And so, even if a drop of mystery has fallen here, there is still no one capable of sensing it. Certainly not the young doctor’s father, Mr. Rubin, a tall English Jew wearing an old felt hat purchased five years before on a trip to Manchester, the city of his birth, who has been listening for some time in profound and patient silence to the lively explanations of the hospital director, whose hands, now that his luggage is sailing away on the conveyor belt, are free to sketch the map of India over and over in the air, pointing out the possibilities of various alternative routes, while his plump little wife, dressed in a loose blue tunic, her eyes no doubt already smiling behind her big sunglasses, listens calmly to the polite small talk of Mrs. Rubin, a lean, bony English Jewess, who steps ahead of her toward the guard, who in a moment will separate with a gesture of his hand the passengers and the people seeing them off, but who will not be able to separate the common thought, new and pleasant, that has begun spinning itself secretly—yes, secretly and without a word—be tween the two middle-aged women, each of whom is now imagining to herself a possible love story between the young doctor- son, who still sees the journey as something that has been forced upon him, and the sick daughter, waiting thousands of miles away in a state of total debilitation.
To my great relief my seat on the plane was not next to the Lazars, but several rows distant from them. If they had arranged it that way on purpose, I thought, it was an encouraging sign. They too wanted to avoid excessive intimacy, which would make us get on each other’s nerves right at the beginning of the trip. And indeed, for the first three hours of the flight I saw them only once, on my way to the toilet. They were sitting in the last row, in the smokers’ section; their breakfast trays had not yet been removed, but the curtain on the window was drawn. Lazar’s wife was sleeping, the dark glasses clutched in her fist, her head buried in the chest of her husband, who was studying some papers. My parents, who were only a little older than they were, would never have dared to display such intimacy in public. I intended to slip past without their noticing me, but Lazar took off his gold-rimmed reading glasses and asked me affably if I had managed to sleep. “I didn’t even try,” I replied immediately. “I’ve decided to tire myself out in anticipation of the flight to New Delhi tonight.” I could see that this practical answer was to his liking. “Do you find it difficult to fall asleep in the air too?” he asked. “Yes,” I said. “So you’re like me,” he pronounced happily, as if he had found an ally. “I’ve never been able to sleep on a plane. We’ll see what happens tonight.” His wife raised her head; without her glasses her eyes looked red and puffy with sleep, but they immediately lit up in that mechanical, indiscriminate smile of hers. “What nice parents you have,” she said unhesitatingly, as if she had just seen them in her dreams. “Yes,” I nodded in agreement, and added without knowing why, “They’re not hysterical.” But she understood. “That’s right,” she said. “Your mother told me that they actually encouraged you to make the trip with us.”
“Yes, India has apparently kept its charms for Englishmen of the older generation.”
“You won’t be sorry you came with us,” she said soothingly, as if she still felt that she had to overcome the vestiges of my resistance. “You’ll see.” I didn’t answer, only smiled faintly. It was on the tip of my tongue to ask her about the foreign currency the girl from her office had withdrawn from the bank in my name and for some reason pocketed herself, but I restrained myself and continued on my way to the toilet.
We reached Rome at eleven o’clock in the morning, and had about ten hours until the night flight to New Delhi. During these ten hours we had to get our visas for India, and Lazar decided that we should drag our luggage with us in order not to lose precious time, so that we wouldn’t have to come back to the airport in case of any delay with the visas, should we miss our flight and have to sleep over in Rome. But his wife was in favor of leaving the luggage at the airport so that we could get around more freely. They immediately plunged into a heated argument, which Lazar, with his practical pessimism, seemed on the point of winning, but suddenly, without any warning, she gained the upper hand, and the three of us went to look for the baggage check. We walked up and down corridors, confused by misleading directions, with Lazar grumbling at his wife all the time, “You see what a mess you’ve gotten us into now?” until in the end she stopped smiling and hissed, “Stop whining, get a hold of yourself,” and he shut up. Finally we found the place, which seemed to be located in a very out-of-the-way spot, but when we remarked on this to the baggage handler, he protested indignantly and pointed to the nearby elevator, which reached the heart of the airport. Once more we were obliged to undergo the tedious process of opening our luggage and having it inspected, and I was forced to contemplate for the second time their intimate belongings—far too many, in my opinion, for a short trip with a serious purpose to a poor country. Lazar collected the claim tickets and we emerged unburdened into a large plaza to look for a cab. His wife smiled happily, and said with a note of self-congratulation, without any animosity, “There you are—now we can move freely.” But although Lazar too seemed pleased, he didn’t want to admit it. “We’ve wasted the whole morning on the luggage, and who knows if those Indians go back to work at all after their lunch break.” But it transpired that the Indians worked without a break. When we arrived at the consulate building, which was surrounded by shrubs and ornamental trees, we found a long line of waiting Indians, and we lost no time in joining it. But Lazar soon expressed doubts as to the purpose of the line and wandered off to make inquiries, returning to announce triumphantly that we were in the wrong line: this one was only for Indians, the line for foreigners was around the back. And indeed, behind the building, in a little annex, we found an office with only a few European youths waiting in front of it. Lazar took my two passports, deliberating whether to present the Indians with the Israeli one or the British one, which seemed to interest him greatly, for he kept turning the pages to see how it was organized. In the end he gave it back to me, saying that we had better not present them with a passport that we would not know how to defend if it turned out to have flaws we had not noticed, and handed the three Israeli passports to the quiet, dark-skinned clerk, who refused even to look at them without the airline tickets and vaccination certificates. Lazar whipped out these documents, which he had ready, and smiled modestly. As a bureaucrat himself, he knew how much damage and delay could be caused by one recalcitrant official at a pivotal point. But the official wasn’t in the least hostile. The visas were quickly stamped, and we returned to the Roman street with eight free hours in front of us.
It was one o’clock, and Lazar’s wife, whom he called Dori, announced with a gleam in her eye that before anything else we had to find a good restaurant. But although I too was very hungry I decided that if I didn’t set limits right away, I would soon begin to find the pressure unbearable. I therefore informed them that I preferred to do without lunch at the moment and would wander around by myself instead, slightly stressing the words “by myself.” They were taken aback. “Aren’t you hungry?” asked Lazar with fatherly concern. “That’s not the point,” I an swered frankly. “I just don’t want to waste any time. I’ve never been in Rome before, and I want to look around a bit on my own.” Again I gently stressed the words “on my own.” His wife’s automatic smile suddenly vanished. Her face grew grave, and she touched her husband’s sleeve lightly, as if to warn him. But Lazar didn’t feel her touch. “Just a minute,” he cried in alarm. “Where do you want to go, and where will we meet?”
“Where will we meet?” I thought aloud. “At the airport, of course. I’ve got my ticket, and if you’ll be so good as to give me back my passport and the claim checks for my suitcase and knapsack, I’ll go straight to the airport in time for the flight.” Lazar was still upset by this sudden independent plan. “Just a minute,” he cried, “where in the airport? And why the airport? You saw how complicated it is there. Perhaps we should meet somewhere in town, at least, so
we don’t lose each other just before the flight.” But his wife, who had grasped my clear intention of drawing a definite line between us, hastened to reassure him. “It’s perfectly all right. Why not? We’ll meet when we board the plane. What’s the problem?” And he was obliged to take my passport as well as the checks for my suitcase and the medical knapsack out of his pocket, asking as he unwillingly did so, “But where do you want to go in Rome? In what direction?”
“I don’t have a direction, I don’t know yet,” I replied, careful not to mention any specific place in case they found a way to join me after all. And then I saw a flicker of offense in his eyes, but he suppressed it immediately, and confined himself to asking me if I had enough money. “No, I’ve got hardly any money,” I answered quickly, and directed a look of silent rebuke at his wife. “The girl from the office withdrew my foreign currency from the bank yesterday, but then she took it with her.” Mrs. Lazar blushed. Lazar took her purse from her and rummaged in it for the envelope with the money. He counted the bills, reflected, and gave me half, two hundred dollars, and then changed his mind and added another hundred, saying, “You see, it’s a good thing I asked you. But I don’t understand,” he said, confronting his wife, “why she didn’t give him the money, and how come you didn’t notice it was there. Didn’t you even look in the envelope she gave you?” But before she could reply he dismissed it with an impatient “Never mind, never mind,” and turned to me. “Let’s not waste any more time. But you see, it’s a good thing that I’m something of a worrier, otherwise you would have gone off without any money, and if you got lost we would all be in a real mess. And from now on, please don’t be shy with us, tell us if anything’s bothering you or if you need anything, and that way there won’t be any misunderstandings. Now, where are you thinking of going?” He seemed determined to get it out of me, and I said without thinking, “Since I’m here, I may as well pay a short visit to the Vatican,” and the two of them chorused in evident relief, “An excellent idea.”
And I, bound by my promise, set out to look for the Vatican, even though I knew that we would see plenty of holy places in India, and according to Lazar the town of Gaya itself was full of ancient temples. But at least I would have something in my recent memory to compare with all that, I thought to myself, maybe even a subject to talk to them about. As soon as I got off the bus at St. Peter’s Square, I found a mobile pizza stand and bought two hot little pizzas and ate them standing up, taking shelter from the raindrops under a convenient awning. In spite of the gray light, I wanted a photograph of myself against the background of the famous gray dome. I noticed a group of elderly tourists nearby, standing under a canopy of umbrellas and listening to the explanations of a tour guide who was wrapped up tight in a raincoat. Judging by their unperturbed attitude to the rain, and also by the battered felt hat—like my father’s—which one of them wore, I guessed that they were English, and I was drawn to them. I took advantage of a momentary pause in the guide’s lecture and asked one of the women, whose gray head was wrapped in a big woolen scarf, to take a photo of me in front of the dome in two different poses. After she returned the camera, she explained that they were a group of pensioners from England on a European tour, as I had guessed, and for most of them it was their first time abroad. When I told her that I was flying to India that very evening, to a remote town in the east of the subcontinent, to bring a sick young woman home to Israel, her eyes lit up with curiosity, and for a moment she didn’t want to let me go. At first I thought that it was the idea of my imminent flight to India which appealed to her, but it quickly transpired that it was the idea of a young doctor flying to the ends of the earth to heal a sick person that caused her excitement. She called her friends to tell them about me and my rescue mission, and one of the old men immediately stepped forward to say that he had served in India himself and was very willing to tell us all about it. The young Italian guide, too, nodded at me affectionately and invited me to join the group for the rest of their tour of the Vatican, and although I was afraid that joining this geriatric group would eat up the few hours I had to spare until the flight—for I had already noted the extreme slowness of their pace—I thought it might force me to take Hishin’s advice and split off from the Lazars on the way back from India, in order to spend a day or two sightseeing in Rome. And this way I’d have at least finished the Vatican. Which was, indeed, exactly what I felt when I parted from the English pensioners in the big, empty square at half-past five in the evening, in the darkness and the rain, my mind crammed with historical explanations and detailed descriptions. At first I thought of going straight to the airport and getting rid of my hunger there, for I guessed that Lazar would be there early, and even though we had agreed to meet between seven and eight, he would soon begin to worry about me. But on second thought I decided that for the sake of our future travel, I had better start getting him used to trusting my reliability, and I wanted, too, to enjoy my last hours away from this couple, with whom I would undoubtedly be forced into ever closer proximity. I therefore sat down in a modest restaurant on the corner of one of the streets leading out of the Vatican and ate a full meal, which did not prevent me from arriving, complete with suitcase and medical kit, at our charter-flight counter two full minutes before the deadline agreed to with Mr. Lazar.
In the distance I could already see his grayish mane sticking up between the brightly colored saris. The two of them sat side by side next to their two suitcases and newly acquired parcels, among the colorful crowd of passengers gathering near our flight counter, which had not yet opened. Lazar was very pleased by my punctuality, even though he had no cause for concern, because it had already been announced that our flight would be two hours late. He made room for me next to him and asked me to put my luggage with theirs. “From now on we should stick together,” he declared, in case I might be contemplating some new adventure. His wife inquired about my visit to the Vatican. They themselves had not seen anything of particular importance, only strolled along some beautiful streets and bought essential presents. “Do you have to bring back presents even from a trip like this?” I asked in surprise. “Why not?” asked Mrs. Lazar with a smile, and a somewhat reprimanding look which was apparently directed at her husband too, who explained that she still suffered from the old Israeli guilt at the very fact of leaving the country, which had to be covered up by expensive gifts for those left behind. “Guilt?” I persisted. “For this trip?”
“For every trip,” his wife said quickly, turning to her husband and adding, “Perhaps we should buy something to eat, sandwiches and snacks. Who knows what kind of meal they’ll serve on this peculiar flight, if they serve one at all.” He immediately rose to his feet, but she got up quickly too, saying, “I’ll come with you.” This woman really can’t be alone, I thought, smiling to myself. “We’re a little past the age for these charter flights,” apologized Lazar, who seemed put out by the character of the crowd gathering around us, which consisted mainly of teenagers with huge backpacks. His wife offered to bring me something from the buffet too, but I politely declined. “I’ve already eaten a full meal,” I said, “and I think it will last me until we reach India.” I suggested that they go and sit down in the cafeteria and eat a decent meal, while I stayed behind and looked after the baggage. I had already noticed that they suffered from a chronic anxiety about remaining hungry, and that they were constantly sucking candy or chewing gum. And indeed, they were both obviously overweight, although Mrs. Lazar was more disciplined about the way she carried herself and succeeded to some extent in disguising the roundness of her belly. They quickly vanished, and I put a couple of parcels on the chairs they had vacated to keep their seats for them. In the meantime the commotion about the delay increased, although someone from the airline had arrived at the counter and started negotiating with problematic passengers.
Suddenly, through the display window of a small, fancy shoe boutique opposite me, I saw her silhouette. Sitting on a little armchair in her skirt and blous
e, stretching one long leg toward the gentleman who was lightly supporting her foot in order to demonstrate the virtues of the dainty shoe to Lazar. He examined it closely and compared it with another shoe he was holding in his hand. A pale green light, faintly reminiscent of the lighting in an operating room at home, shone from the little display window and lent an air of secrecy to the picture of the plump woman stretching her long legs out to the two men. Passersby stopped to look. They were really a strange couple, these two, caught up in their pleasures to the last moment, seemingly indifferent to the difficult journey awaiting them, and perhaps even to thoughts of the condition in which they would find their sick daughter. When the flight was announced over the loudspeaker at last, they hurried up excitedly, carrying wrapped sandwiches in a bag and two cardboard shoeboxes. “The shoes here are so cheap that it’s hard to resist the temptation,” explained Lazar, “and they’re so beautiful too.” He went on apologizing while his silent wife, who seemed embarrassed at his apologies, opened the two suitcases, the contents of which I was already becoming only too familiar with, and stacked the Roman purchases one on top of the other, trying to leave the shoes in their boxes. But Lazar immediately jumped up in protest. “You’ll burst the bag with those idiotic boxes,” he warned her. But she refused to give in. We both watched hostilely as she stubbornly tried to cram the shoeboxes into the suitcases. One of them disappeared into the depths of the case, but the other rebelled. It seemed that she would be obliged to give up and bury the naked shoes among the clothes, and then, I don’t know why, I suddenly felt a strange compassion for this middle-aged woman’s childish disappointment, and I offered her my suitcase as a temporary lodging place for her new shoes. Lazar still objected, and started scolding her for her stubbornness. “Why on earth do you have to drag that damned shoebox all the way to India and back?” But his wife didn’t even look at him. She raised her head, shook her collapsing hairdo out of her eyes, and looked at me with a flushed face, not even troubling to smile her familiar smile: “Are you sure you don’t mind?”
Open Heart Page 5