While the voice caressed his ears, the wheelchair began to roll back and forth on the track and sweet tranquility enfolded Moshe. The wheelchair suddenly began to roll faster and faster and the voice in his ears changed from gentle to assertive, announcing loudly, “You will stop smoking! You do not need to smoke anymore!” He squeezed his eyes more tightly shut and clung to the arms of the wildly rolling chair.
Moshe was so astounded that he didn’t dare open his eyes and, thus, did not see Shuni when he quietly left to give the same treatment to a patient in an identical, adjoining room.
By the time the voice in his ears finally fell silent and the wheelchair stopped rolling, Shuni was back in the room, unfolding the safety belt and removing the earphones. “You may open your eyes now, Moshe,” he said.
Moshe complied, looking dizzily at Shuni as if he had just landed from another planet.
“How d’you feel?” Shuni enquired in a pleasant, relaxed voice.
“Calm. Relaxed. Really wonderful,” said Moshe, resisting his return to everyday reality.
“The treatment is complete,” declared Shuni and waited for Moshe to stand up and leave.
Moshe stood up, smiling happily. On his way to the door, he murmured, “Do you mean that I’ve shaken the smoking habit? The nightmare’s over, just like that?”
“Yes,” Shuni still sounded pleasant, but more distant. “From now on it all depends on you.”
Moshe let out a roar of joy, “I don’t believe it! I simply can’t believe it! How did you do it? Listen, you’re a genius. A real genius.”
Rubbing his hands, Shuni said, “What do you think… Don’t you know who I am? I’m a very important man. Do you know who you’re talking to?”
Still wrapped in the euphoria of his recent cure, Moshe continued on his way out; but after walking a few meters, he hesitated, retraced his steps and said, “But why do I feel the need for a cigarette? Even more strongly than before? How do you explain that?”
“That’s how it is in the beginning,” Shuni said in a dry voice. “You have to get through the first day without a cigarette. After that, it’s all behind you!”
Speaking hesitantly and looking worried, Moshe said, “Your secretary said that if it doesn’t work, I’m entitled to my money back. After all, your treatment is very expensive.”
“Of course,” Shuni replied, bored. “You must understand; my clients are very respectable people. Nobody has ever demanded his money back. In any case, you can come for reinforcement if you still feel the need to smoke occasionally.”
He glanced at his watch when Moshe finally left and went to sit behind his desk. “Nitza, how are things out there?”
“You won’t believe it. It’s a madhouse! Standing room only!”
“Genius. I am a genius!” he crowed. “By the way, what about the advert for the diet?”
“It’ll be in next Friday’s paper.”
“Okay. Who’s next?”
“Two wanting reinforcement.”
“Oh, well,” he sounded disappointed, “give me five minutes, I need a smoke.” He went to his elegant bathroom, lit a cigarette and started blowing smoke rings at the mirror. He smoothed the red shirt on his torso and straightened his tie. Then he threw the cigarette butt into the toilet bowl and sprayed his mouth with the mint-scented breath freshener and returned to his desk.
A sloppily dressed man with a defeated look in his eyes came in. He was still on the threshold when he started to speak, “I was here a week ago. On the first day after treatment I managed to hold out. But I gave in and lit a cigarette the next day. I’ve been smoking like a chimney ever since.”
Shuni did not invite him to sit down. Nor did he encourage him to go on speaking. Nevertheless, the man continued. “I am a respectable person. I haven’t come to get my money back. I’m here for reinforcement. I hope it will work.” He hardly glanced at Shuni as he spoke.
Shuni was a man of many qualities. Right now, he felt like a little entertainment. What was wrong with combining a bit of pleasure with business? In the past, he was subject to the will of others, in the past he was restricted. Why not have some fun?
“Do you still badly want to stop smoking?”
“Certainly. I desperately want to break the habit.”
“Very good. We will begin a few reinforcement exercises.”
He stood up and the man came into the room, walking with his head down. He noticed that Shuni was wearing white sneakers.
“Let’s begin,” said Shuni. “Stand straight and do exactly what I do.”
The man waited. Shuni raised his arms and commanded. “Hands above your head!” The man obeyed.
“Hands on your head!” The man obeyed.
“Four steps backwards!” said Shuni, demonstrating and watching his visitor do as he was told.
“On the spot – jump!” he said, jumping up and down with enjoyment. Somewhat confused, the man hesitated a moment before doing likewise.
“Now it starts,” Shuni said, still jumping on the spot, “Say: I’ve stopped smoking. I’ve stopped smoking. Come on, Say it while you jump!”
“I’ve stopped smoking. I’ve stopped smoking,” the man repeated over and over.
“Louder!”
The man shouted the words hoarsely and Shuni, in the grip of his enthusiasm, proceeded to jump on one foot, commanding, “Now jump on one foot. One! Two! One! Two! I’ve stopped smoking! I’ve stopped smoking!”
Completely obedient, the man copied Shuni, who was delighted with such cooperation. Shuni changed to the other foot and continued to jump and shout “I’ve stopped smoking!”
“Stopped smoking,” echoed the man.
“Forever!” Shuni added.
“Forever! Forever!”
Shuni stopped jumping and said, “Carry on. Don’t stop.”
“When can I stop? I feel like an idiot!”
“Who are you calling an idiot?” Shuni roared. “Do you think I’m an idiot? Is that what you think of me, hey?”
The man came to a standstill and stared in confusion at Shuni, who smiled suddenly and said, “That was part of the treatment. I wanted to see your reaction.”
They smiled at each other and Shuni asked, “Have you got any strength left?”
“I’ve got a lot of strength to put a stop to my smoking.”
At which they resumed hopping on one foot, with shouts of “Forever! Forever!”
At this point, Shuni saw that the man was holding a slip of paper in his upraised hand. He stopped jumping and asked, “What’s that?”
The man, still jumping, replied, “It’s a summons to appear for questioning at the Bat Yam police station. Tomorrow morning at eight. You’ll be asked to answer questions on suspicion of fraud and deception. One of your accusers, apart from your patients waiting treatment to give up smoking, is an American woman named Sheila who alleges that you fraudulently obtained fifty-thousand dollars from her.”
He stopped hopping on one leg only when he finished speaking. Shuni had dropped into the armchair behind his desk. He had trouble speaking. His face was frozen. His hands were tucked under his armpits.
He finally managed to say, “You’re mistaking me for somebody else. I’ll prove it to you tomorrow morning.”
He allowed the man to leave the room before taking out a pack of cigarettes and nervously lighting one.
When Nitza called on the intercom to tell him the room was full of patients, he yelled, “Get rid of them! We have to pack up and leave. Tonight. D’you hear? Tonight!”
He banged down the receiver, lit another cigarette and drew the smoke into his lungs, quickly, deeply, obsessively.
40.
When Edna knocked on the door, Michael was sprawled on his bed. The blue tracksuit and sneakers were on the floor, he had lost interest in them. His world had shrunk since his neighbor stopped wa
lking on their street in the evenings, after many fruitless hours of standing by his window in the hope of seeing the journalist, he had given up.
When he opened the door, Edna asked if he was willing to take care of Nahum. He was so happy that it took him some time to ask why Nahum, the accomplished journalist, needed someone to take care of him. Edna confided to Michael that Nahum had fallen ill with Alzheimer’s disease and urged him not to tell the neighbors or anyone else. It must be their secret, she told him. She asked if she could sit down and proceeded to explain that the situation was much more complicated than it seemed. With great patience, like the gifted lawyer she was , she went into a detailed description of the nature of the illness: the behavioral aspects, the physical demands and the suggested methods of coping with them. No, this was not a case of insanity, thank God; it was an actual illness and she would not trust anybody but Michael to take care of him.
“I know that he liked you very much, before the illness, when his mind was clear,” Edna told Michael, adding “I must go back to work and I can’t do it unless somebody is there for Nahum.”
Michael looked worried and, realizing that he did not trust his own ability to accept such a responsibility, Edna hastened to reassure him “I won’t go back to the office until we are both sure that the plan is working.”
They decided that Michael would stay with Nahum in the mornings and, if necessary, in the afternoons or evenings for about six hours a day. Michael would keep Nahum occupied in the apartment, take him for walks, help him where he needed help and generally keep an eye on him.
Michael was very sorry to hear of his dear neighbor’s illness. However, he was delighted to be of assistance to the Petersons. They had chosen him of all people. Him, Michael the cripple. He would do everything for Mr. Peterson. Everything. He promised Mrs. Edna that he would make her husband well again. He had read somewhere that the human will had no limits and he so wanted to see Mr. Nahum well and healthy again. He would feed him, take him where he wanted to go, everything, he would do everything. She would see. There was no need for her to look so sad. Why did she have that far away look in her eyes when he promised that everything would get better and better from now on?
Edna told him there was no need for him to visit Nahum now. Tomorrow morning would be fine. She had to get Nahum ready, prepare what he was going to wear.
When Michael met him the next morning, he could not believe his eyes. This was not the Mr. Nahum he knew. The journalist lay in a chair with a plastic tray fixed to the front; and Edna Peterson, the gifted lawyer, was feeding him. The white porridge she was spooning into his mouth dribbled onto his chin. Mr. Nahum made no attempt to wipe it away. Michael thought he looked like a silver-haired baby in the care of his nanny, for better or for worse. Michael took the spoon from Edna and held it to Nahum’s lips. Nahum ate the porridge eagerly.
Michael fed his neighbor enthusiastically. Nahum’s eyes brightened with each spoonful, and so did Edna’s, as she watched. Michael was happiest of all.
“He accepts you,” Edna said, interpreting her husband’s body language.
Michael finished feeding Nahum and wiped his mouth. The ailing journalist did not resist; instead he smiled and said, “I know you. I’ve known you for many years. Thirty years. Yes, thirty years. For sure.”
Michael turned to Edna happily and said, “Mrs. Edna! Listen to what Mr. Nahum’s saying! There’s nothing wrong with his memory, he says he knows me, he says he’s known me for thirty years!”
Edna looked from Nahum to Michael and started to say something, but he interrupted her excitedly. “See? Mr. Nahum’s attached to me, he respects me. He’s so friendly towards me that he feels as if we’ve been friends for thirty years. What a compliment!”
His delight grew each time Nahum smiled at him and repeated that he knew him, knew him for thirty years.
Michael listened to him and laughed; then he turned to Edna and laughed, “See? Even if he’s sick, he respects me very much. Thirty years, he says, thirty years!”
He began to work there that same day. Edna offered him a good salary and he accepted without paying much attention to the details. He would have taken care of Mr. Nahum for nothing, out of admiration for his friend the journalist and, no less, to free him from his oppressive loneliness. It was enough that they had chosen him to care for Nahum, the famous journalist. Him. Michael.
One morning, Michael was sitting at the kitchen table next to Edna, going over a list of supplies she wanted him to get from the local store. Nahum was dozing in the chair in his room, bloated with his morning porridge. They were startled by an outraged shout from Nahum, who had come to stand in the doorway.
“I’m going to tell Gilat everything! Just you wait; I’ll tell her what you’re doing with this man! I saw you. I know what you’re doing with this man!”
Edna went to him and stroked his face, which was flushed with anger. “My Nahum, Michael’s going to buy things for us at the store. I’m reading this list to him; that’s all I’m doing with him.”
Michael wondered why Nahum referred to him as ‘this man.’ He said he knew him – knew him for thirty years.
On another occasion, also in the morning, he was sitting with Nahum in the living room. He picked up the remote control and was about to turn on the television, when Nahum shouted, “Thief! You are a thief, that’s what you are!”
Hurt, Michael asked him, “Mr. Nahum, why are you calling me a thief? What did I steal? You know that I don’t touch anything that doesn’t belong to me.”
Nahum stuck to his guns, shouting even louder, “Thief; you’re a thief. I saw you.” He glared at the remote control in Michael’s hand, at which Michael dropped it in alarm.
Edna appeared and Nahum pointed to the remote control and shouted, “He’s a thief! He tried to steal that and I saw him!”
She picked it up and handed it to Nahum. Then she turned to Michael and said, “Ignore it, Michael. He shouts at me, too, from time to time and accuses me of stealing his money. He doesn’t mean what he says.”
When Michael continued to look hurt and confused, she added, “It’s not him, Michael. It’s the sickness that makes him do these things.”
Michael wanted to explain that he had only wanted to find a good channel, but she wasn’t listening. Nahum yawned and lost interest in everything.
Breakfast with Nahum was Michael’s favorite task. He would ply him with porridge and talk to him, telling him what a fine journalist he was and how much he admired his articles. He could do most of the talking, because Nahum was usually quiet, although not always calm.
After the meal, Michael would take Nahum for his morning walk. At times, this was a walk into the unknown since Michael was at the mercy of Nahum’s madness. Nahum himself was totally at the mercy of his ruined mind and the unforeseeable tricks it played.
There were days when Nahum was calm, pleasant and mainly obedient. Michael could plan a destination and route in advance and they could find a bench in a quiet spot. But there were days when Nahum was irritable, tired, hyperactive, hysterical and unable to understand anything. On such days, Michael needed to find in himself the patience, equanimity, tolerance and, above all, physical strength to cope with Nahum’s erratic wanderings. He had to gird his loins, stay alert and ignore the pain in his leg to keep up with Nahum. He had to be ready to prevent him from walking into traffic, he had to apologize to offended strangers, never letting him out of his sight, hobbling after him on his bad leg in full daylight, where everyone could see.
At dusk, on one of those difficult days, Nahum was almost galloping along a Jaffa alley that led to the sea, with Michael stumbling after him. The sun was sinking into the sea like a huge orange ball. Rushing towards the seafront, Nahum pointed at the sun and said to Michael, “Ball. Red ball. There, see, a big red ball!” Michael could see that he was tremendously excited and drawn to the flaming display.
Nahum’s face lit up. A passing glint in his eyes gave Michael the feeling that he was planning some mischief. He was not mistaken. Nahum suddenly took off at a run. Laughing naughtily, he looked over his shoulder at Michael, pointed at the sun and shouted, “Ball, ball, ball, ball!”
Michael followed him as best he could, also laughing and shouting, “Ball, ball, ball, ball!”
Delighted and carefree, a crazy sick man and his heavy-footed attendant; they ran and shouted like two children, like two unabashed lunatics galloping westwards with arms outstretched to catch the sun. To grab it. To hold the unattainable ball.
Michael was not afraid that Nahum would be disappointed when he saw that he could not touch the ball of sun, since he lacked the understanding of distance and time. By now, he knew that Nahum lived in the moment, if this could be called living. The instant the sun disappeared behind the horizon, Nahum would forget that it had ever existed. He would not remember why or where he was running.
Indeed, on that dusky evening in February, 1997, Nahum’s smile vanished with the sun. Michael found it hard to understand the extreme and sudden change in Nahum’s mood; nor did he know that learned men called this feature of the illness “The Setting Sun Syndrome.”
41.
January 1998
“Michael, I’ve enrolled Nahum in a day care center. It has a program of activities for patients like Nahum and maybe there’ll be some purpose in his days.”
Michael looked somber. He had been looking after Nahum for a year, for him a difficult but interesting year. He now fell asleep as soon as his head touched the pillow and he would get up early in the morning, ready to serve his esteemed neighbor for another day of unexpected challenges that left him with a sense of mission. And now, here was Mrs. Edna with plans to disrupt the productive order of his days and send him back to his loneliness. What would he do? Who would he look after? Care about?
“Mrs. Edna,” he said, “I apologize for taking money from you in return for looking after Mr. Nahum. From now on you don’t have to give me money. You know, after all, that you were the one to suggest payment. Not me.” After a moment he added, “Mrs. Edna, I’m prepared to return every penny you paid me. I wanted to knock on your door many times and give the money back. I don’t need a lot of money. All the money you gave me is in a drawer in my room. I don’t want it. You can have it right now. I’ll go and get it. I shouldn’t have taken money to look after Mr. Nahum. Send me to get it, Mrs. Edna.”
Until Sweet Death Arrives Page 18