More cars climb up the narrow ascent, so narrow that if a car comes in the opposite direction, one of them will be forced off the road and into the wadi, and when he nervously scans the new arrivals it seems that in every car the driver is a woman with elegant profile and black hair, and he strains his eyes but to no avail, since the next lights he sees belong to the taxi that’s coming to get him out of here, and he takes his seat in silence in the back, agitated and sweaty and unaware of the questioning glance of the driver. Where to? he asks and Avner hurriedly gives his address and then changes his mind, what’s the point of going home just to pick up the spare keys and come straight back here. The children will be disappointed and Shlomit will attack him as if all his actions are designed to hurt them, and her in particular, and Anti has a set of keys too, just to be on the safe side, and he contacts her, trying to adopt a casual tone.
Are you at home, Anati? Do you still have my car keys? So I’ll drop round and pick them up, OK? I lost mine. Remind me of your address, that’s fine, it’s right on our way, but in the silence that prevails after this, he hears again and again the words that came from his mouth, as strident as the voices that come crackling from the taxi’s radio-phone, and it seems to him that a secret and extensive network is listening in to his words, deciphering their secrets, and the network has been joined both by the late Rafael Allon and by his living lover who mourns for him in secret, and now he too, in an almost haphazard phone conversation, has tied his destiny to their destiny, in a thoroughly arbitrary but well thought-out sequence, presided over, as always in fact and almost without her knowledge, by his mother, who can no longer tell the difference between left and right, past and present, in what is left of her dying consciousness.
Wait for me here for two minutes, I’ll be back straightaway, he tells the driver, who has pulled up outside an elongated housing development somewhat resembling a train, and he wanders among the entrances; where do the numbers start from, that’s always the question, especially when you’re in the middle and don’t know which way to turn. Are you actually retreating when you think you’re advancing, or is it vice versa? Once he lived with Shlomit in a similar project not far from here, and he remembers that even then he used to come home embittered, identifying her with the ugly building and the filthy staircases, even then she was bound up in his consciousness with the anger of lost opportunity, although they were still at the beginning of their lives together, with the option of multiple changes of apartment, and multiple changes of partner. Why was he so quick to commit himself, and by the same token, why so quick to lament the loss of his life, after all the two of them were younger then than the girl who opens the door to him now in the full bloom of her clumsy maidenhood.
For the first time he sees her body without the carapace of the stiff office clothes that she makes a point of wearing, in a red cotton dress speckled with black dots, giving her the appearance of a massive beetle, and it seems that without the harness of her tight garments her body is spreading out in all directions, doubling its bulk with every movement, and she greets him with an apologetic smile, I was just about to contact you, I can’t find them, I’m sure they’re here but I’ve no idea where.
That’s not so bad, I’ll help you search, he says hurriedly, noticing the red moistness around her eyes and eager to reassure her, but when he follows her to her room he’s taken aback; never in his life has he seen such disorder: piles of clothes on the floor, shoes, books, papers, and he scans the room in utter perplexity, there’s underwear scattered around too, knickers, bras, tampons, a riotous glut of bodily references devoid of any modesty but also devoid of eroticism, and she’s quite unabashed, trampling on clothes and other stuff with her bare feet, rummaging among them and tossing them around her, as if the bundle of keys is likely to be found in the cup of a bra or the toe of a sock, and as he’s wondering how he can really be of any assistance to her, should he be picking up clothes too and throwing them in all directions, hooting is heard from the street, and he remembers the taxi that’s waiting for him out there. The two minutes are up, and he knows he should say to her, leave it, it doesn’t matter, I’ll pick up my spare keys from home, and this is indeed what he says as he’s dashing down the stairs, but instead of opening the door of the taxi and getting in, despite all his desires and inclinations, and giving his address, he goes to the driver’s window and pays and doesn’t even wait for change, but runs back into the building and pounds up the stairs, panting when he reaches the door, which is still open. The driver’s already gone, he gasps with the last of his breath, he didn’t wait for me, and she straightens up, looking him in the face and blushing. Has his transparent lie caused her to blush, or is it a transparent lie of her own, as she’s now holding out her closed fist to him in a childish gesture. I’ve found them, she announces.
To push her gently until she stumbles and sprawls on a heap of clothes with her spongy flesh, her dress pulled up to reveal simple cotton underwear, her eyes closed, eager to give satisfaction, he’s not the one she was waiting for but still, he’s here, to fasten his lips on the strong shoulders, on the heavy breast whose slightly lugubrious profile is clearly visible through the speckled fabric. To strip off her blouse, he’s ready for that too, also to rub his skin against her skin, his age against her age, his grief against her youth, he wants to wallow in her body parts until they comfort him; her lips will comfort his lips, her fingers his fingers, her bones his bones, since it seems he’s trapped in the void that the deceased left behind while he was still alive and he doesn’t know how to get out of it, the void to which jasmine bushes lead the way with their sweet and heavy and intoxicating scent, this void which like birth and death cannot be apprehended, as if he’s been bewitched by the deceased in his last moments, and only a counter-spell can save him, and only if he’s comforted can he comfort others, the widow and her children and especially the lover who has no one to comfort her, and the desire is so strong that he has to cling with all his strength to the wooden doorpost lest he be swept towards her on a raging tide, because between him and her stand blocks of air as solid and motionless as corpses, planted in the floor, and if he approaches her he will be forced to push them aside too, Shlomit and the boys and even her, the secret lover.
So many times this has almost happened to him and at the last moment he’s grabbed the lintel, or the handle of the door, or his briefcase; any substantial object symbolised in that moment the stable life standing in the way of ruin, it seemed the slightest movement would bring about total collapse, and he takes the car keys from her hand. Any chance of a glass of water? he asks with parched throat, it’s terribly hot outside, and she hurries to the kitchen; did he really perceive disappointment in her face, what does she want, what does she want from him? The glass isn’t clean but he represses his distaste and drinks, naturally at home he would have rinsed it again and again; why is it that he, who takes cleanliness so seriously, is always coming up against women to whom that kind of pedantry is anathema, and he hands her the empty glass. Thanks, he says, I must be going, but to his surprise she urges him to stay. Like a beer? she offers, looking suddenly like a little girl afraid of being left alone in the house.
A beer? he asks as if she’s suggesting something exceptional, OK, if you’re having one too. He glances into the fridge which she’s opened and which looks to be in surprisingly good order, sits down at the kitchen table and wipes sweat from his brow. The sun which set some time ago is still attacking the roof of the apartment on the upper floor, its rays penetrating through the thin concrete and fixing on his forehead, and she puts a bottle in front of him and sits down, and again he notices the redness of her eyes, as if she was weeping bitterly before his arrival, and he asks, are you all right, has something happened?
He really doesn’t know much about her, she only came to his office two months ago, after taking her degree with distinction, intent on specialising in human rights cases, although she’s had offers from much bigger practices. With clien
ts she’s compassionate but practical and in her free time she joins every demonstration going, all instances of injustice and iniquity get her adrenalin flowing, and now as she smiles awkwardly he notices for the first time that her front teeth are remarkably small, giving her smile a somewhat frugal look.
I’m just a bit confused today, she says, her voice becoming almost childlike, I wanted to give you something, and when she rises and leaves the kitchen he imagines she’ll be leaning over the piles of junk in her room, which suddenly seem to have a kind of charm for him in their absolute freedom, something not at all perceptible in her movements, but she comes back at once and hands him an envelope. This just came today from the printer, she says, you’re the first, and he opens it and takes out a sheet of stiff brown paper, printed with simple letters, a few letters, some names, a date, a place, and he’s so surprised his brain can’t cope with what’s written there, and it’s hardest of all to figure out what it has to do with her.
What is this, who’s getting married, are you getting married? he asks, almost in shock, and she nods joylessly. It came today from the printer, she repeats, as if this will account for her gloom, and he recovers enough of his composure to say, Congratulations, Anati, that’s wonderful news! He wonders if he should shake her hand or embrace her, and as he’s sitting and she’s standing before him either of these actions would seem a little strange, so he examines the invitation again, and notices the single name under her name, the parents of the bride amount to just one father, whereas the groom comes equipped with both parents, as required, and already he’s concentrating on this detail and the painful imbalance it will create, marring the entire event. What happened to your mother? he asks, remembering how assiduous she had been in asking after the health of his mother when she was in hospital, and she says, she died when I was eight years old. She sits down facing him and wipes her eyes. I don’t know what’s happening to me, when I saw the invitation I was so flustered, suddenly I realised it was sort of for real.
Sort of for real? He’s astonished by this style of speech, whish isn’t typical of her, and she says, not sort of, actually for real, on the twentieth of August, Anat and Lior, but this Anat is me, and suddenly I’m no longer sure she really should marry Lior, because perhaps it’s too soon and perhaps she doesn’t love him enough and perhaps she hasn’t loved enough yet in her life. Do you always talk about yourself in the third person? he asks, fixated as usual on the style rather than the substance, and she blushes, only when I’m alone she says, it started after my mother died, and I’d tell her all night about her daughter, I got used to it, and she takes a thirsty gulp of beer, like a kindergarten child drinking chocolate and Avner sighs, it seems no one ever loves enough, how long have you been together?
Four years now, he’s my first boyfriend, she says, and I was the one who put pressure on him to marry, how strange it is, the way things change, but since we decided it’s been closed as far as he’s concerned, and suddenly for me it’s open. How do people know what is the right thing to do? She turns her wide eyes to him, full of tense enquiry, and he grins, that’s the question of questions, Anati, but there it is, we don’t know, aside from a few lucky people who see everything clearly.
The invitation still in his hand, he creases the edges of it distractedly, how do people know what is the right thing to do? Does he have any role in her life at this moment, should he be warning her? And he mutters hurriedly, as if he fears he’s going to say the wrong thing, listen, I married my first girlfriend and all my life I’ve regretted this, although I’ve taken no steps towards freeing myself from this marriage, and although obviously there’s no knowing how a different life would have worked out. Of course, this doesn’t teach you anything about your life, he’s quick to point out, you can’t draw a conclusion on the basis of another’s experience, but if you’re not sure then wait, sometimes it’s worth waiting for love, even if it comes when you’re already at death’s door; when I was with my mother in the hospital I saw love, and it’s a sight you don’t forget. His hands, feverish from the confession, fiddle with the cardboard as the phone rings and she gets up to answer it, and he’s surprised to hear how cold her voice is, I told you before, I want to be alone today, that’s enough, Lior, stop pressurising me, and Avner perks up quickly as if the words were addressed to him. I must go, they’re waiting for me at home, he says to her as she goes back to standing at the kitchen door, we’ll meet tomorrow in the office, he adds almost sadly, because for a moment he finds himself hoping he’ll never see her again, never see her and the agonising question on her face, what’s the right thing to do, and as he leaves the building, the car keys in his torn pocket, he crushes the invitation and throws it in the overflowing bin, with its garland of little bushes of garbage.
Chapter Five
It isn’t a matter of contemplation and cogitation, deciding who was in the right, she repeats, it’s determined by history. It was reality that left no room for doubt. The critical hour of the expulsions drew a distinction between the traditional way of adherence to the God of Israel, in defiance of rigid official decrees, and the spiritual-philosophical way of life that led towards change of religion. The question that has been debated incessantly since the twelfth century – whether it is permitted to dabble in extra-Judaic philosophies – was resolved not by reference to the precepts of the Talmud but on the basis of personal choice. In the opinion of the sages of the expulsion generation, this choice clearly proved who was sketching out a way of life and thought that had status in Judaism, such that Judaism could exist within it, and who was showing the way towards betrayal of faith and loss of identity – but a guttural sound like the cooing of a dove interrupts the flow that is so familiar to her; year after year she’s been trying to infect them with her enthusiasm, with steadily diminishing success. Is she to blame for this, or are successive generations losing interest?
Any questions so far? She turns to face the class, noticing one of the students who sits beside the window, the sunlight flooding her face and a tiny baby at her breast, making rhythmic gurgling sounds. Usually they ask her permission, and usually she doesn’t object. Congratulations, Abigail, she says caustically, only just born and already he needs to know about the Spanish expulsions? Irritation flushes her face and she continues her lecture in a severe tone as if trying to scare him off, there were two sides to the crisis created by the expulsions, the crisis of those who were expelled and the crisis of those who weren’t expelled. In the last years of the fifteenth century these two were combined into one deep crisis, which undermined the self-perception of Judaism as it had prevailed in Spain for hundreds of years, and demanded new solutions. Her eyes are fixed on the spectacle and the pain is thumping between her ribs: one body with two heads, one small and one large, each nourishing the other, a sight simultaneously wondrous and monstrous. The dark shadow of the nipple as it slips from the infant’s mouth, the sheer delight on his mother’s face, the cooing and gurgling sounds emanating from the tiny body as it fills up with milk, all these things rekindle her wrath at the young student who isn’t concentrating as he should, and his mother, who is subjecting her to an unbearable experience, presenting her with sights and sounds which like the act of love itself are not appropriate in public places.
Abigail, I’m sorry, this crying is a distraction for all of us, she hears herself saying, perhaps you should make other arrangements for lectures, and Abigail starts as if she’s been plucked from sleep. But he isn’t crying! she protests, her lips quivering in resentment, and Dina declares, of course he’s crying, it’s impossible to teach like this, all these noises are upsetting our concentration. Impatiently she watches the movements of the student as she gathers up her belongings and leaves with the baby in her arms. He utters a loud valedictory cry, and Dina smiles at the remainder of the class. I’m sorry, usually I have no problem with this but today it’s been really annoying, don’t you think?
It seems she will wait in vain for their endorsement; how tra
nsparent she must be in their eyes, a desiccated woman on the verge of the menopause expelling a young and fertile mother from her class. In the aftermath of the expulsion there was a boost to the Messianic principle in Jewish belief, she goes on to say, not only survival of the soul but also earthly redemption of the body, ingathering of the exiles and resurrection of the dead, all of these became values of immediate significance, and a tight connection was forged between awareness of destruction and hopes for salvation. Abigail’s empty chair rears up before her, flooded in sunlight, and is that a dummy that’s been left in the corner of the seat, perhaps she’ll pick it up after class and hide it in her pocket, confiscate it to teach the girl a lesson, but what will her students think of her, even the way things are now they’re looking at her suspiciously, and she cuts the session short a little ahead of time and escapes to the staff room, hoping to meet Naomi there, and sure enough here she is, poring over an open Bible and making notes in an exercise-book.
What are you still looking for there? she smiles at her, you must know it all by heart, and Naomi raises tired eyes to her, dark bags hanging under them, I wish, it’s been years since I taught this story and I don’t remember it at all. What story? Dina asks, filling a cup with cold water, and Naomi says, Hannah and Samuel, I forgot just how shocking it is, how could anyone give up a child like that, especially after she wanted him so much? And Dina listens without much interest, here’s another shocking story for you, she says, just now I threw a student out of my classroom because she brought a baby with her to the lecture.
You have the right to do that, it bothers me too if babies cry, Naomi says, and Dina confesses in a whisper, so her colleagues won’t overhear, but that’s just it, he wasn’t crying, it was out of jealousy I expelled her from the room, don’t you get it? I couldn’t bear to see this, and Naomi lays a hand on her arm, oy, Dini, what have you got to be jealous about? This baby will abandon her in the end too, even if you have ten children you’ll be left alone in the end, believe me.
The Remains of Love Page 12