Uri seemed satisfied, suggesting only that they clean the windshield, which was smeared with dust and dead bugs. “Otherwise you won’t see a thing,” he told Molkho, who got out of the car, wiped the front window, got back in again, refastened his seat belt, and drove off into the night. His last glimpse of his tall counselor was in the rearview mirror, standing in the cold yellow light by the air pump. Has he really signed her away to me? he wondered, his heart going out to the man.
10
SHE CERTAINLY DOES what she’s told, he marveled as she sat there in her seat belt, wide awake and content to watch the night go by outside the window. Perhaps they would make a happy couple after all. Meanwhile, he had to be on his best behavior and, above all, to avoid awkward silences. On his way to Jerusalem he had already thought of a few things to talk about apart from his wife and her illness, which he would leave for the next day, when Ya’ara would be better able to concentrate. The best thing was to get her to tell him about herself: thirty-two years had passed since their schooldays, so that at a rate of no more than four minutes per year they could reach Haifa without his having to make small talk or carry on intellectually like her husband—although just to be on the safe side, he had a tape of The Magic Flute playing softly in the deck, its volume ready to be turned up the moment the conversation faltered. Indeed, Ya’ara was no more talkative than he was, being evidently used to letting Uri hold the stage, so that already by the first sharp downhill turns he had to start drawing her out. Who, he cautiously asked her, a bit uncomfortable for her sake, was the match that Uri was thinking of? The woman, she replied, was a young widow, the mother of a small child, whose husband, a follower of the rabbi, was killed a year ago in a car accident. “Have you ever met her?” he asked, intrigued. “No,” she said. “Neither has Uri. He doesn’t see the point of it before there’s an arrangement for me.” Molkho winced. It might simplify matters, he thought wryly, if he would take the young widow for himself and leave his friends’ marriage intact.
But young widows attracted him less than this woman beside him, who made him feel so full of life. She had removed her kerchief again, making her face look broader, and now sat with her legs crossed comfortably, smoking her first cigarette after having found the ashtray by herself, her pearllike eyes darting from the dashboard to the gear shift with an impressive if somewhat frightening intensity. In the darkness broken by the flicker of headlights her face had softened above the slim shoulders that belied the bulge below. Even when someone like her fell ill, the prognosis was bound to be good. And perhaps he could get her to dye her hair, use makeup, and dress more smartly. And to learn to drive so that she might find a better job. Again he stole a glance at her, afraid to look away for too long from the serpentine curves; one hand resting on the open window and a cigarette glowing in her mouth, she was calmly observing the thinly wooded hills by the roadside. They can’t have been waiting just for me, he told himself, the odd thought crossing his mind that this mightn’t be the first time, that perhaps they had tried it before. Was I really in love with her? he struggled to recall. Or was it just an adolescent crush; after all, who hadn’t had one on her back then, such a strikingly well-developed girl?
He kept turning the conversation back to her husband, as if regretting having abandoned him at the gas station. Clearly, she adored the man: hadn’t she, his faithful fellow wanderer, always followed him blindly wherever he went? They were out of the mountains now, and Molkho wondered whether to take the old road by the airport, which was shorter but slower, or to go by the coast. In the end, he chose the inland route, switching on the radio to drown out her adulation, though when he made some comment on the news bulletin, he saw that she either hadn’t been listening or didn’t know who the foreign minister was—a fact, however, that he found rather pleasing, indeed even titillating. As she was lighting up a fresh cigarette by the entrance to the airport, he turned the radio off and delicately broached the subject of her childlessness. “You know,” he said, a catch in his voice, “my wife had a miscarriage too. We wanted a fourth child, but after a few weeks she lost it. Maybe that was the first sign of her illness, though we couldn’t have guessed it at the time.” Ya’ara bowed a sorrowful head. She herself, she told Molkho, had had seven miscarriages, all the same. “The same as what?” he asked. “I mean, what month did it happen in?” “The fifth or sixth,” she answered quietly. “The sixth?” he exclaimed with an involuntary grimace. “How awful!” She smiled appreciatively but said nothing. “You must have suffered terribly,” he went on. “Why, it can be dangerous then!” She listened to him uncertainly, the yellow light from the terminals falling on her face, while he thought of soft, dead fetuses. On the cabinet of the nature room in high school had stood a jar of formaldehyde in which was preserved an upside-down embryo, its arms and legs folded. The girls had been scared of it, and the boys had joked and even given it a pet name; but Molkho sometimes looked at it sympathetically, trying to make out its tiny limbs in the cloudy solution. Now, however, he had better curb his desire to know more about her medical history. It wouldn’t do to show his fascination with the details of her pregnancies, of the long months spent bedridden in all the cheap rooms they had rented in their travels. Had his counselor taken good care of her? Had he been able to change the sheets without hurting her, or was he too busy searching for the Meaning of Life? And her poor, bleeding uterus—did she still have it or had it been removed? He felt sure it had not been and wanted nothing more than to kneel with his head pressed against it. If I don’t scare her off, he thought, she’ll let me do that too.
And indeed, sitting there contentedly in the steamy coastal humidity while staring at the moon rising over the mountains and shimmering on the distant white foam of the sea, she did not seem scared in the least. It’s good she’s so relaxed, he thought, too weary to remember the names of the old classmates about whom he had planned to reminisce with her. It was past midnight when he drove through the empty streets of Haifa, giddy with the promise of happiness. She’s a real option, he told himself, carrying her suitcase, which he rather wished were heavier, up the stairs. And she wouldn’t die on him either, that was for sure. He wished it were earlier so that the neighbors might see her. They would be relieved to hear that the first woman he brought home wasn’t young, because widowers who took up with young women were disapproved of. Afterward, he might start reducing the age. Meanwhile, here he was with the autumn and mild winter and summery spring behind him, already halfway through this cruelly hot summer that had begotten two hotter summers than itself.
He switched on the hallway light and opened the front door for her, again noticing her girlish loafers with their white bobbysocks. He could fall in love with her easily, he thought, turning on lights everywhere and showing her the apartment like a moonlighting real estate agent; it was simply a matter of getting to know her. “It’s nice here,” she said, looking cheerily around her. “Yes, we tried to make it that way,” he replied with a smile that thanked her while reminding her of the woman who preceded her. Dead tired, he brought in her suitcase. “This is my daughter Enat’s room,” he said. “She’s in Europe now.” “By herself?” asked Ya’ara. “Yes,” Molkho said, “she’s very independent.” They returned to the living room, where Ya’ara sat in the armchair and took another cigarette from her pack, wide awake and every inch a night bird. “Would you like something to eat or drink?” he asked none too eagerly, already missing his lost privacy. “If you’re having a bite, I’ll join you,” she replied. He led her to the kitchen, took out bread, cheese, and cake, and put some water up to boil. At least she isn’t spoiled, he thought, amazedly watching her eat everything he put before her, even a piece of old cheese. Although I wish she had a better-paying job.
11
HE RATHER LIKED her lazy way of doing things: of eating, for instance, or making her bed, which he had purposely left bare with the folded sheets on top of it to let her see that they were fresh. By now her religious facade had peeled awa
y completely, leaving only the girlish Young Pioneer who had turned gray overnight. Tired though he was, he was soon giving her an account of his wife’s illness, to which she listened so intently that he felt he was telling about it for the first time.
Just then the telephone rang. “Don’t worry, it’s Uri,” she told him, once again making him wonder whether she hadn’t done this before. “Hello,” he said when he picked up the receiver. “Yes, we had a good trip and now we’re sitting and talking. My only complaint,” he joked, feeling a need to sound critical, “is that she doesn’t stop smoking. Would you like to talk with her? She’s right here.”
She picked up the phone, speaking into it in a whisper while Molkho went tactfully to his room, from where he watched her question-mark figure through the doorway. Perhaps I’ll keep her, he thought. But she must dye her hair. There’s no reason why she shouldn’t, or use a bit of makeup for my sake.
12
IF YOU NEED ANYTHING, just ask,” he told her, wanting to turn in. “Feel at home. If you’d like to read in bed, there are plenty of books. I even have Volume I of Anna Karenina, which I finished yesterday. You can take it back to Jerusalem with you. Good night,” he added, retiring to his room, where he decided that it would be unfair to use the air conditioner while she had to sleep without it. He undressed and got into bed, but though it was nearly 2 A.M., he couldn’t fall asleep. Eight months had gone by since the death of his wife and now another woman was in the house at last—not in the same room, to be sure, but at least in the same apartment. That’s certainly progress, he told himself, rising to switch on the air conditioner, its familiar purr lulling him into a dim slumber in which he dreamed that his son the high school boy had turned into a girl. Good for him, he thought in the dream, as if the boy’s problems were solved.
At four, unable to keep warm beneath the thin blanket, he rose and switched off the air conditioner. Suddenly, remembering Ya’ara in the next room, he felt a glow like that which he had felt as a child when his mother once surprised him with a new puppy and he awoke in the middle of the night to find it on the kitchen porch wagging its tail in the dark, as if it had been waiting just for him, little Molkho. Now, wanting to see her no less badly, he slipped into his pants, leaving on his pajama tops, and stepped into the darkened living room, from which he saw a crack of light beneath her door. Was she still reading, or had she fallen asleep with the light on? He froze, menaced by her wakefulness. Was the light meant for him? He turned around. I mustn’t be so aggressive, he thought, crawling back into bed, his head feeling infinitely heavier than his body. That’s never been my strong suit.
13
IT WAS AFTER SEVEN when he awoke again, amazed at how he had slept, for he usually rose by six. Certain she must be up, he dressed, made his bed, washed and shaved quickly, and came out to say good morning. She was gone, her bed made too, though less neatly than his, her suitcase on the floor with all her clothes still in it. Nor, when he went downstairs to look for her, was she anywhere to be seen. Glad to be alone, he sliced bread, set the table for breakfast, and, feeling ravenous, sat down to eat, making little piles of the crumbs while reading the morning paper until he heard a light knock on the door and rose to open it. She was wearing the same faded jumper, her pearly eyes squinting in the morning light, which ruddily tinted her cheeks and streaked her gray hair with gold. “I was worried about you,” he said. “When did you get up? I was afraid you might have run away.” But she had merely risen at dawn and gone out for a walk, even starting down the tempting ravine. In fact, she had proceeded quite a distance, though not to the very bottom, and had lost her way coming back, which was why her shoes were caked with dirt. He poured her coffee and served her breakfast, of which she obediently ate every bit. Yet, when he cleared the table, she made no move to wash or dry the dishes. Chin in hand, she remained seated at the table, thoughtfully smoking while watching him at the sink, after which she asked for a glass of water, took two aspirins from her pocket, and swallowed them. “Do you have a headache?” he asked. “No,” she said, “it’s just in case.”
Since they were ready to go out now, he proposed that she clean her shoes, even producing a brush and polish and spreading a newspaper on the terrace. Standing beside her while prying open the can of polish that she had fumbled with unsuccessfully, he saw there was hardly an inch difference between them—which was still enough, however, to annoy him. She took off her shoes and stood in her white socks, her legs downy in the morning light, and removing his too, he suggested that she apply the polish while he wield the brush. She had hardly begun, however, when the telephone rang. “You get it; it may be for you,” he said, wanting the unknown caller to hear a woman’s voice. Dutifully she went and picked up the receiver, clutching it with both hands as if afraid of dropping it, her question-mark figure turned to him in profile. It was Uri again, and while Molkho waited for her to finish, he impatiently polished his shoes, put them back on, and then polished hers while trying to guess their age. She’ll have to dye her hair and take the fuzz off her legs and buy new shoes and use makeup, he grumbled to himself. And if she says it’s a matter of principle, she can choose between her principles and me. He put away the rags and brush, and brought her shoes to her, the two of them now the same height, waiting to see if his counselor wished to speak to him. But soon she hung up. “He sends regards,” she said, putting on her shoes with a grateful look.
14
I’LL NEVER DO ANYTHING like this again, thought Molkho crossly, though he was glad that her husband kept calling. At least he hasn’t just dumped her on me, he told himself; I can always return her with a clean conscience. He had already planned the day, and now he told her about it. In the morning they would do some shopping, visit the mountaintop campus of the university, and lunch at an outdoor restaurant; in the afternoon, after resting up, they would go to the beach; and in the evening, if she liked, there was a concert in unusual surroundings, the subterranean Knights Hall in old Acre, which hosted chamber-music groups all summer long. “Chamber music?” she asked doubtfully. He brought her an old program, which she thumbed through unenthusiastically; yet the tickets were expensive and he was determined to use them, especially as they were unlikely to be sellable at the performance. His wife had had a passion for such concerts, which often struck him as monotonous, indeed as one of the punishments of Culture, although sometimes, near the end of them, either because his liberation was near or because the music had finally penetrated, he felt a euphoric serenity.
“Tomorrow, though, we can go see a movie,” he added intimately. “I’d like that,” she smiled. “And perhaps,” he suggested, “we’ll go to the beach again.” She nodded her gray head. “The beach sounds nice. I haven’t been to it for ages.” “Did you bring a bathing suit?” he asked rhetorically, being thoroughly acquainted with the contents of her suitcase. “No,” she said. “But why not?” he asked. “Are you afraid that one of your religious friends from Jerusalem will see you?” “Maybe next time,” she blushed, as if baffled or overwhelmed by all his questions. If there is a next time, he almost said out loud. But he didn’t. After all, he thought, I really loved her once, and after a day or two I may remember why.
Though he had hoped she would change into another, livelier dress, she clearly did not share his taste and wore her jumper to the nearby shopping center, where they entered a small optometrist’s shop, the owners of which Molkho knew from the Philharmonic series. Facing her in a seat that looked like a barber’s chair, he tried on frames of glasses to see which went best with his new bifocals, which he had gotten because his once-perfect distance vision now called for correction too. The optometrist regarded Ya’ara curiously, appraising her odd combination of jumper, bobbysocks, gray hair, and wedding ring while gallantly asking for her opinion, as if it alone had any value. Lighting up a cigarette, she fumbled for words and seemed relieved when they all agreed on a pair of gold frames, on which Molkho put a deposit.
They made their way along the
busy street. She had, Molkho noticed, a hapless way of falling behind that might once have appealed to him but simply annoyed him now. Abruptly he entered a building and climbed to a second-floor apartment that had been converted into a boutique, in the soft light of which local matrons in bright bathing suits circulated among curtained shelves. Only when they were approached by a salesgirl and Molkho gestured toward Ya’ara, however, did she realize what he had in mind. “I can’t!” she pleaded, turning crimson and stiffening. “But I’ll pay for it,” he whispered. “It’s so we can go to the beach.” Yet still she balked, taking a feeble step backward, so that in the soft light, surrounded by partially dressed ladies, he was struck again by her old beauty. He tried to persuade her while the salesgirl stood by politely smiling, even giving her hand a squeeze, though quickly letting go of it.
15
THEN AT LEAST A DRESS, he thought. If she would only buy one of those summery dresses in the show windows, something stylish and fresh-looking, because her faded old jumper, on which there was already a light stain of sweat, was making him more and more unhappy. She was unhealthily attached to it, which made him fear she might wear it to the concert that evening too. Not wanting to upset her even more, though, he decided to walk with her to Panorama Road for a scenic view of the harbor and bay, but arriving there, they found the visibility poor. A heavy mist lay over the bay, while to the north, the mountains of the Galilee lay shrouded in a grayish haze, the only clear landmark being the golden dome of the Bahai Temple down the mountainside. “In autumn,” he assured her disappointedly, “you can see for miles around. The houses in Acre look like toy blocks, and the mountains seem close enough to touch.” He suggested having coffee in an elegant café inside a big new department store, through which he led her past racks of dresses, pants, and shirts, stopping now and then to check fabrics and prices in the hope of arousing her interest. “The ‘in’ look today is the wide look,” he said, sounding more mystified than informed. “Anything goes—and usually with anything else!” Yet lagging behind again, she did not even glance at the clothes, perhaps afraid of being forced to buy something, so that they were both relieved to reach the men’s department, where she gladly looked with him at the new collarless shirts, one of which appealed to him especially. “What do you think?” he asked her, holding it up in front of him just as a young salesman approached and urged him to try it on for size. “Tell your husband not to mind the missing collar,” Molkho heard him say beyond the dressing curtail as he buttoned up the shirt. “He’ll get used to it. It’s the new look.” “But what do I want with the new look,” Ya’ara replied, her answer pleasing him greatly, “when his old look suited me fine?”
Five Seasons Page 26