How lovely it is to see a young girl blossom. How sad it is to see her wither. And just as Nofar was beginning to wonder if she had bloomed the night before only to wither this morning, the TV arts reporter walked into the ice-cream parlour and asked for one scoop of chocolate.
“Cup or cone?”
Cone. Of course a cone. A cone you can eat, but a cup serves no function the minute you finish the ice cream. The arts reporter didn’t like things that had no function. She was just as purposeful about her eating as she was about her work and her sex life. Efficient, focused striving for maximum fulfilment had made her a valued professional in her field and a much-demanded partner in bed. As she ate, she appraised the girl. The story did not seem credible to her. She had known Avishai Milner from his Avi-shai! Mil-ner! days. She had known him inside and out, and mainly from above. She preferred to have sex with men she didn’t consider important so she wouldn’t have to meet their eyes when she came. The arts reporter studied the girl, trying to decide whether her source had been right to send her to this ice-cream parlour, of all places. She looked at the plain girl behind the counter and wondered if there was anything about her that could arouse desire. She had almost decided there wasn’t, when the door opened again and the red-haired saleswoman and the delicate cashier came in. They went over to the girl who was drowning in her ordinariness and said, “We came to see if you’re all right.”
And here was that change again. As rapid as a sunrise. One moment darkness, the next, light. As crunchy as an ice-cream cone on the tongue. One moment Nofar was standing there feeling the wetness of the refuse on her leg, and the next she was telling her new acquaintances – she remembered them from the alley yesterday – everything she had said at the police station. And as she spoke – how strange – her eyes became bluer. Her lips grew fuller. Her shoulders, usually stooped, suddenly spread like wings. And her breasts, usually concealed by those drooping shoulders, now appeared quite attractive. In fact, her figure was lovely. Her movements were graceful. So it is: the truth becomes some people, and others are made beautiful by falsity. Water plants need the heat of summer in order to blossom. And Nofar Shalev needed the excitement of the story to redden her cheeks. The moment they reddened, there could no longer be any doubt: the arts reporter swallowed the last bite of her cone, all set to land herself an exclusive interview.
Nevertheless, there was one person there who knew. Standing shyly near the glass door was Lavi Maimon from the fourth floor. He stared intently at the ice-cream server as she told her story, noticed how her skin glowed from the pleasure of being looked at, observed the dark flame in the depths of her eyes, and knew. He recognized that flame from his own home, saw it ignite whenever his mother flew off to her Pilates lesson. His father sat on the couch in front of the TV news, explaining to the Commander-in-Chief of the army and government ministers exactly what they should do. His mother took the dishes to the kitchen, poured peanuts into a bowl, planted a quick kiss on the back of his unmoving head and left. His father barely noticed her. He just wanted to watch in peace, one hand in the bowl of peanuts, the other on his testicles. But from his perch on the windowsill, Lavi saw the change that came over his mother from the moment she left the building. Her face was suddenly different. And her gait. Though she had always been beautiful, she was suddenly a thousand times more beautiful. Her secret life pulsed within her like another heart. The secret woman who lived inside his mother was walking along the street, and one look was enough for Lavi Maimon to know that it wasn’t a Pilates class she was headed for.
At first, he had thought it was love that made her beautiful. But that love turned out to be a multitude of small loves. A calculated foray into his mother’s mobile phone revealed months-long affairs, as well as one-night stands, and Lavi gradually realized that it wasn’t a specific person who was making his mother’s skin glow. It wasn’t love that was blazing on her cheeks, but rather the intoxicating freedom she took for herself when she turned her back on his father and went out into the street. Now Lavi looked at the ice-cream server and recognized the same fire – the joy of knowing what others didn’t.
Lavi didn’t suspect or assume that the girl wasn’t speaking the truth – he simply knew it. There are some things that people inherit from their parents. Lavi had his mother’s eyes. Nofar’s forehead came from her father. But in addition to those physical features, something else is passed down from one generation to another. Not the traits that parents transmit to their children, but rather a counter-reaction to them: obsessive neatness in someone who grows up in a messy home. Compulsive cheerfulness in a person whose mother is always sad. A rare ability to sniff out untruths in someone whose mother constantly lies. That too is something parents pass on to their children – not the trait itself, but the way the child absorbs and reacts to it.
After his discovery, he chewed his mother’s rice and swallowed the word liar. She asked how his day at school was, and in his mind he replied whore. After his discovery, he always thought she was hiding something behind her glance. Even when she said the most mundane things, such as “Come help me with the shopping,” he examined her words carefully, like a detective in a film who checks his car for booby traps before turning the key in the ignition. And his perception of his father changed as well. Lavi had always thought his father was 1.75 metres tall, though in reality he was barely 1.68 (no one knew that, neither his soldiers nor his employees, and it was difficult to see, even in photos, that the most powerful man in the picture was also the shortest). Now Lavi suddenly looked at his father and saw his actual size.
He never tired of watching his mother lie to his father. It was like scratching an insect bite. He was fascinated by that contrast between the open expression and the secret it concealed: the lips that sang him lullabies spoke lies with the same simplicity. Because ever since his discovery, every sentence his mother uttered was like an overstuffed wallet inviting theft. Concealed beneath every ordinary sentence flowing on the surface of the conversation was another that dwelt below, in the darkness. How could the general, that seasoned tactician, be such an idiot? Because the worst part of it all was that, since Lavi’s discovery, he could no longer hate him as he had before nor love him as he had before.
That was why Lavi could recognize the ice-cream server’s lies. He saw the gap between what she said and what had really happened. As soon as the others left, he said to her, “I know you’re lying.” He thought she would cry, that she would be frightened. But she remained calm, a serene expression on her face. He said, “I know you’re lying.” But instead of saying all the things she could possibly have said, she said only, “So what do you want?”
At that moment, he knew for certain that he was right. What had been only a feeling was now validated.
“I want you to talk about me during a TV interview. Say my name.”
“What’s your name?”
“Lavi Maimon. When they ask you how you had the courage to scream, tell them that your buddy, Lavi Maimon, taught you self-defence.”
He spoke quickly, in a whisper, and when he said the words “your buddy” he lowered his voice even more, as if the phrase had dropped into a pit as he spoke it and he could barely pull it out. Nofar gave his words serious consideration. After all, she had never had a buddy before. Finally, she looked at the boy, saw that he was very skinny, that his curly hair and his eyes were black, and said, “My friend. I’ll say that my friend taught me self-defence.”
And so, even before the first hour of her shift had passed, Nofar Shalev had a friend.
6
THE NEXT SEVERAL HOURS passed quickly. The ice-cream parlour filled up with customers, some of them lovers of sweet things, most of them lovers of scandal, because although traffic in the city moved along sluggishly, the rumours in it moved along quite speedily. In consideration of the girl’s age and the nature of the offences the newspapers did not reveal her name, but everyone knew. Everyone denounced the offender. Everyone admired her courage. An
d wherever courage is admired, tips are given. By noon, the always empty glass left on the counter for tips was packed with coins. Nofar emptied it three times and it was refilled each time, as if it were an oil well that had finally found the place where the earth spills its bounty. At four o’clock, when the stony-faced boy arrived to take over behind the counter, Nofar piled up the coins twice to make sure she hadn’t made a mistake, and finally decided that she did indeed have 255 shekels in tips. Astounded by her good luck, she headed for the small square and went into one of the designer boutiques.
The saleswoman said, “What can I show you today?” but was in fact saying, “There’s nothing here for you.” It was clear from her tone. From the way she looked at the girl as soon as she entered. The boutique was petite and chic, while the girl was large and common. Well, not actually large, but definitely not slender. Wearing tights that did nothing to flatter her thighs. And a shirt that was disgustingly ordinary. But Nofar, instead of reverting to her usual mousy self, faced the urban cat with her manicured nails and pulled her by the tail.
“I need something for a TV interview tonight.”
The words were spoken simply and confidently. Like “Abracadabra”. Like “Open Sesame”. And in truth, after the saleswoman’s phone call to the producer of said programme, the shop magically opened for Nofar. The new collection was brought out from the storeroom. The head designer was summoned from the boutique in the southern part of the city. Try this one on too, maybe in blue, have you already thought about shoes, shall we add a belt? And she immediately reached out to the mannequin in the window, removed the belt from its waist and handed it to the stunned Nofar. When she finally stood in front of the mirror, she was a different girl. The designer had wrapped her in lavender chiffon, which brought out the blue of her eyes. The neckline dipped just enough to hint at the hidden secret of her curvaceous breasts. Suddenly, she carried herself aristocratically. But a quick glance at the price tag made her face fall. After a discount, 2,000 shekels. And she had only 255 shekels in her bag. She still remembered how the coins had jingled when the saleswoman lifted her schoolbag so it wouldn’t block the dressing rooms. How could she strap her shabby schoolbag onto her chiffon-caressed shoulders? How would she be able to walk with it in the shoes she would buy from the adjacent shop? She entered the dressing room to take off the dress and the saleswoman hurried in after her.
“Shall I wrap it for you?” Nofar was about to say no, but the saleswoman picked up the dress, folded it quickly and put it into a brightly coloured bag. “Just don’t forget to tell the producer to list the shop in the credits.”
And there she was on the street again, holding the bag with the dress in it and 255 shekels’ worth of coins still in her bag, because it had never occurred to anyone to take them from her. Her head spinning, she walked to the bus stop. She didn’t have to wait even a minute – just as she reached the stop, a bus pulled up in front of her and opened its doors. It was painted orange, as if it were a huge pumpkin.
Among the guests waiting their turn in the TV studio was a retired general. He hadn’t been called to serve in the armed forces for twenty years, but he was called to appear on TV news shows whenever the situation at the northern border flared up. Sitting two seats away in the waiting room, a pointy-chinned doctor mentally reviewed the main points she would be discussing. It’s important to vaccinate at the beginning of autumn. Flu is especially dangerous for children and the elderly. Actually, she was less disturbed by a flu epidemic than the general was by mortar shells exploding on the northern border. What preoccupied her was the question of whether Michael Shuster would watch the show, and if he did, would he recognize her, and if he did, would he regret having left her so abruptly eight years earlier. The general ran his hand over his beard, hoping that the Defence Minister would happen to watch the programme tonight, and if he didn’t, that at least one of his assistants would inform him of the astute, methodical survey the retired general had provided, what an astute, methodical man he was and it was truly a shame – the Minister would realize – that he hadn’t made him Chief of Staff when he’d still had the chance. Standing beside the coffee table with its stacks of paper cups stood the third interviewee, an actress who would be performing a one-woman show at the National Theatre the next day. She was wondering if the Filipina carer would remember to switch on the TV at the time she had requested and would turn her mother’s chair to face the screen so that the broadcast might ignite a spark in the old woman’s memory, or perhaps even cause her to grumble: why don’t you find yourself a serious profession? The actress had learnt to miss even those rebukes.
Nofar Shalev and her mother, the Hebrew teacher, Ronit Shalev, sat among those people, embarrassed and silent. On the taxi ride over, the mother reminded the daughter: Speak properly. Don’t swallow your words. Ronit Shalev, normally a kind woman who had unwittingly relinquished her control of language and allowed language to take control of her, corrected her daughter constantly. Those frequent corrections had caused Nofar to score the highest marks in the history of the school in her language final. They had also caused her to barely speak. By the time the girl stepped out of the taxi, all her self-confidence had been washed away, dissolving under the torrent of grammatical rules and proper pronunciations.
The producer, wearing headphones, welcomed them at the door. Authoritative young Amazons of that sort terrified Nofar’s mother, who unconsciously did what she always did when feeling demoralized and corrected her daughter’s posture even more vigorously. Straighten up. Your shoulders are stooped. Chin in. Neck elongated. She ran a hand over Nofar’s hair, pushed a stray curl back behind her ear, adjusted her bra strap, wiped off an invisible smudge on the sleeve of her dress. And the girl, the same girl who only a few hours earlier had stopped a bus with a wave of her hand, shrank slightly with each of her mother’s words until she almost disappeared. There is no way of knowing what might have happened if the make-up artist hadn’t suddenly appeared – wide hips, orange hair, a mouth permanently inhabited by both chewing gum and a tongue – and whisked the girl off to her mirrored room.
In the make-up room, surrounded by face powders and creams, Nofar looked bitterly at her reflection and quickly averted her eyes. The make-up artist, a woman with a heart as big as her hips, didn’t have to ask. She knew very well: for some people, sitting in front of a mirror expands their chest, and for others it acts on their body like a jellyfish sting. She especially liked those. “Look at the wonderful cheekbones you have. And such lips!” Nofar mumbled something about pimples. “Those little things? Who can see them?! Come on, I’ll perform some magic.” Since Nofar avoided looking at the mirror, she didn’t see how, with two strokes of a brush, the make-up artist made the humiliating red spots disappear. Then, opening a drawer, she took out a lipstick as delicate in colour as hidden coral and applied it to Nofar’s lips. After taking a moment to decide between peach-coloured and apple-pink blush, she finally decided that the fresh hue radiating from the girl’s cheeks was sufficient.
“So,” the make-up artist asked, “don’t you want to see?” Nofar raised her eyes hesitantly, expecting to see herself – a stooped, pimply, generally inconsequential person. But the girl in the mirror looked back at her in surprise. The mascara accentuated her eyes. Her lips were as pink as candy. Her cheekbones, normally covered with thick clumps of curls, were now revealed in all their chiselled glory. And above all: the pimples. The make-up artist, a minimum-wage-earning fairy godmother, had spread a pure white sheet that covered everything. The girl’s eyes welled with tears of gratitude. The make-up artist said in horror, “Don’t cry or it’ll all be smeared!” Nofar nodded obediently and stopped the tears between her lashes and eyelids.
Then everything happened quickly once again: the producer burst into the room and pulled her by the hand. Her mother, greyish and pale, was waiting for her beside the studio door. During the few minutes Ronit spent alone, she had managed to come up with many additional bits of advice to give
her daughter for the interview. But when she saw Nofar, her truly lovely face now exposed, she was filled with a rare sense of satisfaction that kept her silent. The producer opened the studio door and pushed Nofar inside. Breathe, the girl told herself, breathe, but her body didn’t listen, or if it did, it didn’t obey. Her limbs froze. Her tongue dried up. Only her armpits, traitors that they were, perspired non-stop, pouring out rivers of fear. She was sorry now that she had agreed to the arts reporter’s request to be photographed without having her face blurred. The reporter had praised her courage and hastened to inform the TV news chiefs about her. After obtaining signed permission forms from the mother as well, she had been allotted a large segment of the broadcast because when the victim has a face, the story is stronger. But though the story might be stronger, Nofar was overcome by weakness. She shrank like a caterpillar on its back, yearning for a compassionate hand to lead her back to the four walls of her sheltered room. But the hand did not appear. Paralysed with terror, she heard the reporter introduce the next story.
“Attempted rape in an alley in the heart of the city. The suspect in custody is none other than the famous singer Avishai Milner, who confessed during questioning. The courageous young girl who has accused him is here with us in the studio. Tell us what it was like.”
Liar Page 4