Rhyming Life and Death

by Amos Oz

  *

  Thinking about Ovadya Hazzam, dying there in hospital between two other dying men, both at least twenty years his senior, the Author zips up, returns to the avenue, taking care to avoid the barbed wire, and retraces his steps impatiently to the Shunia Shor and the Seven Victims of the Quarry Attack Cultural Centre.

  He thinks for a moment he can make out a shadowy form sitting on the steps of the cultural centre, waiting for him, maybe that of Yuval Dahan or Dotan, the miserable young poet who apparently has not yet given up hope of the Author and is sitting, huddled and shivering, waiting for him to return, in the middle of the night, and sit beside him on the steps, and read at least four or five of his poems by the light of the street lamp, and then the two of them can have a heart-to-heart talk, till daybreak if need be, a totally open emotional and artistic exchange between a mature, experienced writer and a struggling novice beset by suffering and humiliation to the point of suicidal thoughts, and there is not a single soul in the whole wide world who can understand him except this Author, who has so often described such suffering in his books, and even though he is a famous celebrity I can read between the lines of his books enough to know that behind the well-known public persona there lurks someone shy and lonely and even possibly sad. Just like me. In fact, he and I are twin souls and that is why he is the only person who can understand me and maybe even help me because if he can’t who can?

  *

  The building is locked and in darkness and in the entrance there are still notices announcing the literary event that concluded about two hours ago. The cultural administrator Yerucham Shdemati has left the light on in the ground-floor office to deter burglars.

  But you would have to be a very naive burglar, a real beginner, the Author says to himself with a smile, to be put off by this light that is on night after night from evening to morning in an office that you can see into from the street to satisfy yourself that there is no one there. There is not a soul in the entire Shunia Shor and the Seven Victims of the Quarry Attack Cultural Centre, apart perhaps from the shadowy figure of the boy poet shivering at the bottom of the steps, having given up all hope of your reading his poems or sitting and talking to him and asking nothing more of you than that you should notice his forlorn shadow, which may in fact be no more than the shadow of an empty packing case or a couple of broken benches. And remember his eyes, ridiculously enlarged behind his pebble glasses, and know that at this very moment, in the middle of the night, in the darkness of his bedroom which is not a real room but just a kitchen balcony closed off with plasterboard and some glass bricks in his parents’ flat in Reines Street, he is lying wide awake in the dark in his underwear, in a state of despair, thinking only of you.

  *

  Just across the road from the cultural centre, in Rochele Reznik’s rooftop room, if that is really the room she pointed out to him when they were standing here an hour or so ago, if he hasn’t got confused, between her drawn curtains, a crack of light shows.

  So, apparently she sent her curtains to some cleaning company that specialises in cleaning curtains after sunset and returning them to their owners beautifully washed and ironed before the stroke of midnight.

  Unless you are mistaken, and her room is the other one up there? And in fact, the whole story of her curtains going to the cleaner’s may just have been meant as a hint to you. A hint that you missed, that you shouldn’t go up with her? Or the contrary, that you should? And you understood nothing and missed something that might have— or maybe you didn’t miss it after all? After all, her light is still on.

  And suddenly the Author enters the building, without asking himself why. He feels for the light button, taking great care this time in the dark, since one of his ribs still reminds him of the slap he got from the barbed wire earlier, and touching the place he finds that his shirt is torn in several places and that he is bleeding, and the blood on his fingers reminds him of forgotten schoolboy scraps.

  Once he has managed to turn the light on in the stairwell, the Author pauses for a moment, as he always does, to examine the letter boxes at the foot of the stairs. Bilha and Shimon Perechodnik. The Arnon Family. Dr Alphonse Valero, Structural Engineer. Yaniv Schlossberg. Rami & Tami Bentolila. Caplan, Accountants. Rochele and Joey Reznik. (In careful, rounded handwriting. Is Joey Joselito? Or has she got some lodger up there? Or even a partner? Perhaps?)

  There is also a big box belonging to the tenants’ council (ABSOLUTELY no circulars or handbills!!!). The stairwell is rather shabby, with peeling plaster and pencil scribbles, the banisters are rusting, the door of one of the meter cupboards hangs miraculously from a single bent hinge. Passing a door marked ‘Yaniv Schlossberg lives it up here’, he hears a long salvo of bullets accompanied by whoops and cheers, and then the sound of breaking glass from the TV.

  It’s nearly midnight.

  And you? What, may we ask, are you looking for here at this time of night? Are you entirely sane?

  *

  At this moment, hearing the sounds of shooting coming from Yaniv Schlossberg’s flat on the first floor, the Author decides that he ought to get out of here. His feet lead him of their own accord to the cafe where he sat earlier in the evening, the cafe with Ricky the waitress, the outline of whose knickers showed through her skirt.

  Is the cafe still open? Is she perhaps sitting there all alone, at a corner table, sipping a last cup of hot chocolate before locking up? She’s just about to go to the toilets and change from her skirt to jeans and a blouse and slip into some comfortable sandals, and when she leaves one could offer, for example, to walk her home to protect her from the kind of men who pester pretty, attractive girls like you in the empty streets at night?

  Or maybe the Author does not leave when he reaches the first floor but persists in climbing up two more flights to Rochele Reznik’s door. There he hesitates for a few moments, while the light on the stairs goes out, is relit by someone on a lower landing, and goes out again. The Author presses his ear to the door: is she still awake, or was the light he saw through the curtains merely a night light that she keeps on when she is asleep? Is she alone with her cat? Or is there a hefty young lover sleeping by her side? Which would be profoundly embarrassing. How exactly do you see yourself right now, if you don’t mind my asking? As the embodiment of the nocturnal desires of a lonely woman who is almost young, a nice, pleasant girl only not particularly attractive? Or do you cast yourself as the staircase rapist they’ve been searching for round here for more than eighteen months? Or simply as a confused and feverish man, like Yuval Dahan the young poet, who goes out looking for inspiration for a story in the middle of the night in dark stairwells?

  Many a wise man lacks for sense,

  Etc., etc., etc.

  *

  The devil now tempts our feverish Author to try the door gently. It’s locked, of course.

  So, what about your shy reader?

  She went to sleep long ago, leaving her night light on to attract muddled moths like you.

  But there is another possibility. While he quietly lowers the door handle there is a sound from inside the flat. At once he reconsiders and flees, too nervous to turn on the light on the stairs, taking them two at a time, losing his footing on the last bend, and bumping his shoulder violently on the door of the meter cupboard that was hanging miraculously by a single hinge and has now come loose and hits the banister railings with a tremendous crash, a door opens, probably that of ‘Yaniv Schlossberg lives it up here’, Excuse me, would you mind telling me who you are looking for at this time of night?

  Maybe he will recognise him? From pictures in the papers, or from chat shows on TV? And how can he explain? I’m sorry, I’m Mr Hyde, would you mind letting me ring Dr Jekyll urgently?

  *

  But it is also possible that the Author does not run away when he hears the sound inside the flat but stays rooted to the spot, in paralysed silence, outside Rochele Reznik’s door. After a few moments he decides to leave a note for her, tucked
between the door and the door post (or would it be better to leave it downstairs, in the letter box she shares with Joselito?). This is what the note will say: You were magnificent this evening, Rochele, and I came back later on to thank you and also to be certain that you got back safely to your ivory tower and did not fall into the hands of any witch or dragon. And, if you’ll permit me, this note is also to give you a goodnight kiss. (He will sign the note only with his initial. Or better still, he won’t sign it at all – what’s the point?)

  Or perhaps this: just at the moment when the Author turns to flee, Rochele opens the door because she was not asleep, she was sitting on her bed, deep in thought, and she noticed the slight movement of the door handle in the middle of the night, and despite her panic she hurried over to look through the peephole, and when she saw who was there she did not hesitate or wait for him to knock but opened the door at once.

  Rochele, wearing a plain short-sleeved cotton nightdress that reaches almost down to her ankles, buttoned all the way up to her neck. Did she manage to do up the two top buttons while she was peering through the peephole? Or is this the way she always sleeps, with her nightdress buttoned up to the top to protect her against whoever may be planning to sneak into her dreams?

  Rochele Reznik smiles in surprise, with flickers of fear and joy on her squirrel face.

  It’s you? You’ve come back?

  The Author, for his part, is surprised to discover that her night smile is less shy and embarrassed than her rare smiles earlier in the evening. His own embarrassment is so great now that he tries to mumble something, to gain some time, to invent some story, explanation or apology for her, and then turn tail and run.

  His lips speak of their own accord: It’s like this. Rochele. Look. I came back because I found I’d forgotten something. I mean, I’d forgotten something I really wanted to do for you before. And I didn’t do it. See if you can guess. What was it I forgot to do for you?

  She stands beside the door, that she has hastily closed and locked behind him, with her arms firmly crossed over her chest as a barrier, or to hide its flatness under her nightdress. Her voice is quite calm now (perhaps because her embarrassment level has fallen as his has risen, like some experiment in physics): I give up. What was it you wanted to do and forgot?

  Will you hand me your book for a moment?

  My book? What book?

  Your book. I mean my book. The one you read from this evening at the cultural centre, that you read from so beautifully. I just wanted to write a few words in it, a little message for you, but I was so excited I forgot. It was only just now, half an hour ago, that I remembered. So I turned round and came straight back to you.

  *

  From the top of the bookcase a black-and-white cat eyes him with a haughty look, and winks ironically, as though there’s nothing novel about this visitor, as though this is the usual pattern of life up here under the roof, every night, at midnight, some writer or other always turns up, blushing, after remembering to come and write a personal message to Rochele Reznik on the flyleaf of his latest book.

  Pleased to meet you. You must be Mister Joey? The Author advances, uninvited, into the middle of the room, to the bedside table, where he bends over and writes her a warm dedication, adding the name of jealous Joselito, then he bends over again and adds a drawing of a little flower and a bewhiskered cat’s face that, for some reason, looks crafty and scheming.

  Rochele says: Listen. I must apologise to you. I was wrong. When you brought me home I told you my curtains were at the cleaner’s. And they weren’t.

  And a moment later: No. Actually it’s not that I was wrong, but I didn’t tell you the truth. I’m sorry.

  Why did you do that? Was it because you were looking for an excuse to stop me coming upstairs? Were you a bit frightened? (His hand flutters for a moment, absent-mindedly, above her cheek. Not pityingly, or seductively, but something like late-night affection.)

  Yes. I was frightened. I don’t know. I felt shy with you. I honestly can’t say now if I really wanted you to come up but I was afraid, or if I was afraid to say to you simply, listen, it’s better if you don’t come up, or if I was afraid to say I was afraid. I don’t even know now.

  Hearing these words he draws her head towards him, presses her to his shoulder and holds her tight, so she can’t escape. (Little frightened squirrel, please don’t run away from me.) Meanwhile he notices that now, maybe because she has untied her plait for the night and her thick long hair is streaming halfway down her back, she is suddenly looking much less unattractive.

  And like a shy girl, as his hand presses her head to his shoulder, she suddenly utters an unexpected question: Just now, I said, I don’t even know now. Shouldn’t I have said, Even now I don’t know?

  Hugging her shoulders he leans her back against the table and kisses her under the ear, an ambiguous, more or less paternal, kiss. But still he cannot stop the flow of his own words:

  Well, let’s see. You don’t even know now? Now you don’t even know? Even now you don’t know? Now you even don’t know? Now even you don’t know? No, do you even know now? Please cross out those that do not apply.

  Instead of which her lips tickle his neck, barely touching his skin, and only then does the Author finally realise that he should stop talking. So he abandons his wordplay and feels embarrassed about the bristles that must have grown since he shaved this morning and may be scratching her. But the bristles seem to inspire her to scrape the back of his neck with her fingernails, not gently this time but with a sudden force. In response, he turns her round so she has her back to him, draws her hair aside, rests his lips on the nape of her neck, and moves his tongue lightly back and forth over the fine hairs until they stiffen, and ripples run down her back. Then he turns her again and kisses her lips cautiously, tentatively, and at once the kiss becomes deeper, their tongues moving back and forth, kisses that simultaneously quench and excite the appetite. He breathes in her smells, among which he thinks he can make out a faint smell of mouthwash with an almost imperceptible hint of lemon-flavoured yogurt and bread. This cocktail of smells enchants and excites him more than any perfume in the world. For one fleeting moment he is worried about his own body odour and the smell that may be coming from his own mouth, and regrets not asking if he can take a shower first, but how could he have done that? And now it is too late to ask her anything because she has started pressing herself against him and seeking out his chest with her lips, with a certain shyness yet with an urgency or passion that overcomes her shyness and sweeps away her inhibitions, as though her own body is driving her along and begging her not to hold it back.

  Now that she is pressing herself passionately against him he is anxious that she will be repelled or alarmed or even offended when she suddenly feels his erection through their clothes. But when she does discover it, far from being upset or repelled, as though her solitary dreams have prepared her for this moment, she holds him tight and squeezes her body to his, sending delightful sailing boats tacking to and fro across the ocean of his back. With her fingertips she sends foam-flecked waves scurrying over his skin.

  Standing beside her single bed, it is not difficult for them to move from the vertical to the horizontal and soon they find themselves lying together on their sides (because the bed is so narrow). Just then something indescribable happens, a simple movement intended to make them more comfortable, a movement that they both happen to make at the very same moment, that they both happen to make in perfect harmony, like a pair of dancers bringing off a precisely synchronised move after a hundred rehearsals, and this wonderful, unimaginably perfect movement makes them both giggle and thus removes any lingering embarrassment or tension from their path while heightening their excitement. And because the bed is so narrow they have to go on lying on their sides holding each other tight and they somehow have to coordinate each move, like a pas de deux. And apart from a single meeting between an elbow and a shoulder the dance is perfectly fluid, which amazes him because h
e imagined that she was not particularly experienced and he does not consider himself exactly a virtuoso. When his hand moves down to her thigh she whispers: Just a moment, let me go and shut Joselito in the shower, he makes me feel awkward. And he whispers back: Let him watch us, who cares if he gets jealous? He may pick up a trick or two.

  He hears her talking to the cat in a warm, affectionate voice, before she shuts the bathroom door. Then she is back in bed, lying on her side, holding and stroking him, neither of them sure what to do next, until his fingers stray over her breasts through the cotton nightdress, and she enfolds his hand in hers and guides it away from her small breasts that have always caused her embarrassment, and as though to compensate him she moves it down to rest on her belly.

  Recovering the urge to speak he says in a muffled voice, Listen, Rochele, but he gives up when she stops his lips. Instead he kisses her forehead, her temples, the corners of her eyes, beneath her ears, in the hollows of her neck, where it curves down to meet her shoulders, and where the touch of his lips tickles her slightly. These kisses are designed to bribe her or distract her attention from the slow, stealthy progress of his hand, which does not rest on her belly where it has been placed but is creeping steadily southwards. But Rochele stops him: Wait for me a moment, she says, I’m still a bit scared. And he stops obediently and whispers: You’ll be surprised, little squirrel, but I’m a bit scared myself. It’s not just you.