Part III
SPRING
1
DURING THE THREE-HOUR WAIT at Orly for his flight to Tel Aviv, Molkho bought some perfume for his mother-in-law and a large bar of chocolate for his mother while trying every half-hour to phone his cousin, whose home didn’t answer. Once in the air, above the Alps, dinner having already been served, he took out a large sheet of paper, wrote “Paris” on one side and “Berlin” on the other, extracted the receipts he had saved from his wallet, and began to calculate his expenses, racking his memory for every cup of coffee, piece of cake, gift, or taxi he had paid for while thinking of his days abroad, which now seemed to have passed with a sort of muddled intensity. Yet though the Berlin figures tallied to the mark, he was unable to account for three hundred and thirty francs spent in Paris. No matter how hard he shut his eyes and tried reliving every moment in the French capital, the missing sum continued to elude him, until finally, somewhere over the Aegean, he gave it up and went for a stroll in the aisles to see if there were any passengers he knew.
In Israel, stepping out of the terminal, he was assailed at once by a hot, dry wind that heralded the onset of spring, and noticed that the rows of oleanders were already in bloom. The winter, he saw, was gone for good, though the harassed-looking Israelis running back and forth seemed not to have realized it yet and might take several weeks to do so. He telephoned his mother to inform her of his arrival and then looked around for a cab, half-hoping that the college student would be there to meet him, although he had expressly told him not to bother. And indeed, the young man did not.
At the taxi stand Molkho was approached by a woman who asked if he wished to share a cab to Haifa, and he agreed. The woman, who had just returned from a shopping spree in London, was in the best of spirits, having managed to slip through customs without paying a cent of duty. Unabashedly she told Molkho about all the money she had saved and about the weakness of the British pound, and all the while, their driver, who had never been abroad at all, listened to her recite the bargain prices in London with resentful amazement, all but ready to set out for there himself. Molkho listened sleepily, glancing now and then at his vivacious fellow passenger surrounded by her bundles and feeling thankful he hadn’t surrendered his single status in Berlin. Halfway to Haifa, after they had heard the 11 P.M. news, he made a few discreet inquiries about her own status, only to find out that she had a husband who was very much alive, a Sephardi from Jerusalem, like him. “There’s no place like Jerusalem,” she exclaimed, telling him how she and her husband missed it. “Don’t you?” she asked. “Not especially,” answered Molkho. And whenever he did, a single visit was enough to cure him.
The taxi let him off by his house. The street was deserted, and he felt as though a hundred years had passed since he had waited in it for his mother-in-law on the night of his wife’s death. The apartment was dark. Oddly, though, the double bed, piled high with blankets, was back in his bedroom, the single one having been pushed aside to make way for it. The high school boy was asleep in his room, and Molkho woke him and kissed him. “Who moved the double bed in from the terrace?” he demanded. “Some friends who slept over,” answered the boy. “And how is grandma?” asked Molkho worriedly. “She’s fine,” his son said, recoiling a bit when caressed. In fact, he had had several meals with her in the old-age home, and last Friday night his brother and sister had joined them. “I missed you,” said Molkho, a lump in his throat, suddenly thinking of the shabby man drunk on the music of the opera. He wanted to talk, to tell about his trip, but the boy was too sleepy and had an early class in the morning.
2
EARLY THE NEXT MORNING Molkho called his mother-in-law to say that he was back. He told her about her niece in Paris, but only briefly because he wished to save the rest for a visit that afternoon, even though she did not seem too keen on it. “Why bother?” she asked. “You must have lots to do, and you’ll see me on Friday anyway; you can tell me everything then.” But Molkho was not to be dissuaded. “I have some gifts for you,” he informed her happily. “Gifts?” she asked, a note of worry in her voice.
He went the next afternoon. It was a warm, bright day. The teacups, sugar, and the crackers were already set out in a corner of her spic-and-span room. As usual, she seemed in good health, although a trifle thinner, and her squint had gotten slightly worse beneath her heavy glasses. Without further ado, he took the gifts from a plastic bag: a white nightgown with a lace collar and the collapsible cane that folded in four like a magic flute. “It’s perfect for you,” he told her, “because you don’t generally need it, so you can take it out of your bag when you do.” She seemed quite bewildered, even slightly distressed, and had no end of trouble opening and shutting it, despite all his efforts to show her how simple it was. Finally she thanked him, laid the cane aside, and promised with a smile to practice. That was the moment for the last present, a bottle of perfume from Orly—the same scent, explained Molkho, that she had liked so much when he brought some from Paris on his last visit there with his wife.
The old woman blushed, took off her glasses, and gripped the vial of perfume in her veiny hands, staring at the label. She seemed to want to say something but, with that deep inner control of hers, refrained; instead, putting down the bottle, she thanked him perfunctorily, and he turned to his tea and crackers, telling her about Paris and her niece, who seemed so contented and full of life, not at all bitter or hypercritical like his wife. The old woman nodded understandingly, her stiff white hair falling forward. He told her about the snow too—in fact, about each single day, even the visit to the opera—while she did her best to follow, glancing from time to time out the window at the sun setting into the clear, mild evening above the bushes turning red at their branch tips. “To think that winter is already over here and that there I ran into a blizzard!” he exclaimed. “Don’t be so quick to bury the winter,” retorted his mother-in-law; and so, changing the subject, he asked her about the high school boy, how he had been and what he had eaten, and about her old-age home. Had anything happened there in his absence? Yet though he inquired about several residents whose names he had heard mentioned by his wife, all were still alive and well.
Perhaps, Molkho found himself hoping, the old lady would invite him to have dinner with her at the home. But she gave no indication of it, and if anything, seemed eager for him to depart—something, however, that he was not in any hurry to do. The two of them, after all, had shared the same adventure, and even if it was over now, the deep bond between them remained. Sinking deeper into his armchair, he watched the dusk fall on her wrinkled old face and suddenly confessed, as if he had done it just for her sake, “I was in that Berlin of yours too.” “In Berlin?” she asked, astonished, perhaps even upset. “Yes,” he said. His wife never wanted to go there with him, so now he had seized the opportunity. “All those countries are so close anyway,” he added breezily, as though to prove that he was free now and that the rules had changed. “You went by yourself?” she queried. “Yes,” he said, not wanting to distress her, “by myself,” and he told her about the travel agency that arranged opera tours of Europe. The idea of his becoming an opera buff clearly seemed bizarre, if not perverse, to her, for at once he felt her hostile reaction, though controlling herself she held her peace and waited for him to go on; but instead, he asked about her memories of Berlin, and especially about the house she had lived in, which she was not at all eager to recall, mentioning only that it had had an elevator, the only one on the street. Producing from his pocket the hotel map of Berlin, Molkho asked her to show him where it was. “You mean the street?” she asked with an unsure laugh, holding the map upside down, still unable to fathom his being there. She turned the map around, tried taking off her glasses, complained about the small print, went to bring her reading glasses, and announced that they were no better, while Molkho patiently sought to help her, pointing out his hotel, which was circled in red, and the Berlin Wall, though he could see she wasn’t really listening. “Noth
ing is left of it anyway,” she said to him. “It’s all been destroyed and rebuilt.” At last, she laid the map on the table and compromised by promising to ask one of her friends and perhaps even to try remembering herself.
Out in the street the last rays of daylight lingered on. The hot spring wind grew stronger, oblivious of the rain clouds still drifting slowly in the west, and Molkho thought, Here I am free to choose any woman I want, even two, and all I lack is the desire. He stared at the sexy model in an illuminated bus-station ad and recalled with a smile how the little old squirrel had said to him, all excited by her discovery, “You killed her little by little.” Did his mother-in-law think so too? And yet she had been his faithful partner, even if lately she had been acting rather coolly toward him. He remembered how, eight or nine years ago, his wife had wanted to leave him, how she even had run away for a few days, only to return in the end, and how, knowing that she would, he had managed not to panic. The children were small then. Once again he felt how much he missed her. He pictured her lying gloomily in bed, listening to music and reading. “What’s left of her now?” he mused, clenching his fists, imagining her rotting like the binding of an old book.
He noticed a brand-new supermarket and went in to have a look at it, having no end of time at his disposal; but returning to his car, he spied his mother-in-law sitting by herself at the bus stop in her winter coat and red cap, her glasses glinting in the sun and her old cane gripped in one hand. Why, he wondered indignantly, hadn’t she asked him for a ride? He stood staring at her hypnotically, listening to her bus climb the hill until it appeared and stopped. Quickly, erectly, as if she intended to live forever, her ticket in her other hand, she boarded it and disappeared. I should see a little less of her, thought Molkho. Maybe I scare her. It wasn’t as if his wife had asked him to take special care of her.
3
AFTER THE SABBATH DINNER that Friday night, when the table had been cleared, his mother-in-law reached for her reading glasses and handed Molkho the map of Berlin, on which the conjectured location of her house had been marked beside the name of the street, written in an unfamiliar hand. Her recently arrived friend from Russia, who had been her neighbor back in the prewar days when her husband had worked in the Soviet embassy in Berlin, had helped find it for her. It was far from Molkho’s hotel—in fact, in the eastern part of the city. So much for his sixth sense of being near it! But why, asked the old woman, did it matter? Did he intend to go back? Of course not, he replied, he was simply curious. In fact, the whole thing was unimportant; he just thought she would be happy to know he had been near his wife’s birthplace. She looked at him suspiciously, her eyes a dark velvet. Since his return from abroad, she seemed to harbor some resentment against him, and so he placatingly asked about the new friend from Russia she had been spending so much time with. The fact of the matter was that there seemed something strange, even slightly absurd, in the intensity of this relationship, which had resumed after a break of close to fifty years. Could it simply be a way for his mother-in-law to distance herself from him, or even from her grandchildren, for whom she also seemed lately to have so little patience? Why, tonight she had not even wanted to watch the news with them, rushing home as quickly as she could when the meal was over.
4
THE NEXT MORNING he set out to visit his mother in Jerusalem, almost stopping on the way to pick a branch of regal white almond blossoms. He went to see some old friends first, arriving at his mother’s in time for lunch, which was already waiting on the table. Though she scolded him for his lateness, his German crew cut pleased her greatly. “It’s very becoming,” she declared while refusing to accept the scarf he had brought as a gift. “I told you not to bring me anything!” She even declined the bar of Swiss chocolate he had bought her until he finally prevailed on her to take it. He ate the peppers she had stuffed for him, listening to her stories, complaints, and opinions, while praying—in vain, as it happened—that she would not refill his plate. Afterward, he tried napping in his childhood bed, but no sooner had he dozed off than he became aware of her lurking behind the door. At last, he rose and went out to sit lethargically on the dusty terrace, looking down on decrepit old Jaffa Road below and breathing the heavily accented Jerusalem air. He drank the coffee he was served, munching almonds and walnuts while his mother, a corpulent woman whose fallen face was painted like a savage’s, questioned him about his trip, how much it had cost and whom had he met, crudely trying to ferret out everything, especially if there had been a woman. “Yes and no,” he replied. “How yes and how no?” “Just for part of it.” “For which part?” “The opera part, in Berlin.” “Which opera?” “I suppose you’d know if I told you,” he laughed. “Why, I’d never even heard of it myself!” “Then why go so far for it?” “To see what it was like.” “And where’s this woman now?” “Out of my life,” he answered patiently. “But who was she?” probed his mother. “Someone from the office,” he answered, refusing to name names. “All right then,” she said, “just don’t be in any hurry.” “I’m not,” replied Molkho. “You mean it’s just sex?” she inquired. “Why, I don’t believe you know what that is any more!” Flabbergasted, he laughed, popping nuts into his mouth so fast that they seemed to fly into it, stealing a glance at this berserk woman while doing his best to keep his temper. “I suppose you know all about that too,” he said, trying to keep calm. “Well then, tell me if I’m wrong,” she persisted, “tell me if you feel like having sex.” “What on earth are you talking about?” he snapped, turning red. “Forget it, it doesn’t matter,” said his mother. “For my part, you can have all the sex you want. Just don’t be in any hurry. Take a good look around. You suffered enough these past years. You cared for her enough, it’s time someone cared for you. You’ll see, you’ll have women running after you, they’ll be knocking on your door. Your children are grown up and you’re financially secure. Just don’t get involved too quickly. Try them out first. Try out a whole lot of them before you make up your mind.”
He listened in silence, amused by her unself-conscious brutality, gazing down the hallway that led to the twilit rooms of the apartment and imagining a woman reclining in each, waiting to be tried out. Gazing down at the triangle formed by the three old streets of King George, Ben-Yehudah, and Jaffa and at a group of children off to some activity in the blue shirts and ties of a youth movement, he recalled the British policeman who had directed traffic there and the green tie he himself had dutifully worn when he had gone to such activities too. “There aren’t as many women as you think,” he said with sudden bitterness. “There’s no one out there but desperate divorcées, psychotic spinsters, and widows who’ve murdered their husbands.” “What kind of crazy thing is that to say?” she asked, shocked by his attitude, her anxiety only increasing when he wouldn’t answer. If only he would come back to live in Jerusalem, he would be sure to find someone—someone from his old class or school, for example, whom he had grown up with and who would be more like him, perhaps even a cousin of theirs. After all, all of Jerusalem remembered him and asked about him. “Who?” he challenged. Her friends, said his mother. “They’re always interested when I tell them about you.” “What, those old biddies of yours?” The idea was so daft that he laughed out loud with sheer delight. “A penny for your thoughts,” coaxed his mother. “I have no thoughts,” he retorted. “She’s only been dead for half a year, and I still need time to get over it.” But his mother was relentless. He should visit her more often, once every two months was not enough; did he think she could find him a new wife over the telephone? “The gas alone costs a fortune,” he said gently, looking back down at the deserted Sabbath streets; in fact, he had neglected her in recent years, for his wife had sapped all his strength. “And no one pays my car expenses, either.” “Then take a bus on Friday and stay over. You can sleep in your old bed and go home on Saturday night.” The idea, however, did not appeal to him: taking buses was not his idea of travel, especially as he was planning to buy a new car. Natu
rally, his mother was against this too. She rose, went to fetch a brown paper bag, and refilled the empty plate of nuts against his protests. “That’s enough,” he begged. “Don’t give me any more. I can’t stop eating and lately I’ve been putting on weight.” “That’s from your trip,” said his mother. “People don’t notice, but they put on weight abroad.”
5
NIGHT CAME and Molkho seemed in no hurry to leave Jerusalem. After rejecting the idea of calling several old school friends, fearful of the disinterest he might hear in their voices, he agreed to go over some recent bank statements of his mother’s to make sure there were no mistakes in them. Down below, the ugly old shopping district began filling up with people, many of them fresh from the Saturday soccer match. A desert chill was in the air. Feeling his meal burble inside him, he padded off to the bathroom for relief. It was a room that he liked, generously proportioned and high-ceilinged in the old style, with a tall bathtub, its elaborate feet of reddish iron resembling the claws of a peacock. He kept the light off, preferring to sit in the dark room, which was faintly lit by a purplish glow trickling through the window. From here the view was different, more cheeringly picturesque, with its red roofs of the old quarters of Jerusalem and its distant, partly wooded hills. Visible too were the backyards of the buildings on the street, which had mostly been converted into offices and banks. Breathing in the clean night air with a sigh of pleasure, Molkho peeked into the tall straw laundry basket that was covered with a cracked enamel bowl, the same bowl that had been the steering wheel of bus number 9 when, sitting on the toilet as a child, he had driven it all around town, handing the passengers tickets of tom toilet paper. He finished, rose, and bent down to peer into the still fizzing bowl for signs of blood; then, yanking the long chain that reminded him of the emergency brake of a railroad car, he watched the water gush from the tank, smiling with pleasure at the train wreck once again averted in the nick of time. He still did not pull up his pants, however. Bare-bottomed he leaned out the window, ravenously drinking in the night, eyes combing first the aging old neighborhood and then the sky for three stars, which meant he could run tell his father that the Sabbath was over and that he was permitted to smoke. Below, in the white glare of a streetlight, he made out his old car, dry and dusty-looking; yet as sorry as he felt for it, he knew he did not want it anymore. His pants still down around his ankles, he was a little fat boy again, his parents’ only child, his thirty years of married life vanished like a dream. Had she, he wondered, been taken by, or given to, someone else by now? Was her spirit finally at peace, quiet and resting somewhere, her compulsive criticizing over at last? Or was she still carrying on in the heavenly spheres, going from one to another and finding fault with each? Was the universe not good enough for her even now? Did she remember him?
Five Seasons Page 16