, “It’s me, Mr. Mani, I’ve brought you an important message from your son Efi”—at which point he had to open up...
—Just a minute. Listen...
—Will you wait one minute!
—Not at all, Mother. He’s only your age, maybe even a little younger, somewhere in his middle forties. He could look pretty good if he wanted to. But when he opened the door that evening he was scary-looking, like some kind of depressed animal coming out from deep in its burrow, with this month-old mourner’s beard and a raggedy old bathrobe, all red-eyed and wild-haired. He was in his socks, and the apartment behind him was dark but heated like a furnace, and he seemed so surprised and upset by my having gotten him to open the door that all he could do was stand there blocking it and looking hostile. I could see there was no point in reminding him who I was, or in telling him I had been in his apartment a month ago on a condolence call, because he was so into himself that a month might have seemed to him like a hundred years or more. And so I just mentioned Efi again and gave him the message as quickly as I could before the door was shut in my face, and he stood there listening without a word, just shaking his head absentmindedly while beginning to close the door. But as luck would have it, Mother, just then the telephone rang—you would have thought that part of myself had stayed behind in Tel Aviv to keep on dialing. He looked around as if pretending not to notice it, or at least hoping I would go away so he could answer, but when he saw I had no intention of doing that and that the telephone wasn’t stopping, he went to pick it up in the living room—and then, Mother, perhaps because of the book I was in now, or because I knew I’d be protected by the photographer and the director and the whole camera team that was following my every movement, I decided not to take that head shake of his for an answer and I slipped inside uninvited, because I knew I had to find out what was going on in there...
—Because there must have been something if he was that determined to keep me out when I had come all the way from Tel Aviv with a message from his son and was standing there on the landing, soaking wet and half-frozen...
—You don’t say! I was waiting for that, Mother.
—I was waiting for it. I was wondering when you’d get around to that, so why don’t you just spill it all now ... I’ve been expecting it for the last quarter of an hour, so if you must say it, this is the time...
—Yes, yes, why don’t you say it, go right ahead. There goes our Hagar looking for a father figure again ... as usual, she’s latched onto some older man ... I know that routine by heart ... every time I would tell you when I was in the army about some officer a little older than me whom I happened to like, you’d get that pitying smile of yours right away...
—Yes, I know you didn’t, but it’s what you wanted to say, why not admit it, goddamn it? It follows logically from all those trite, pathetically shallow clichés you’ve been taught about the psychology of orphans...
—You mean there’s no special field of Orphan Psychology?
—How come?
—Well, you can be sure they’ll invent it soon...
—No, I already know all that...
—Just a minute. Listen...
—But that’s what you want to say, I know you do, so say it...
—Say it ... what’s stopping you?
—I’m not angry.
—Because the truth may be very different. So why don’t you try, Mother, for once in your life, to th
ink differently too. Did it ever occur to you, say, that what I’m looking for is not a father for me but a husband for you?
—Yes, a man for you ... an honest-to-goodness man who could rescue you from this sterile life you’ve chosen to live, which is drying you up without your knowing it, so that even your best friends, as kind and sweet to you as they are ... yes, they too ... for all they admire you ... are a little ... what’s the word ... tired of you, and worried about your growing old on them here in the desert—where, as long as you insist on working out in the fields, there’s not the ghost of a chance of meeting anyone, anyone, with some life in him whom you might feel close to and love ... because one day I won’t be here anymore, either ... so that maybe it’s not just for my sake that I sometimes, let’s say, suppose we just say, latch onto older men, if that’s really what I do, but also for...
—Yes. I’m finished.
—Exactly. To marry you off...
—You find that funny? I’ll bet you do! What’s wrong with it? It’s time you stopped being so stubborn and...
—What’s the same thing?
—How is it the same?
—Maybe...
—It’s possible...
—It’s possible ... but so what? It may end up having the same result, but it’s not the same thing...
—No, don’t turn on any more lights. There’s enough light.
—Maybe, but so what? And this time in Jerusalem I didn’t thrust myself on anyone, Mother, because I had a perfect right to barge in...
—The right of the formula inside me, Mother, even if you don’t take it seriously ... of the little tadpole that’s swimming inside me and nibbling away at my cells to create someone new ... of this teensy little bloodball, which, say what you will, is going to burst out of me screaming at all of you next summer whether Efi owns up to being its father or not. And that, Mother, is why it was not only my right to enter that apartment without permission, it was my duty to the future Mr. Mani, who was curious to meet his ancestors on their own turf, because for the time being, until he’s old enough to represent himself, I’m his only representative, do you hear me?
—As a matter of fact, I understood in a flash what drew me to that apartment—and don’t tell me it was my imagination, because I know better, Mother, and it was not. It was absolutely, definitely not my imagination! I’m telling you right now that I don’t agree with a word you’re going to say, because I saw at a glance, Mother, the true horror of what was lurking there, which fully explained his strange behavior, and Efi’s anxiety, and the errand he had sent me on, and all my determined telephone calls, and there not being any answer, and most of all, the unfriendly way he blocked the door and tried forcing me back out into the foggy cold even though I had come on a mission of good will, because I, Mother, listen carefully, I literally stopped that man, Efi’s father, this Mr. Mani, from taking his own life...
—No, I’m not imagining it.
—Yes, I mean it. Listen to me, because it’s the truth, and it can happen in life too and not only in books, and by the simple act of going to Jerusalem on Tuesday, and not budging from the door, I kept that man from killing himself ... yes, killing himself ... because that’s exactly what he was going to do, it was clear to me then and it’s clear to me now. It all adds up ... and if I hadn’t come along just then ... when I think of it ... and ... and...
—No...
—No.
—I’m all right.
—I’m all right...
—No. I’m crying and trembling because I’m thinking of what happened then, because I know you can’t believe me...
—Because you don’t want to ... you simply don’t want to ... you’ve been educated not to...
—Here, give it to me.
—No...
—All right ... that’s enough ... I’m through...
—All right.
—All right...
—Because while he was standing there in the living room, wishing he didn’t have to talk to whoever was on the telephone, I breezed right in on a blast of all that hot air, and instead of stopping politely in the living room, I kept heading down the hallway until I came to an open door through which I saw, in that dead grandmother’s bedroom, which was pitch black except for a bit of light shining through the window from the night outside, something so awful that ... I can hardly talk about it even now...
—There was this hangman’s scaffold there...
—Yes. A scaffold.
—Just what I said. I mean, at first all I saw was that the room was in this absolutely frenzied state. The bed was a mess, but really crazy, as if someone had gone berserk in it: the pillows were thrown everywhere, the sheets were ripped, there were books all over the floor, and the desk was littered with crumpled papers ... but the worst thing, Mother, was the blinds on the big window, which were shut so tight there wasn’t a crack in them. The blinds box above them was open, so that you could see the bare concrete and the unpainted wood, and in it, Mother, the belt was dangling from its rod—it was like the one in this room but wider and stronger-looking, yellow with two thin, red stripes down its sides—it was off the pulley and hanging free, with this big noose knotted at one end of it ... You’re laughing at me...
—No, that is not all. Beneath it was standing a little stool, just waiting to be kicked away ... everything was ready, I didn’t have the slightest doubt ... it couldn’t have been more obvious ... and if any more proof was needed, it was his own behavior, because the minute he saw me follow him inside and head past him for that room, he went absolutely wild. He threw down the phone in the middle of a sentence and ran to stop me, to get me out of there, or at least to shut the door and keep me from seeing. I could tell by how frantic he was, all panicky and confused and I guess embarrassed too, that he realized I had understood everything, everything ... are you listening, Mother?
—No. Yes. I was already inside that dark room. I was too stunned by that scaffold to move, and he grabbed me from behind and tried wrestling me out of there...
—Nothing. He didn’t say anything ... that’s the whole point. If we had spoken to each other it might have been different. And by now I was good and scared too, not only because of this terrible rage he was in, but because I could feel he was naked underneath his bathrobe, although at the same time I knew that if I wanted to save him, I had to resist. And so, Mother, I wrestled with him and even tried grabbing the blinds belt and tearing it down, but he started dragging me out of there, pulling me toward the front door, and I knew that if I didn’t dig in my heels by finding something to sit or lie down on, I would be outside in a minute, out of the apartment and out of the picture ... And so all at once I made believe, it was just a trick, I pretended to pass out in his arms, and he was so scared that he let go of me for a second, and I threw myself into this little armchair that was standing by the living room door. We still hadn’t said a word to each other, because we were too dazed and surprised to, but when he saw me all scrunched up there like some kind of frog, he simply gave up and left me, he went back to the bedroom and shut the door behind him...
—That was all.
—How should I know? I guess he was waiting for me to go away.
—I just sat in that chair, Mother, and I didn’t move.
—I sat there.
—I didn’t look at the clock.
—Several hours.
—Yes. Several hours.
—It wasn’t ridiculous at all, Mother.
—I know what you’re thinking...
—Say it, I’m listening...
—Yes.
—Yes.
—Yes.
—Of course. Every word.
—Yes, I understand...
—That’s your explanation, Mother, but it isn’t mine.
—I already told you...
—Because I knew that my being there was enough to keep him from doing such an awful thing, even though theoretically he could have killed himself behind the locked door
without my being able to do anything about it, I might even have been suspected afterward of murder...
—Just a minute ... I know you don’t believe me ... but there’s more...
—I’ll get to that ... it wasn’t my imagination...
—I sat there without moving, soaked in that overheated apartment, which felt like it hadn’t had any fresh air for days and staring at the receiver of the telephone, which was still lying on the table next to a figurine of a horse and a row of little pottery urns. That was, I realized, why it had rung busy for two days—that is, what it was busy with was lying off the hook by that horse, which actually looked more like a mule...
—I sat there.
—No, Mother, there, in that chair. I didn’t move.
—I don’t know. I felt like a fossil, as if all the life had gone out of me ... as if the author writing me, or the director photographing me, had put down their pen or camera and gone out for dinner, or maybe just for a breath of fresh air while waiting for some inspiration what to do with me...
—But what should I have done?
—You must be joking!
—You’re not serious...
—No. I simply waited.
—I suppose for him to come out of the room. The one thing I knew for sure was that I musn’t leave him ... it would have been absolutely immoral to get up and walk out...
—Yes. Immoral.
—Exactly, Mother. That was all. I just sat there ... I didn’t touch anything ... I didn’t even put back the receiver. At first it buzzed a little, and then it stopped. The front door was slightly open, and now and then I heard voices outside. People went up and down the stairs and the stairway light kept going on and off until in the end it got so quiet that I could hear the neighbors talking in their apartments or listening to their radios and TVs. Mostly, though, I heard the wind, which was howling like crazy outside.
—No. I just sat there without touching anything ... as if something inside me, Mother, were keeping me from moving, because that was the condition for staying in this house I had barged into. I even forced myself to sit with my hands clasped, because I didn’t want to leave any fingerprints, anything that might incriminate me if he went and hanged himself in the end...
Mr. Mani Page 3