by Dalya Bilu
When he was through with the vegetables and fruit, he would proceed to the meat market, bend over the bloody counters, and poke around in the piles of chicken drumsticks and thighs, looking for the plumpest and juiciest, skipping over the scrawny necks and wings with their tips chopped off, and watching the butcher like a hawk as he cut the turkey breast into thick slices for him. With blood seeping from his basket he would then visit Tzedkiyahu’s pickle stall, argue with him about politics, taste an olive, bite into a pickle, and decide on the fattest and creamiest cheese of all, the kind that left a sweet taste of butter on his tongue.
Then he would go to the fishmonger’s, look into the churning pond full of flapping tails and gaping mouths, and choose an agitated, swollen-bellied carp. And when he pointed to it with his finger, the fishmonger, whose apron, hands, and hair were always full of gray scales, would grin at him and wink and ask: “How come you always manage to choose the fattest and most beautiful female fish in the pond?” He would quickly dip his net into the pond and fish out the “lady carp full of eggs.” With one strong blow to the head of his victim, whose fleshy lips kept opening and closing alternately, he would silence the fish, throw it up in the air, and wait gleefully for it to fall onto the newspaper-covered counter. Then with the dexterity of a conjurer he would wrap its body firmly in the newspaper, leaving its orphaned tail to flap in blind anger on the wet counter.
Bowed down under the weight of his baskets, Shraga would go to the flower stalls to buy Rosa a big bunch of red and white gladiolus, with the request that the flower seller add a few ferns, to “give her a bit of green to look at.” Then he would get on the bus, squeeze in among the baskets of his neighbors, compare their produce with his own, and conclude that this time too he had done well. On the way home he would rehearse the key sentences he would say to Rosa when she opened the door. Sometimes he would repeat to himself the stories of the stall owners bragging to each other about the politician or football player from Betar Jerusalem who had stopped at their stall to chat with them about the political situation. He would tell Rosa how he, Shraga, had entered into a loud argument with the politician in question about the need to hang on to the occupied territories and not to budge an inch. Sometimes he would repeat to himself the songs and slogans chanted by the stall owners, especially those celebrating the Betar Jerusalem victory over Hapoel Tel Aviv, trying to remember every word and not omit a single detail. And with sweetness seeping through his bones, he would imagine Rosa’s beaming face and her soft hands nudging his ribs as she urged him to tell her more stories from the marketplace, to sing her the songs and describe the scents rising from the ripe summer fruits.
Rosa would wait for him with the Sabbath saucepans bubbling on the stove, with the dough for the bourekas, the phyllo pastry for the Moroccan “cigars,” and the chicken livers fried with onions, wine, and garlic—whose smell made her giddy with pleasure—breaking off bits to taste. And since the livers were so delicious, she went on dipping her spoon into the pan until she realized that the level had sunk dangerously low. Then she would make haste to cram the deplenished contents of the pan into the grinder, and grind the livers into a fine paste. After that she would season the paste with salt and pepper, roll it up in strips of pastry dough, and fry the cigars in deep oil until they turned golden.
With a steaming cigar in her mouth she would open the door to Shraga, and when he unloaded the baskets she would gaze admiringly at the booty he had brought back from the market and say proudly to herself that her husband was the best shopper in the building. When she had finished cooking, she would sit in her armchair, and Shraga would sing the market songs to her, describe the summer fruits, convey their smells to her nose, and flavor it all with words of his love for her.
On Friday nights, after her daughters helped her to wash the dishes, all her children and grandchildren went home, and with Angel bathed and put to sleep, Rosa would wait for Shraga to join her in bed. And he would put it off as usual. First he would go into Angel’s room to make sure that she was properly tucked in, and that not a single bloodsucking mosquito was circling her head. Then he would make the rounds of all the rooms, closing the blinds and locking the doors. Then he would go to the kitchen, to check that the faucets weren’t dripping and the gas was securely shut off. When he was satisfied with his inspection, he would take the insect spray and attack all the danger spots, paying particular attention to the ants and searching out their hidden nesting places and those of their allies, the ticks. When he was finished with the insects, he turned his attention to himself. For a time that seemed to stretch into eternity Rosa would lie listening to the splashing of his urine in the lavatory bowl, to his gargling, and to the brushing of his teeth.
When the noises in the bathroom subsided, he would step into the bedroom and sit down lightly on the bed, which received his firm buttocks with a gentle sigh of its springs. Slowly he would take off his shoes and line them up neatly under the bed. He would roll his socks methodically down his calves and sniff them before rolling them up together in an inextricable knot “so they won’t get lost in the wash.” When he was done with his socks, he would raise his hands to his neck, loosen his tie, roll it into a tight coil, and put it away in a drawer. When he reached his shirt Rosa felt as if her heart would burst. He would undo the buttons slowly and deliberately, carefully feeling each one to make sure that it wasn’t hanging by a thread and in urgent need of repair. When the inspection was over he would fold the shirt precisely along the lines left by the iron, even if it was dirty and destined for the laundry hamper. When he reached his trousers Rosa would hold her breath. Then he would unfasten his snakeskin belt with its gilt Dior buckle, roll it up neatly, and turn to his fly, holding the tongue of the zipper daintily between his index finger and thumb. In the silent house Rosa would hear the popping sound of the tiny iron teeth parting after a long day of symbiosis. After taking off his trousers he would align the seams, straighten them out, and hang them carefully in the closet.
And just as Rosa’s patience was about to snap, he would slip into bed next to her. Then he would delicately feel her vast breasts, squeeze her nipples, stroke her belly overflowing in all directions, close her mouth with a kiss, and when she sighed, he would try to penetrate her. Groaning in an agony of passion Rosa would open herself up to him, and Shraga, panting as if he had been obliged to climb a mountain, would mount the hill of her stomach, cling to the cliffs of her breasts, and falter at the entrance to her body. No sooner did he succeed in penetrating her than he wet her with his seed, extricated himself from her embrace, and slid off her onto his pillow, after which he immediately curled up in the blanket and fell sound asleep like a satisfied baby. And Rosa would listen to his light snores and to the throbbing of the blood in her groin.
She soon learned to wet her finger and rub the flaming spot between her legs, ignoring as best she could the dull, stifled murmurs, the knocking on the glass, and the promises of assistance coming from the ceiling. The desperate sounds would grow louder when strong contractions wrung her body, bringing warmth, consolation, and calm in their wake. Then she would clasp the sleeping Shraga to her bosom and try to fall asleep despite the noise.
One night, as her husband lay snoring by her side while she rubbed the fount of her pleasure, the noises from above rose to an impudent crescendo, a shower of strangled curses and vituperation that succeeded in waking Shraga from his sleep. As soon as he sat up in bed, rubbing his eyes in confusion, the noises stopped abruptly.
“There are mice in the house,” he cried in a shrill, squeaky voice. “As long as they don’t gnaw holes in my shoes!” Then he recovered and announced in manly tones that on Friday he would buy mousetraps in the market.
By the next morning the incident had been forgotten, but as soon as he left the house with Angel, Rosa took the aluminum ladder and climbed up heavily to the storage space door. She lifted Joseph’s picture out with difficulty and climbed down with it to the floor. Joseph’s eyes gleamed at
her expectantly through the glass. She avoided looking at him, loosened the screws attaching the picture to the gilt frame, and ripped it out. A sigh of relief escaped from Joseph’s lips as he was freed from his prison. Indifferent to his imploring eyes, she flattened his face as if flattening a piece of dough with a rolling pin, and rolled the picture up. Then she pulled the rubber band out of her hair, uprooting a few curly fair hairs as she did so, fastened it tightly around the rolled-up photograph, and left the house with her dead husband in her hands. All the way to Ruhama’s house Joseph begged for his life, promised not to bother her anymore, not to mock her new husband, not to sabotage her marriage, and even to try to like Shraga, the stink of whose shoes spread through the house and invaded his nose. With uncharacteristic sternness she ignored his promises and pressed her finger firmly on the bell of the door, which bore a bronze plaque inscribed in curly letters with the words: “Ruhama and Nissim Levy live here in prosperity and happiness.”
Ruhama paled when she saw who was standing on the threshold and smiling at her like an old friend. She recovered immediately and invited Rosa in with all the airs and graces of an aristocrat down on her luck. Rosa surveyed the miserable apartment, which had evidently seen better days, and her nostrils quivered as they were suddenly assailed by a storm of smells. It was an intolerable cacophony of roses and narcissi, jasmine and violets, all mixed up together and flavored with hints of strange and unfamiliar sweet scents. And the atoms of all these smells combined into a rare and inseparable chemical compound, producing a heavy scent that made it difficult for her to breathe and pressed on her chest. When she recovered, one smell rose in her nostrils, dominating all the others, sharp, tender, and mocking—the smell of Joseph’s lavender soap.
At that moment she was sure that Joseph’s head was about to pop out suddenly from the bathroom door, and she saw him in her imagination staring at the two of them in bewilderment, smiling the crooked smile that had been fixed on his face at the hour of his death. When she sat down heavily on the sofa, she noticed the walls of the room. What had looked at first like patches of color on a brightly patterned wallpaper turned out to be the heads of silk and plastic flowers attached to the wall by little steel nails. There were roses, narcissi, violets, gladiolus, carnations, and all kinds of exotic blooms she had never seen before. The flowers brazenly displayed their artificial reproductive organs to her as if they were desperately demanding to be pollinated.
Ruhama followed Rosa’s curious glances and answered her unasked question: “Where there are flowers there must be butterflies.” Her head spinning with the scents and sights, and with a shower of visionary butterflies descending before her eyes, Rosa accepted her old friend’s offer of coffee. Ruhama opened the refrigerator door with a flourish to get the milk, but her hand returned empty. Except for a couple of eggs staring at her from blind white eyes, and a single carrot lying limp and shriveled on the tray, the refrigerator was empty. In the absence of milk, Rosa agreed to take tea, but since there was no sugar either, she found herself sipping lukewarm tap water from a dirty glass her hostess set before her as if it contained the nectar of the gods.
Apologizing for the lack of cake, Ruhama explained that there was nobody to eat it, and she didn’t want to bake for herself because she didn’t want to put on weight. Rosa examined Ruhama’s slender figure with interest, and she couldn’t understand what Joseph had seen in her, since he had always insisted that he liked his wife fat and juicy. But after looking deep into her rival’s dark eyes, she realized how beautiful she was, and couldn’t help congratulating her late husband on his excellent taste in women. And when she remembered Joseph, she recalled the purpose of her visit and pushed the rolled-up picture into Ruhama’s hands.
“It’s yours,” she said. “I’m married now, and I don’t need him anymore.”
Ruhama unrolled the picture and turned pale as the face of her beloved was revealed.
“The first butterfly,” she couldn’t resist saying.
Ignoring this remark, Rosa watched Ruhama as she gazed down at the picture, hot tears falling from her eyes and spotting Joseph’s face with round, wet stains.
“I miss him so much,” she sobbed through clenched teeth. “I always loved him. I loved his serious face. When we were still living in the villa in Old Katamon I let him touch me, because he promised to marry me.”
Rosa restrained herself. Encouraged by her rival’s silence, Ruhama went on talking, trying to fill in the vacuum left by her lover’s death. “You have no idea how I suffered when you married him. I was actually ill. I had no alternative, and I married Nissim, but I always went on loving Joseph.”
“How did it begin?” asked Rosa grimly.
“When he opened Cinema Rosa. How I envied you when he named it for you. Every evening I sat there and cried my heart out over him. Until we began to sit together in the projection room, crying and embracing.”
The two women sat in the kitchen, Rosa asking and Ruhama answering. They compared dates, days, and hours, and tried to work out which of them he had spent more time with. Unable to reach a common conclusion, they agreed that Joseph, as cunning as a devil, had calculated his every move and cleverly tricked them both.
“He told me that he wasn’t going to bed with you anymore,” said Ruhama, choking on a laughter that she didn’t understand.
“And at the same time he couldn’t keep his hands off me and he followed me around the house sticking to my backside like a leech,” retorted Rosa.
“And when he told you that he was going to the movie theater to check up on a new movie, he was really with me,” said Ruhama.
“He always came home and jumped on me as hungry as if he had been watching a blue movie instead of a Turkish tearjerker,” reported Rosa, “and the next morning he was at it again, as if nothing had happened the night before.”
Laughing wildly, they compared notes on positions, circumstances, and situations. Afterward Ruhama said that she didn’t understand why Rosa was in such a hurry to get married. “All I wanted was for my husband to leave me and set me free so that I could begin to enjoy my life,” she confessed. “In my heart of hearts I wanted him to die, among other things because black suits me. The moment he left I was free and I could do whatever I wanted. Including be with Joseph,” she said, stealing a look at Rosa.
The two enemies parted like friends, and Ruhama promised Rosa that she would look after the picture and have it framed by Tzarfati. Since she was childless, Rosa offered her the services of Jackie-Ya’akov, her son with the golden hands, to drill a hole in the wall and hang the picture for her in the place of her choice.
But when she came home all the old angers against Joseph began to well up inside her, and she knew that from then on she would not allow him to trouble her anymore, and she would banish from her mind all the disturbing thoughts, feelings of guilt, and agonies of conscience that sometimes came to haunt her for having married Shraga. That night, with Joseph far away, rolled up tightly and fastened with a rubber band in Ruhama’s house, she surrendered herself to Shraga’s caring hands, and in the peace and quiet that had suddenly descended on her life she loved her new husband more than ever.
But the next day Ruhama showed up on her doorstep with the picture in her hands. “I couldn’t sleep all night,” she confessed. “All night long I dreamed that he was calling me a whore, cursing me, and demanding that I give him back to you.” Silently Rosa took the rolled-up face of her dead husband, and as if nothing had happened invited her old friend and rival to coffee with milk and a slice of the fruitcake she had just taken out of the oven. And when Angel came home from her day care they both played with her until Shraga came back from work, and then Rosa invited her to supper, and watched her compassionately as she shoveled the food into her mouth as if she hadn’t eaten a decent meal for years.
* * *
During this period Rosa put on so much weight that she had difficulty walking and was short of breath when she climbed the stairs. Shraga inst
alled a little stool attached by a spring to the wall of the landing between the second and third floors for her, so that she could pull it out and sit down when she got tired. When her heart began to give her trouble, Dr. Sternschus, their family doctor at the HMO clinic, told her that if she didn’t start exercising at once she wouldn’t be responsible for the consequences. Accordingly Rosa went and registered at the health club run by the rabbi’s wife, Leah-Tehiya, an establishment exclusively for women in the dank basement of the Helpmeets to the Righteous school for girls in the city center, next to the Geula Quarter. There Rosa found herself in the company of women with stomachs sagging from innumerable births, their heads bound in dark turbans that hid gleaming shaved scalps, and their bodies draped in shapeless, faded dressing gowns. They stood in rows, trying in vain to reach their toes with the tips of fingers scarred by the vigorous action of kitchen knives on wooden cutting boards. Together with worn-out wrinkled women older than she was, she took slow, tottering steps on the treadmills. Then she would wait her turn to lie down on the vibrating beds that twisted her body from side to side, threw her legs up in the air, forced her thighs apart, pushed her head in the direction of her neck, and mercilessly shook her rolls of fat.