This time he insisted that she come with him, leading her through an underground passage and up to the silent ramps that stood between the deserted fast-food stands and the parked rows of dusty buses. She followed him in silence, lagging behind a bit, yellow in the dim, fluorescent light. By some pay phones they watched the last buses whoosh up and discharge a few rumpled passengers—red-eyed soldiers with rifles, yeshiva students with bags of books, young vagabonds with backpacks. All vanished quickly, as if into the thick concrete walls, while Molkho went off to dial his apartment and stood listening to the telephone ringing in the darkness.
They returned to the car and drove past the bus station toward the traffic lights at the corner. But, instead of continuing straight, he instinctively turned left toward Rambam Hospital, in front of which, despite the late hour, there was the usual commotion of shiny ambulances slipping in and out the gate. Security guards stood talking to visitors, including entire families with baskets and pots of food. Over the main entrance shone the green light that meant the emergency room was functioning normally. A car pulled up and out of it stepped a young woman in an advanced state of pregnancy, a gay grimace of pain on her face; plucked away like a large, ripe fruit, she slowly advanced toward the lit entrance without waiting for her husband, who, having parked, was now running after her with a small suitcase. For a moment Molkho sat there transfixed, feeling the old fear rise from his gut and bear him off on a sweet wave of longing. He glanced up at the cloudless midnight sky, in which large, splendid stars stood silent sentinel. “As long as we’re here anyway,” he almost begged, seeing the disbelief on Ya’ara’s face, “why not take a look inside? I know it’s irrational, but I’ll feel better if I check the emergency room. Won’t you come too? There’s no point in waiting out here.”
23
ALTHOUGH THE APARTMENT was still dark, there was nothing to do but return to it. At the top of the stairs, however, he saw a new note on the door, which bore a message from the neighbor: Molkho’s mother-in-law, it said, had called to announce that the high school boy was with her, having arrived home at ten-thirty with no key. His sleeping bag was by the fence behind the house. “Didn’t I tell you he’d forget his key?” exclaimed Molkho triumphantly. “What can you do with such a child!” He let Ya’ara inside, switched on the lights, and went down for the sleeping bag, which was dirty and covered with burrs, hugging its campfire smell to his chest with untold relief and exhaustion. She was out on the terrace when he returned, her face turned to the night as if away from him. Should he embrace her gratefully? But no, that might prove awkward—and so he laid a limp hand on her shoulder and stared down with her at the ravine, which lay bright and vital in the moonlight. “Well, we had a nice day,” he said. “I’m sorry if Gabi and I spoiled the evening for you.” “But you didn’t,” she answered earnestly. “It’s not your fault. I could see how worried you were.” “Yes,” he said swallowing hard, the waves of tiredness that were breaking within him threatening to carry him away. “He always makes me feel so guilty. I’ve never had an easy time with him. He’s taken everything the hardest in this family, and he still hasn’t accepted the fact of his mother’s death. But it’s awfully late. Go to bed. It’s time you got some rest. Go to bed,” he repeated with the last of his strength, feeling as if an impersonator within him had taken over to keep him from collapsing.
In the morning he was pleased to find her still obediently sound asleep. He phoned his mother-in-law, who listened to him berate her grandson, speaking up only to ask that he bring the boy some fresh clothes. The house seemed to bask in Ya’ara’s slumber, as once it had done when his wife was peacefully sleeping off a hard night, and glad to be by himself, he ate breakfast, washed the dishes, went downstairs for the paper, hung his son’s sleeping bag out to air on the terrace, made himself a sandwich for work, and put it in his briefcase. Lastly, he packed some fresh clothes for his son in a shopping bag, taking two of everything just to be on the safe side. He was almost out the door when he recalled his wife’s insistence that he always say goodbye to her, no matter how fast asleep she was, and so he knocked lightly on Ya’ara’s door and opened it. She did not feel him enter. He sat on the edge of her bed and touched her shoulder, surprised to encounter the soft, round warmth of her breast beneath her flannel nightgown, as if it had changed places during the night. “You really were bushed,” he said with a bright smile. Disconcerted by the sight of him, she sat up and apologized for having been up until dawn. “Go back to sleep,” he said, gently restraining her, as if her insomnia were medically indicated. “I’m going to the office. If you want to go out, the key is on the kitchen table by the newspaper. Feel at home. Take what you want from the refrigerator and use the stove too if you wish. I think there’s a morning movie on TV. I’ll be back by one.”
He drove with the clothes to the old-age home, where he found his mother-in-law alone by the garden pool, her cane beside her and a crumpled straw hat spangled with glass cherries on her head. Looking pale and drawn, she said she had come downstairs to intercept him before he woke the sleeping boy to scold him. “But I wouldn’t have done that at all!” he objected. “I’ll give him hell later, but now he can sleep all he wants. You should have seen what he did to us,” he added, wondering if she had guessed that he had spent the last few days with a woman. Still, he was sorry not to have warned her about the boy in advance, since they both knew he had a habit of going off without his key. “And without enough money,” declared the old lady. “What do you mean?” asked Molkho indignantly. “That’s what he told me,” she insisted. “He said you didn’t give him enough.” “But that’s ridiculous,” protested Molkho. “I always give him exactly what he needs, because he just loses the rest of it anyway.”
She nodded curtly when asked how she was. The endless summer, it seemed, was beginning to get to her too. The radio predicted cooler weather, she told him, but could you believe what they said? “Why not?” argued Molkho. “No one’s paying them to say it, so it must be true.” He handed her the bag of clothes, pointing out the double items. A long silence ensued while he waited for a cleaning woman to finish mopping the lobby in order to walk her back inside. “Until when will you be in the office today?” she asked. “Until noon,” he replied. “I’m taking a half-day off.” The cherries tinkled thoughtfully on her hat. He could tell there was something she wanted from him but was embarrassed to ask for.
24
THERE WAS GRUMBLING in the office at his lateness. No one gave him credit anymore. A new generation of secretaries clamored for his signature and decisions, for he was the only ranking official not away on vacation. He worked hard all morning, looking up toward noontime to discover that the papers on his desk were flapping in a sudden, dusty breeze.
His thoughts turned to the woman in his apartment. Later in the day he would bring her to the bus station, but first he would embrace her, though not so unequivocally as to keep her from guessing what it meant. He considered how best to deliver a kiss that would arouse neither resistance nor false hopes, and then he dialed his mother-in-law. “Has the boy turned over in bed yet?” he inquired, startled to hear that his son was already up, dressed, and on his way home. He rushed out of the office, stopped to buy a cake at a bakery, and drove home as fast as he could. Stepping into the apartment, he momentarily feared he had gone blind, for the living room was dark except for a few motes of light that fell through the lowered blinds and drawn curtains upon the rug and chairs. Apprehensively he made out Ya’ara’s suitcase in the kitchen door. She was chatting quietly with Uri and Gabi, who, washed and combed, was sitting in the easy chair like a defendant in juvenile court. “We waited to say good-bye to you,” said his counselor, rising to shake Molkho’s hand, a melancholy smile on his lips. “But what are you doing here?” asked Molkho, turning red as if from a reprimand. “I’m sorry I kept you waiting, but you needn’t have come,” he said to Uri, stunned by the thought that Ya’ara had asked him to. She sat in the corner in her old jump
er and white bobbysocks, her little eyes watching him with fresh interest. “You should have let me know. I couldn’t leave the office sooner, because I’m temporarily in charge of the department.” Was I supposed to be making love to her all this time? he wondered, noticing their depressed look. Was that the secret plan I spoiled? “Why, I thought you’d sleep at least until tomorrow!” he said with a brave smile to his son. “How come you’re up so bright and early? And after giving me all those gray hairs last night too! Did you tell him about it, Ya’ara?” he asked his counselor’s wife, who sat there intently, her hands folded over her little belly. “Did you tell him he had me worried sick?” He went over to shake the boy’s shoulders and then stood there gripping them. But Uri and Ya’ara were already on their feet, preparing to depart. “So soon?” asked Molkho despairingly. “Won’t you at least have a bite to eat first?” But they had eaten and drunk before he came and were eager to get back to Jerusalem.
But he was not ready to part with them. At least he owed them a summation, some sort of grade that could be given to his days with her, which were certainly not uneventful. Hurriedly he began with their visit to Yodfat, relating his impressions of the place. “Why, they’re still waiting for you there!” he told his tall counselor, who stood with his head to one side. “They think of you and hope you’ll come back when you’re through with the phase you’re in.” Uri smiled and shook his head impatiently, gently steering Ya’ara toward the door while donning his broad, cowboyish hat. And yet on anyone else it wouldn’t look half so classy, thought Molkho admiringly. If they would wait for him to drink a glass of water, he told them, seeing their minds were made up, he would gladly drive them to the bus station: there was a bus to Jerusalem every hour on the hour, and they could still make the two o’clock one. “But why don’t we just take a cab?” asked his counselor. Molkho’s feelings were hurt. “The hell you will!” he snapped, no less startled by his language than they were.
In the busy station he was left alone with Uri while Ya’ara went to buy a ticket. “When shall we meet again?” he asked, feeling his old counselor softening. “It’s terrible not being able to phone you. How can you live without a phone? Suppose I have to talk to you!” When, asked his counselor, did he plan to be in Jerusalem again? “Soon,” answered Molkho eagerly. “Very soon. In fact, maybe even this Saturday. But how can I let you know?”
Uri stood thinking. “Please phone me,” Molkho urged as Ya’ara, tall and stately, approached from the ticket booth. He seized her hand ardently. “I’m counting on a call from you,” he said. But their bus was already pulling out and they rushed to board it without answering. As he was unlocking his car in the street outside the station a gust of cool wind announced the end of the heat wave. He thought of his mother-in-law. Had she felt it too? he wondered, proud of having told her that morning to put her trust in the radio.
25
DRIVING HOME, he felt a new wave of worry. Had his counselor come solely to bring Ya’ara back to Jerusalem, or had he also hoped—and failed—to receive a clear answer? In the house, he found Gabi half-naked in the kitchen, eating some yellow stringbeans from a pot. Recognizing them from the vegetable bin of the refrigerator, he realized that Ya’ara must have cooked them that morning and rejoiced that she had left him a memento. “Wait a minute,” he said to his son, “why don’t you warm them first?” But the boy kept on eating uncontrollably. “Are they that good?” asked Molkho excitedly, breading a cutlet and tossing it into a frying pan. “Didn’t Grandma ask you to join her for lunch?” “No,” answered Gabi. “That Russian friend of hers came with her daughter and I left.” He kept on eating hungrily, stringbeans falling off the fork as he shoveled them into his mouth. “Will you stop eating like an animal!” shouted Molkho, losing his temper. “Here, you can have all you want, but be civilized,” he said, bringing a plate and lighting a fire beneath the pot. But the boy, his bean-passion having abated, merely slumped in a chair and stared dully at his father dancing around the stove.
Molkho sat down to eat, from time to time salting the tasty stringbeans and tender cutlet while describing Ya’ara and Uri to Gabi as if they had been his guests together. “When I was your age I even had a crush on her,” he said, taking more beans from the bubbling pot. His son looked at him with a gleam of curiosity. “How was your hike?” he asked. Receiving the usual grunt in reply, he resolved not to take it for an answer. “What’s wrong with you?” he asked, surprised by the deathly quiet of his voice. “You change Scout packs without telling me, you go off with some kids from another school and don’t even let me know—who do you think I am, the doorman? And you have the nerve to complain that I don’t give you enough money! When did I ever refuse you money?” “But that’s not what I said,” protested Gabi hotly. “Yes, it is!” replied Molkho, cut to the quick. “Your Grandma would never make it up. How do you think that makes me look?” He was shouting now and practically in tears. “You, of all people, who lose your school-bus ticket every week, who can’t put a pair of pants in the wash without leaving money in the pockets—you dare accuse me?” Frightened by the display of temper, the boy rose to leave the house. “And don’t forget your key!” cried Molkho running after him, suddenly full of pity for his mortified, curly-headed son. “Where is it?” he demanded. But the boy couldn’t find it, and so he slipped his own key off its chain, passed a string through it, knotted it, and hung it around his son’s neck as though he were a toddler. At first, Gabi looked for a pocket; then, realizing his sweat suit didn’t have one, he sheepishly let the key hang, even returning the bear hug his father gave him.
Only now did Molkho realize how tired he was. He showered, lay down, and fell into a deep sleep, awakening hours later with the feeling that someone was walking silently about the house. Was it his son? But no, the boy had not come back. It was as quiet as could be. Suddenly he was reminded of the end of the week of mourning, with its hollow feeling of freedom that had accompanied him ever since. Still, the house felt less empty now. Which is strange, he thought, considering she was here for all of three days and hardly spoke. He pictured her tall, question-mark figure, which seemed to bear the last of its unborn babies inside it. Grieving as if for yet another death, although this time a small, quick one, he set out in quest of her, going first to the kitchen, where he scraped the last charred, sweet beans from the pot, chewing them sleepily and licking his fingers clean. From there he went to his daughter’s room but there, too, there was no trace of her, the sheets so neatly folded and stacked on the bed that he wondered whether to keep them for the next time or to throw them in the wash. Not that she’ll ever know the difference, he told himself, putting them away in the closet. He glanced at his watch. By now they were in Jerusalem. Had they made up their minds about him yet? Returning to the kitchen to throw out a scrap of paper, he was surprised to find some half-eaten stringbeans and a crushed pack of cigarettes in the garbage pail. Though he was tempted to salvage the half-empty pack, it was already much too begrimed.
26
THOUGH HE WASN’T SURE if he really missed her, he thought of her all the next day. Things were simpler without her, yet he was already considering another trip to Jerusalem to see her. Both the loss of her and the thought that she might still be available made him desire her more. Even the legal adviser, when he ran into her now at the office, aroused nothing but warm, friendly feelings. Was she aware that she had grown slightly dumpy since the winter? Not only did he no longer fear her, but he felt strong enough to readmit her to his life.
One blinding, hot noon he felt an urge to see her. He rose from his desk, left his room, and wandered off down the empty corridors of the Ministry of the Interior, most of whose employees were away, though even those who remained seemed on vacation, as if their hearts were not in their work. Inventing some imaginary problem to discuss, he descended the stone steps of the dignified old British building, crossed the courtyard to the opposite wing, climbed two flights of stairs, and knocked on the legal adviser’s
door. As there was no response, he entered the office of her secretary, an impish young thing who sat doing her nails with red polish. “Is the legal adviser away?” he asked. “Yes,” she said, not bothering to look up. “How long has she been gone?” he inquired. “Three weeks,” said the secretary. “Three weeks and no one is filling in for her?” marveled Molkho. “No one can,” smiled the secretary. “But suppose I have a legal problem?” he demanded. “In the middle of a summer like this?” she teased, amused by his seriousness. “Yes, in the middle of a summer like this,” he insisted. “Then it will have to wait,” she replied. “But suppose it can’t?” he asked. “Then let it solve itself,” laughed the secretary.
He laughed too and walked slowly back down the stairs, at the bottom of which he encountered his mother-in-law in her big, crumpled hat, palely clutching some office forms. “Why, what are you doing here?” he asked, the thought crossing his mind that she wasn’t long for this world. Among some people determinedly waiting on a bench, he spied the old Russian, who bowed cordially in his direction, while next to her, her plump daughter beamed at him brightly. The office forms were printed on old, yellow paper the likes of which he hadn’t seen for years: one was a request for a laissez-passer, the other for a waiver of Israeli citizenship. “But why waive citizenship?” he asked after ushering the three of them into an empty room. Because, explained his mother-in-law, grateful for his help, the Finnish embassy in Tel Aviv, which represented the Soviet Union, thought it the best way to convince the Russians that her friend’s daughter really wished to return. It would be even better, of course, for her to regain her refugee status, but that could only be done through the Jewish Agency in Vienna, which had refused to answer her letters. “Then her mind is made up?” asked Molkho impartially, looking curiously at the young woman, who was dressed too warmly for the weather, while his mother-in-law translated. Satisfied that this was the case, he went to another department, received a new set of forms from an unfamiliar clerk, and brought them back to be filled out and stamped before the office closed for the day. The women couldn’t thank him enough, and the plump little Russian—laughing, sighing, and turning beet-red as the talk went from Hebrew to German, to Russian, and back again—tried explaining herself in rapid-fire bursts, of which all he understood was that the Israeli bureaucracy was to blame for everything. You might think, he mused with a sense of injury, that there weren’t any bureaucrats in Russia—but his mother-in-law seemed so anxious to humor him that he shrugged it off good-naturedly, took the forms to the department head to be stamped, had duplicates made on the office copying machine, and even gave the three women a lift, dropping the two Russians off at a bus stop and driving his mother-in-law to the home.
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