21
BUT HE DID NOT. He remained wide awake, listening to her breathe. For a while he tried guessing where his mother-in-law might have gone. Then he thought of a newspaper article he once had read about how sleeping with a partner decreased one’s chances of heart disease. Indeed, for years he and his wife had slept closely entwined, and her heart had held out to the end. Only during her illness did his embrace become painful, while later, when she was moved to her hospital bed, they no longer slept on one level. Now he had risen again in the world, and were he not such a worrier, it would be natural to cuddle up to the pale form by his side, whose warmth might help him fall asleep. If he managed to return her to Russia, she would no doubt remember him fondly. Yet suppose he didn’t? A night like this could be misinterpreted; in fact, there was something quite animal about sleeping in one bed without a common language. Why didn’t she know Hebrew, grieved Molkho, rubbing his bare feet together, or at least a little English? Though the room was hot, the soles of his feet couldn’t seem to get warm.
Where was his mother-in-law? Was she, too, a secret vanisher? He thought of the summer day seven years ago when she disappeared outside the operating room, where they were waiting for the result of the first biopsy. Just then, much sooner than expected, the green-smocked surgeon appeared to report that it was positive and that the breast would have to be removed. He retired to a little office while Molkho, thunderstruck, ran off to tell his wife’s mother. But she was nowhere to be seen, and so he ran back to the office, where the surgeon was nursing a cup of coffee while studying some X rays spread out on a newspaper. Was he waiting for Molkho’s consent or just resting before the operation? Molkho never found out, though knocking lightly on the open door, he began to plead with the man. “If there isn’t any choice. I have complete faith in you. She’s in your hands. The main thing is to get it all out.” The surgeon listened quizzically, finished his coffee, and strode wordlessly back to the operating room, leaving Molkho standing by a wall as white as his wife’s breast, thinking of all the times he had kissed it and of how he would have liked to say good-bye, after which he went despairingly off to look once more for his mother-in-law, the only person who could comfort him, searching everywhere until he found her on a bench in another ward, chatting with a sick friend. Her smile disappeared as soon as she saw him, but at a loss for words, feeling angry at her for the first time in his life, the only way he could think of breaking the news was to slash the air with his hand.
He lay trying to still the feeling of perpetual motion inside him. Does it have some goal, he wondered, or will it just keep going round and round? Something told him the little Russian was awake: her smooth breathing had stopped and her wholesomely warm body was stiff with tension. Yes, she was awake, there was no doubt of it; he knew the signs well enough even in the dark. During the last weeks of his wife’s illness, he had known before she did when she was about to open her eyes. Suppose the little Russian were to touch him now, he wondered, his back still fetally curved to her. What would he do? Their three days together had not encouraged him to think that she was attracted to him. Again he quietly rubbed his cold feet, which were keeping him awake. Though the civil thing to do was to turn and make some gesture, if only to whisper good night, he didn’t want to excite her, for she had a long day ahead of her and would need all the sleep she could get. Suddenly he realized that it was raining outside. Was that what had awoken her? Then she would soon fall asleep again, for it was just a soft, windless patter. And yet she kept tossing and turning. There was a sigh, followed by a tug and release of the blanket. Perhaps she, too, would sleep better cuddled up to him, he thought, worrying whether it wasn’t his duty to help her in any way he could. He opened his eyelids a crack to peek at the dark steamer trunk on which he had put his bifocals. All at once the little Russian sighed again and sat up, as if trying to see beyond his curved back.
She can touch me, he thought. I won’t stop her. After all, she knows I’m not sleeping, because I just got into bed. She knows I’m listening to the rain just like she is. She can touch me all she wants. And just then she did, her warm little hand making him ache queerly. I won’t stop her, he thought. She can go ahead. Or does she think I’m asleep? He lay with his eyes shut tight, no longer a live fetus rocked by motion but a dead one in the grip of a fateful womb. The warm, plump hand stole up his neck and stroked the back of his head as it might a sick child. Suddenly she slipped out of bed. I’ll let her come to me, he thought. But she did not. She went to the bathroom, turned on the light, and shut herself silently up there.
He listened for the gurgle of water, but there was no sound at all, just the ceaseless dripping of the rain—no paper being torn, no bottle being opened, no comb or nightgown or pill, as if she were a hunted little animal afraid to give itself away. Long minutes passed, and he realized that she was waiting too, waiting for him to fall asleep. Then I will, he thought, curling up even tighter and feeling his feet grow warm, so that sleep finally seemed possible. I’m drifting with the current, drifting, drifting, drifting, he thought, wondering whether to coax his little rabbit back under the blankets before sleep enveloped him completely. But where was she? As consciousness faded, so did his sense of direction. Was she nearby or gone for good? But no, she couldn’t be. Not even the dead were ever gone for good.
22
AT NINE the next morning, carrying two large handbags that were packed with the little Russian’s clothes, the two of them stood in a dim underground passage leading to East Berlin, Molkho with his bifocals on in case he should have to read or sign some document. Woozy from his night of insufficient if determined sleep, he tried gauging the halting flow of border crossers ahead of him—most of them subdued West Germans—like a boatsman nearing rapids, careful not to crowd the little Russian, who had been so taciturn all morning that even her few words of Hebrew seemed forgotten. Not that he minded her silence. On the contrary, it was so welcome that he all but forgave the ugly woolen suit she was wearing again, her rigidly retouched curls, and her overdone makeup. Was he really about to part with her or was this just one more illusion? In either case, he thought, no one can say I haven’t done my best. He was sorry he hadn’t brought his camera, for a visit to the East was worth recording. Though he had heard reassuring reports about the day trip behind the Iron Curtain (in fact, had the legal adviser not slipped and gone to sleep on him, he might have taken it with her), it was only natural to feel a tingle of fear as he stood facing the metallic gray doors of Communism and the khaki-clad policeman guarding them. You would think, he reflected, that if we in the free world are willing to risk it, the least they could do is paint the entrance something cheerier.
Having demonstrated her independence of him by allowing a German woman with some shopping baskets to push ahead in line and stand between them, the plump little Russian stood aloofly waiting her turn, holding the laissez-passer that he had returned to her that morning after breakfast. If they arrest her, he thought, I can always pretend not to know her. But no one was arrested or even questioned. The two of them were given their visas and directed to some stairs at the far end of the passageway, from which they emerged into a quite ordinary street no different from the one they had left: the same cobblestones, the same people, the same strips of grass and flowers, the same stubborn drizzle that failed to distinguish between East and West. He opened the new umbrella he had bought, and she teetered sulkily beneath it on her high heels as far as the first corner, where they paused to ask someone directions to the Anti-Fascist War Memorial. Though the man knew no English or Russian, he understood them well enough to guide them to a wide boulevard, along which he briefly accompanied them until satisfied they were headed the right way.
Sharing the umbrella, they came to a large, somber edifice covered with scaffolding and sheets of gray plastic and stood staring up at it disappointedly until another passerby took them in hand and pointed across the boulevard, where several tourist buses stood parked before a square, neoc
lassical structure with a colonnaded facade. Crossing over, they soon found themselves surrounded by tourists speaking a babble of languages, among which the little Russian, her face lighting up, made out her own musical tongue. Eagerly she looked for the source of it, for the first time almost believing that Molkho’s wild scheme might yet work.
The group progressed slowly into a large, dim interior, in which, flanked by two East German honor guards standing at attention with bayoneted rifles, an eternal flame burned in a glass chamber. No one spoke. All eyes, including Molkho’s, were on the bluish tongues of fire that burst from a sooty opening in the floor, spellbound by their primitive magic. Slowly he shuffled forward with his companion, who, however, was staring not at the flames but at the German soldiers, as though to catch their attention. She stopped to read a Russian inscription on the floor and then, refusing to move on with the crowd, stood reading it again, sighing with such anguish that he instinctively edged away, as if she had some communicable disease.
All at once she uttered something out loud that drew curious stares in her direction. Molkho kept heading for the exit, where he stopped and waited for her to join him. But she did not. Instead, approaching a middle-aged couple, she began speaking to them like old friends, reaching into her handbag for her papers while they stared at her with puzzled sympathy, as if searching within themselves for the code to her distress signal. Yes, she can take care of herself, Molkho observed with sudden admiration, struck by how her poorly cut clothes seemed perfectly in place here, as if everyone else had employed the same tailor. Still, he was worried that her rapid-fire Russian might get him into trouble. Before I know it, they’ll repatriate me too, he thought, backing off to the safety of a dark niche in a wall.
23
HAD HE REALIZED those were to be their last moments together, he might not have acted so furtively but rather said a fond good-bye, perhaps even kissing her on both cheeks like a Frenchman. As it was, though, fearful of being incriminated in something he couldn’t explain, he waited half in hiding for the tourists to disperse and clear a space around her.
But the crowd simply grew thicker until nothing remained of her but a few flashes of red fabric. Of course, they’re curious, he thought. Everyone else wants out of here and she wants in—why, she’s making history! Although several men in uniform were approaching and he knew that now was the time to slip out to the boulevard and back to the West, her shrill voice made him cling to his corner. After all, he reasoned, I can always say I’m a decadent tourist who’s afraid of the rain.
Suddenly he heard her sob. At last, he thought with relief, listening in the ensuing hush to the traffic in the boulevard. It’s about time she let it all out. She sobbed again and then broke once more into speech, her melodic voice rising and falling as though a tightly wound spring were slowly unwinding inside her. Good for her, he thought, noticing an inscription on the stone wall: “Karl Friedrich Schinkel, 1816–1818.” Was she crying, too, for her humiliating night with him? But it was all for the best.
And indeed, the crowd around her now asked a pale little officer with a broad-brimmed cap and red lapels, who made Molkho think of a Turkish railroad conductor, to see what he could do. Accompanied by a policeman, he cleared a path to the little Russian and brought her to a sentry booth, in front of which two fresh soldiers with rifles stood ready for the changing of the guard. Assured she was in good hands, Molkho darted from his dark corner, opened his umbrella, and stepped back into the street. The gloomy edifice covered in plastic—which, his map told him, was the old Berlin Opera House—seemed a good vantage point from which to watch for her.
24
TRUE, THAT MORNING he had larded her handbag and coat pockets with a few more of the hotel’s visiting cards to ensure her safe return, but his responsibilities, he believed, included keeping up morale in case of failure, and so he remained loyally by the opera house, trying not to lose sight of the memorial, which was continually being blocked by more tourist buses. When after a while she failed to appear, he recrossed the boulevard and joined a group of noisy Spaniards who swept him back past the honor guard, which was beginning, so he thought, to be a bit unsteady on its feet. Though the sentry booth was open, neither his Russian nor the pale officer were in it. Had she gone looking for him? Surely she must have realized that she should wait for him where they had parted. Circling the building, he joined some more tourists of unknown nationality and filed past the blue flame again. “When does the guard change?” he asked a policeman in English, and was answered with a tap of the East German’s watch that seemed to mean a quarter of an hour. He went back out to the boulevard, bought a bun to appease his hunger, and returned for the changing of the guard, which took place quite simply, the two replacements stepping smartly up, barking a command in unison, and receiving custody of the flame. Just then the sun peeked out from behind the clouds, and despite the light drizzle, he resolved to go for a walk on the boulevard, which struck him as being more authentically Berlinish than the fashionable streets of the Western zone.
Stopping to ask directions, he was told that the boulevard led to the Brandenburg Gate. Soon he was there, gazing up at the Berlin Wall and its watchtowers from the East. Now, too, an ugly scar reminding the forgetful of the retribution visited upon the Nazi horror, he found it a welcome sight. Walking back up the boulevard, which was called Unter den Linden, he innocently followed a group of Dutch tourists into the memorial, the flame, perhaps because of the sunshine, now looking rather faded. He stood through a lecture in Dutch, passed the sentry booth, where two guards were having lunch, and set out to look for the little Russian in the tourist shops of the Alexanderplatz. But she was not there either, and lured back by the magical flame, he returned to the memorial. Finding it empty, he entered and strolled past the honor guard, head down to avoid recognition, since by now he had been there a suspicious number of times.
It’s time to start back, he told himself, noticing the darkening sky. Indeed, the little Russian was most probably waiting in the hotel. He returned to the checkpoint, first stopping by a candy and souvenir stand that was meant to help relieve the visitor of his remaining East German marks, where, under the stern eyes of the kiosk operator, he did some complicated sums to decide how best to spend the money. It was something he was good at. More than once, while waiting for a flight back to Israel, he had exasperated his wife by running back and forth in the airport to buy souvenirs and chocolates, emptying his pockets of every last coin as if he meant never to travel again.
25
THE TRENCH HAD RETREATED up the busy street, which was bathed in the first rays of twilight when Molkho returned to the hotel. At the desk the schoolgirl was doing her homework, and everything seemed so familiar that he almost expected to see the legal adviser too. Disappointingly, though, his and the little Russian’s key was still in its cubbyhole. Loath to admit by asking about her that he couldn’t keep track of his women, he took the key with a smile, said a few words in German, and went up to the room, in which no one had been but the chambermaid. He considered a nap but chose to shower instead, thus easing pressure on the bathroom later on when they might want to go to the opera. While he was under the water, the telephone rang. Dripping wet, he ran to get it, but it was only the proprietor, happily informing him that there had been a cancellation and that another room was available. “On which floor?” asked Molkho doubtfully. “On the first,” said the German. “On the first? Don’t you have anything on the second?” No, replied the German slyly, he did not, though who knew better than his guest how few stairs there were between them. “All right,” mumbled Molkho into the phone, “I’ll let you know soon.”
He went to dry himself, wondering why he felt so put out. Was it simply his hating to waste the money? After all, the two of them had reached an understanding that was certainly good for one more night. Nevertheless, he went downstairs to see the room, which turned out to be tiny, almost prisonlike in its dimensions, as though it were the original cell from
which the rest of the hotel had grown. Molkho hesitated. “There’s no air here,” he complained to the schoolgirl, who, meaning well, opened a small window. Unappeased, he went off to see the proprietor. Yet, though aware of the room’s deficiencies, the German urged Molkho to take it, since his present room was only good for one more night and he didn’t want to be left out in the cold.
Molkho agreed and was given a new registration form.
26
HAD HE NOT FELT SO SURE she would be back by midnight, he would never have rented the second room, but despite her talent for disappearing, he was certain that sooner or later she would have to return. He scribbled a note that said, “I’m here”; tore it up because she would be unable to read it; printed another note, which said “I’ve gone for a walk”; tore that up because she would be unable to understand it; and finally settled on a third note, which said, “I will be back.” Then he went out to have a look around and to shop for more presents.
Five Seasons Page 36