Nothing interested Michael on this monotonous street, apart from his neighbors in the building, the Peterson couple - especially Mr. Nahum Peterson.
It was six in the evening. Only half an hour to go. Michael was accustomed to waiting. He knew that at approximately six thirty ,the journalist would dart from his blue car into the building and take the steps to his apartment two at a time. His ears would pick up the rhythm of Nahum’s footsteps; he would hold his breath and concentrate on counting them. At the count of forty-three Michael would open his door to take out the garbage, or check his mailbox or just go downstairs, meeting Mr. Nahum on the way. He was secretly grateful to the journalist because, although his emergence from his apartment each day always coincided with the arrival of Mr. Nahum, the latter was kind enough to pretend surprise every day when they met.
Nahum would politely ask how he was, never averting his eyes, never looking down at the floor while chatting with Michael. The journalist had respect. He had sensitivity. He would avoid looking down and, therefore, would not notice that the heels of Michael’s shoes were not the same height. Michael would even feel free to walk towards Mr. Nahum. Without watching his step. Without watching his balance. Michael felt like an equal among equals with Mr. Nahum. Whole. With him, he was not a cripple.
It had not always been so. At first, when Mr. Nahum or Mrs. Edna would come into his apartment to ask how he was feeling, he would stay on his bed without getting up to greet them. They ignored this completely.
One day, Mr. Nahum said, “Tell me, don’t you get tired of hiding in your room all day?”
Michael had expected the question; he just did not understand why the great journalist had waited so long to ask it.
“Can’t you see that I’m disabled; haven’t you got eyes?” Michael retorted, anxiously waiting for an answer.
Even then, Mr. Nahum did not look at his feet. He looked Michael in the eye and asked if he was damaged in the head. Michael said he was not. In the face? Michael said he was not. In the hands? Michael was quite annoyed by now.
Holding out both hands, he said, “See for yourself. My hands are perfectly okay. What made you think I’m crippled in the hands? Soon you’ll think my whole body’s crippled. It’s my legs, that’s all. I had polio. And, as a matter of fact, only one of my legs is crippled.
“Why are you telling me this?” asked the journalist.
“Who should I tell? You’re the only one here in my room at the moment. That’s why I’m telling you.
“I’m not the only one in your room.” Nahum surprised him, “You, you are also in this room. And I want you to give yourself the same answer you gave me!”
From that day on, Michael stopped spending the whole day lying on his bed. He would clean the room, go down to the neighborhood grocery store when necessary, listen to the radio and, above all, wait for Mr. Nahum to come home from work about six thirty in the evening. Most nights, Michael put out the light so that he would not be seen peering from his window .He would wait patiently to catch a glimpse of Nahum on his regular walk along their street. Nahum strode at a quick, measured pace and covered the route four times in forty minutes before returning home drenched in perspiration. Even from his high vantage point, Michael could see his neighbor’s chest heaving after the walk and it was as if he, and not Nahum, who had covered the distance.
Michael would get around unaided. He did not need crutches. His limp caused him no physical pain, but it tortured him mentally.
How was it that his polio wasn’t discovered in time? How was it that all his classmates remained healthy and sound, while he grew up disabled? Why him? Why weren’t his parents more aware as the disease developed?
No, he did not ask his parents these questions when they came to visit him. Only when he was alone in his apartment, after their visit, did he allow the questions to pass his lips. But since his parents never heard the questions they could not provide the answers, assuming there were any answers. Assuming these or any other answers could help him under the circumstances.
When he walked slowly, his disability was unnoticeable. Michael staggered only when he hurried, in which case he would stop and steal suspicious glances at his surroundings to see if anyone had noticed his erratic gait. Once, he went down to an empty part of the beach after dark and, after removing his shoes, began to walk quickly, swinging his hands rhythmically as he went. He increased his speed. He kept touching his forehead expecting to feel the dampness that would prove he was exerting himself. That he was doing it like everybody else. Really like everybody else. Why not run? Without a second thought he broke into a wild run. His bare feet on the pitted sand gave him an unaccustomed sensation of pleasure. His legs carried him lightly. He was like everybody else. Fast. Pain-free. Dripping with healthy perspiration. Then he stumbled. His hands encountered something that breathed. He heard soft laughter, and then it was followed by the laughter of a man. He got away from there as fast as he could. He never went back to the beach, neither during the day nor at night. He never again dared to walk quickly ,not to mention run.
He looked at his watch. Nahum was late .It was a little past six thirty. Maybe Mr. Nahum had plans that prevented him from coming home on time. Michael was about to close his shutters when he saw the journalist walking quickly towards the entrance of the building. Someone wearing a wide-brimmed hat was close behind him. Apparently, Mr. Nahum had guests. Michael strained to see more. The stranger in the peculiar hat was not entering the building with Mr. Nahum. He had stopped outside. All the better. Michael would be able to exchange a few words with his neighbor, as he did every day. They would not be disturbed. Nahum was in the building and Michael pressed his ear to the door of his apartment and held his breath for the count of 43 footsteps. Then he opened his door and stepped into the corridor.
“Hello, Mr. Nahum,” Michael greeted the journalist, who was now on Michael’s floor. No response from Nahum.
Michael tried again. “You’re late today, Mr. Nahum.”
He waited patiently. Nahum stared distractedly at Michael before he answered, “Yes ,I really am late today,” and hurried upstairs after a few polite, but brief remarks. Michael returned to his high stool by the window and began to survey the empty street. Then he noticed the strange man in the wide-brimmed hat standing motionless on the sidewalk. He had never seen him on their street till now. After all, he knew all the regulars.
7.
A plate of food covered in aluminum foil was on the kitchen table and, beside it, a note in fine handwriting: “I phoned you at the office, but didn’t get hold of you. I’m going to a lecture at the Shermans after which I’ll drop in on Gilat and Dov to see the grandchildren. You’ll be taking your walk, anyway. Much love, Edna.”
He made himself a cup of strong coffee after his meal and went to the bedroom, where he changed into his tracksuit and sneakers, ready for his nightly walk. With his earphones in place, he was soon outside, perspiring as he ran past the familiar scenes and people on his regular route.
He returned to his apartment about forty minutes later. Edna was not home yet. Nahum showered and prepared for bed, but not before recording the main events of the past week on the tape recorder in his study.
As a boy, he had kept a diary which he later called “Events Worth Remembering” But now he used the tape recorder. He sometimes wondered if his choice of profession stemmed from his innate urge to interpret and document his feelings and thoughts on all subjects.
Those tapes were an archive of political and historical events, some more exciting than others, such as the murders of Anwar Sadat and John Lennon. These were accompanied by his very personal commentary. His private hesitations also found their way onto the brown, plastic ribbon.
Edna was permitted to listen to them. Nahum gave her complete freedom to enter his private world. “You’re my senior life partner and as such you have access to whatever is in me,” he declared.<
br />
As for Edna, she showed no interest in the tapes, perhaps because she was too busy, perhaps because his permission blunted her natural curiosity and perhaps because she respected her husband’s privacy.
Nahum spoke into the microphone. He had a lot to say. After all, he had been through unusual, stormy times over the last few months. A most important chapter in the annals of his professional life had come to an end. It was behind him. His head was crystal clear and from now on he would find time for the articles begging to be written.
It was late and Nahum was tired; his eyes grew heavy. He sat on the carpet in his study and continued to record what was in his heart. Then he stretched out on the carpet and fell asleep.
Someone was leaning on the railing of the balcony outside the study, looking at the sleeping journalist, listening in the darkness to his snores, observing the rise and fall of his chest, observing the still rotating tape. One hand gripped the balcony railing and the other held a wide-brimmed hat. After watching and listening for a long time, he climbed over the railing and began to lower himself down a thick drainpipe, vanishing into the dark walls of the building.
8.
Edna planned everything. Her day was organized in advance and she generally completed all her tasks, including those with long-term applications.
She had made up her mind to qualify as a lawyer before she turned twenty-five and was wearing the gown well before that deadline. She declared that she would join a successful legal firm before the age of thirty and did so.
She was successful. She earned well. She was impressive. Nahum was different and it was because of this difference that she loved him so deeply. He never tried to impress, never aimed at success - as she did - and money had never been a goal in itself. Nahum never committed himself to obligations that could limit him. Things unrolled before him; they came his way and he flowed with them without planning ahead. His feelings, not always the most rational, were his guide. For all these, Edna loved him. She saw courage in these traits. Unlike Nahum, she never dared to leave the house without knowing exactly what she would do every hour on the hour. Her love for Nahum was the only thing she did not plan and her love for him grew with every passing day.
“The freedom, maybe it’s the freedom, the space we allow each other, the respect we feel for each other, perhaps that’s what makes us a couple.” She used to whisper to herself.
They raised their only daughter, Gilat, together. As a confirmed career woman, Edna would have only one child. However, when she had established herself and was sure of her professional status, she agreed to consider having another. Nahum did not press the issue and by the time she was ready, it was a little too late for her. At the age of thirty-six she longed for another child, but nature didn’t comply. She would not even think of any kind of gynecological treatment.
Because she never allowed chance to dictate to her; she saw order and design in everything.“Our world is too smart and well planned to be random. There’s a hand guiding the universe,” she told her colleagues in the office.
No, this basic belief did not lead her to religious commitment that would mean canceling her long-established habits. However, at forty-five, her well-ordered stability began to crack. Her legal successes began to repeat themselves, failing to excite her. She awoke one morning to the knowledge that everything that had always motivated her was her powerful desire to impress Nahum. While he, she belatedly understood, was not at all impressed by her achievements. He simply loved her. She decided to sift the cases she was handed and cut down on her working hours.
When she was about fifty, before her fair hair turned silver and while her sea-blue eyes still showed her vitality, she declared her intention to retire within one or two years. She felt that time was moving fast. She wanted to try her hand at other things, including some childhood dreams she still wanted to realize. Nahum was the only one with whom she dared to share her hidden desires.
“Painting. I’ll join a painting class,” she said. “I’ll shut myself in a hut in the heart of nature and never stop painting.”
There was another dream, even more powerful: a nurses’ training course.
Nahum serenely accepted everything. He showed no surprise. Made no objection. He just looked tenderly at his wife and said, “It’s high time.”
Edna’s visit to Dov and Gilat was a long time. They spoke about this and that. The grand-children had long since gone to sleep. It was close to midnight when she kissed them gently and left. Dov saw her to the car. On the way home, her mind formed a clear picture of her husband and the apartment as she would find them; and when she arrived, it proved to be correct. The tape recorder was still running. The mike was still deep in the palm of his hand. He was asleep on the carpet. His snoring weakened as she approached. The tracksuit and sneakers were scattered on the floor. She folded them and put them next to the dresser. She went back to where Nahum was sleeping and kissed him gently on the forehead and he showed signs of waking. Still half asleep, he pointed the finger of his right hand and mumbled, “I’m shooting. I’m shooting>”
Edna laughed, kissed him on the mouth and said, “You’re mistaking me for Ricky. If I didn’t know you better, I’d begin to get suspicious.”
His eyes still closed, Nahum grabbed her, turned her onto her back and kissed her. Between kisses he said, “My Edna, if you don’t shut up, I’ll shoot close up and, as you know, I never miss when I shoot close up.”
They laughed and Edna thought, “Let this goodness never end; only let it never end.”
Edna had no cause for complaint. The balance of her life, so far, indicated success, happiness, a comfortable life. And Nahum, her husband, was the main factor in all this goodness.
9.
May 1993
Gilat looked at herself in the mirror. Her blonde curls were piled untidily on top of her head. Her eyes were sad and swollen from crying. Her upturned nose was reddened by frequent blowing.
Still looking at herself, she said angrily, “This beauty. All I get from it is trouble.”
She turned off the light, took her purse and quickly left the house. Jumping down the four front steps, she got into the white BMW facing the white painted electric gate and revved the engine. Within five minutes, she parked the car on a busy sidewalk well away from her neighborhood and left it there, unlocked. From there she swiftly made her way to a nearby office building. Waiting for the elevator, she was joined by a man in a black suit, who also pressed one of the buttons. Gilat did not bother to look at him. She was unaware that the elevator had arrived and stood staring past its open doors.
“Are you coming in?”
She stepped inside without answering or looking at the man’s face and pressed the third floor button. Gilat stood close to the door, her body language clearly indicating that she wanted to be the first one out and she pushed past the doors before they were completely open.
She rushed over to a man who was sitting behind a tall desk at the entrance to the floor and pleaded, “Quickly, please, can you call my father?”
The man, who was about seventy, had a smiling, well-meaning face. But he was slow. Too slow for Gilat under the circumstances.
“Would you mind telling me who your father is?”
Waiting for him to finish speaking, Gilat felt like a bundle of dynamite about to explode.“My father is Nahum Peterson. Please, hurry, I beg you!”
“Please raise your voice. I’m hard of hearing.”
“Nahum Peterson!” she yelled and this time he heard her.
“Wait here,” he growled loudly and slowly dialed a number on the desk phone.
“Speak to your father,” he said, handing her the receiver.
“Dad, I’m here at the entrance. Can you come out, please?”
“Has something happened?” Nahum asked in a worried voice. “I’m in an editorial meeting at the moment. It’ll take some time
. Maybe you’d better tell me what’s happened.”
Gilat hesitated before whispering into the phone, “Dov’s left home. He had a nervous attack and tore my blouse to shreds and walked out.”
Her father wanted to say something, but he lost his voice for a moment. Collecting his thoughts, he finally said, “Stay where you are. I’ll finish the meeting and come out. Take a seat and calm down. Let me talk to the guard; he’ll get you a cup of coffee.”
“Daddy, I don’t need anything. I’ll wait for you out here. Just try to end the meeting as soon as you can.”
Gilat paced back and forth, impatiently waiting for her father to appear. Whenever she thought of Dov, every inch of her body was overcome with fatigue.
“I should never have married him. What a mistake!” She looked so miserable that even the old man at the desk noticed.
When she first met Dov he was twenty-seven and she just seventeen. Everyone was crowing around her at the time. She was a tall blonde and buxom compared to her friends. He asked her to marry him as soon as she turned eighteen.
“You’re a hell of a girl,” he said, “people can’t stop staring at you.”
She paid no attention. But Dov was miserable. He was constantly worried that someone was making eyes at her. Her beauty made him uncomfortable. When people spoke to her, he was annoyed; when they smiled at her, he was stressed; he narrowed his eyes when they looked at her ;and when they stared at her body, he almost lost his mind.
“Who is Marilyn Monroe?” she asked him one day as he gazed hungrily at her pointed breasts.
“Why? Why do you ask?” He lifted his head, a jealous flush suffusing his face.
“I don’t know,” she answered innocently. “I’m often told that I look like Marilyn Monroe.”
Dov was never the same after that question.
Until Sweet Death Arrives Page 4