by Amos Oz
And even though he does not consider that there is the slightest resemblance between her shy apprehension and his own fear of failure, in fact the two fears are rather similar. She probably sees him as an experienced lover who is bound to find whatever her untaught body can offer him disappointingly bland, while he, as usual, is afraid that his desire will abandon him without prior warning, as has already happened to him several times, and then what will she think of him? Or of herself? What will she make of him bursting into her home at midnight, full of passion, only for it to turn out that his ardour was no more than posturing and deception? What will she think when she finds out that the man she imagined to be skilled and practised is actually no more virile than an overexcited youngster liable to shrivel up completely?
And indeed, no sooner does this fear enter his mind than it becomes a reality. After holding her tightly to him now he has to ease her body away to prevent her noticing what is missing.
Just a moment ago he was worried that she might become aware of his erection; now he has the opposite anxiety, that she may become aware of its absence.
A mischievous little imp scampers into his thoughts and points out to him that now they are quits: she has been taking care all along not to press her breasts against you, so that you won’t notice how small they are, while now you are withdrawing your loins from her for more or less the same reason.
Should he whisper to her what the imp just told him? They could enjoy a liberating laugh together, which will relieve their anxieties and they will be left with no more worries or guilty secrets, nothing ridiculous or awkward, and then they can really start enjoying themselves.
But instead he hastens to silence the little gremlin and say nothing. Instead of whispering a comparison that is no comparison at all he starts kissing her shoulders, her flank, tactfully skirting her breasts but stooping to nibble at her tummy, and on the way, between kisses, he gives her a few skilful caresses that draw out from deep inside her a soft gurgling sound, like a low, long-drawn-out cooing.
While he caresses Rochele he closes his eyes tight and tries to recover lost ground by visualising the outline of Ricky’s underwear, the asymmetric line of her knickers that was visible through her short skirt and caused him so much excitement earlier in the evening, before the literary event. He forces himself to imagine Ricky lifting her skirt up to her hips for him with one hand while slipping the other into her knickers and pulling them open at the crotch. And he also conjures up detailed pictures of what must have taken place in the hotel room in Eilat between this same Ricky and her footballer lover, Charlie, or between Charlie and Lucy, runner-up in the Queen of the Waves contest, in the same room in the same hotel, or what might have taken place between Charlie and the two girls together, or between Ricky and Lucy in bed together on their own, without Charlie.
And when none of this helps him, he asks his imagination to transform him for a few minutes into Yuval, the young poet who hungers so much for a woman’s body day and night that he despises his own life: so now you are Yuval, and at last you’ve been given a nearly naked woman’s body, take it, do what you like with it, strip off her nightie and quench all your feverish thirst.
*
Rochele notices, or maybe she just guesses, his alternating pride and humiliation. Burying her face in the cavity of his shoulder she says in her innermost voice: Tell me that you’re really here? Come on, convince me that it’s not all happening in a dream?
Maybe it is because she believes it is all happening in a dream that she does not stop his hand when it raises the hem of her nightdress above her hips. Not only does she not stop him, she takes his hand and guides it to another texture that feels finer and far silkier than that of her nightdress, a warm texture that discloses hints of folds and moist recesses to his touch, until he swells once more and has no need of poor Yuval or Ricky the waitress or the outline of her knickers under her skirt. Almost in an instant his desire rises to a level where the pressure to reach a climax stalls and gives way to a sort of sensitive physical alertness, pleased with its own sexual generosity, that gets a kick out of giving her thrill after thrill and postponing his own satisfaction, feeling to see how he can give her more and more pleasure, until she cannot take any more. And so, in complete self-denial – in every sense – with his fingers, now experienced and even inspired, he starts to steer her enjoyment like a ship towards its home port, to the deepest anchorage, right to the core of her pleasure.
Attentive to the very faintest of signals, like some piece of sonar equipment that can detect sounds in the deep imperceptible to the human ear, he registers the flow of tiny moans that rise from inside her as he continues to excite her, receiving and unconsciously classifying the fine nuances that differentiate one moan from another, in his skin rather than in his ears he feels the minute variations in her breathing, he feels the ripples in her skin, as though he has been transformed into a delicate seismograph that intercepts and instantly deciphers her body’s reactions, translating what he has discovered into skilful, precise navigation, anticipating and cautiously avoiding every sandbank, steering clear of each underwater reef, smoothing any roughness except that slow roughness that comes and goes and comes and turns and goes and comes and strokes and goes and makes her whole body quiver. Meanwhile her moaning has turned into little sobs and sighs and cries of surprise, and suddenly his lips tell him that her cheeks are covered in tears. Every sound, every breath or shudder, every wave passing over her skin, helps his fingers on their artful way to steer her home.
And the higher the waves of her pleasure, the more his own pride swells, and the more he enjoys postponing his own satisfaction, delaying it until her stifled sobs are all released – until the rising flood sweeps her like a paper boat over the rapids. (Despite his noble aspirations, and for all his devotion to duty, from time to time he does snatch a hasty earnest of pleasures to come by rubbing his tense body along her thigh with a friction that slakes and yet sharpens his lust – before focusing once more on his precise and self-imposed steering.)
*
Like a musician now, totally absorbed in the movement of his fingertips over the keys, he no longer recalls how just a few hours earlier he found this shy squirrel pleasant and almost pretty but not attractive. His hands are drawn to discover her breasts, the breasts of a twelve-year-old girl, under her night dress, and this time she does not stop him, immersed as she is in her own pleasure; and when he cups them in his hands he is filled with compassion and desire and brings his tongue to her nipples and takes each nipple in turn between his lips, delicately courting them with his tongue, while his fingers play on her labia and the secret petals around a bud so full and firm it almost resembles a third nipple. His lips and tongue follow his fingers’ lead. And she, like a baby, suddenly thrusts her thumb into her mouth and begins sucking on it loudly, until her back suddenly arches like a stretched bow, and a moment later, when she has sunk back onto the mattress, a long, soft cry bursts as though from the bottom of the sea, expressing not only pleasure but astonishment, as though it were the first time in her life she had reached that landing stage, as if even in her wildest dreams she never imagined what was waiting for her here.
And suddenly she starts to weep aloud, and says to him, Look, I’m crying. And this girlish weeping makes her bury her little rodent’s face in his shoulder and whisper: I’m sorry, it’s just that I’m still a little bit shy with you.
She starts stroking him on his cheek and his brow, long, slow caresses that silence her weeping and calm her down. But two or three minutes later she suddenly sits up in bed and raises her arms in the air as she pulls her cotton nightdress, which was rolled up round her hips, over her head, now hidden from view for a moment, and she says, Now I don’t care if you see me. And she lies down on her back again, open and waiting for him. But he merely lies on his side, in a foetal position, so as to hide the failure that overtook him the moment she relaxed after her own pleasure. He fears she may be upset by it, or that
she may blame herself.
But she, summoning up courage she had no idea she was capable of, surprises herself and him by wetting her fingers and reaching out hesitantly to his penis. To and fro she slides her fingers in a moist caress such as she never dared administer either to her first boyfriend when she was young, twelve years ago, or to the married man five and a half years later.
This caress reveals to her what she has already guessed, and far from being upset she is swept by a wave of affection, generosity and motherly compassion at his discomfiture, his anxieties and his shame at what she must be thinking.
Stirred by a feminine resolve accompanied by a feeling that she must do whatever she can to help him, she overcomes her own inhibition and licks her fingers, closes them round his limp member and rolls it around in a hesitant movement that, despite her inexperience, is so rich in dedication, enthusiasm and tenderness that it seems almost devotional, as though her hand were anointed with myrrh. With her five ambition-filled fingers she diligently works on him, over and over again, not exactly knowing but attempting to guess accurately, and then with her lips, with the velvet of her tongue, persistently, like an assiduous schoolgirl, until the first jerks begin to announce that he will soon hold his head up high.
*
At that precise moment he remembers the man who sat all through the evening in a corner of the hall releasing periodic chuckles and sniggers, Arnold, Arnold Bartok, a thin, gaunt, slightly shrunken man, a sick monkey that has lost most of its fur, only a month or so ago he was fired from his part-time job sorting parcels in a private courier company, and he and his invalid mother spend these sweaty nights in a former laundry, under the same sheet, and every hour or two he has to push a chamber pot under her flabby body and then remove it. Arnold Bartok, who is interested in eternal life and in the possibility of eliminating death.
This thought kills off any remaining glimmer of desire. Rochele’s devoted fingers are unable to eliminate what Arnold Bartok is doing to him, perhaps by way of belated revenge. The young poet Yuval also appears in his thoughts, patiently standing and waiting his turn in the queue of autograph-hunters, not to have his copy of the book signed but to tell the Author, less in anger than in extremely low spirits: You wronged me a little, didn’t you?
The Author attempts vainly to explain to Rochele what has no explanation. Even a more experienced woman might have become confused and even blamed herself for failing.
He, for his part, hastily accepts responsibility both for his limp state and for the distress he has caused her.
If only it were possible to put it into words, even in a whisper in bed in the dark, close to two o’clock in the morning, Rochele might, he thinks, find the courage to say something like this: Don’t be sad, I beg of you, don’t be sad, even a tiny bit, and don’t apologise at all, there’s no need, because your limp penis is penetrating me, right now, yes, penetrating me and reaching deep inside me, reaching places that no stiff penis has ever reached in my life and where no stiff penis could ever reach, so deep inside.
But how could she express such a feeling, aloud or in a whisper, to a man she hardly knows except from reading his books?
*
By the pale light of the street lamp filtering in through the crack between her curtains, she gets out of bed. She feels for her nightdress on the floor and picks it up. She shuts herself in the bathroom and emerges ten minutes later clean, fresh and fragrant, wearing another nightdress as long as the first one, reaching down to her ankles. Both its buttons are done up, too. She also frees Joselito, the devil in cat’s clothing, and he wastes no time in regaining his lookout post close to the ceiling, on the top shelf of the bookcase, from where his yellow panther’s eyes gleam down, hostile, curious or empty of any emotion, at the stranger who has usurped his place in the bed, as if to say, So, why did you bother? Or, I knew it would end like this, and so did you, by the way.
The stranger lies wretchedly on his back, smoking a cigarette, feeling a brutish male shame and also embarrassed to experience this age-old failure which makes him feel like a bull or a stallion that has proved unequal to its task, yet comforting himself with a mute pride over the pleasure he has given Rochele and the diapason of sighs and groans he has extracted from her. At once he feels ashamed at the arrogance of this self-congratulation. If only he could say to her, Listen, Rochele, please don’t be sad, after all, the characters in this book are all just the Author himself: Ricky, Charlie, Lucy, Leon, Ovadya, Yuval, Yerucham, they are all just the Author and whatever happens to them here is really only happening to him, and even you, Rochele, are just a thought in my mind and whatever is happening to you and me is actually only happening to me.
But look, she says, you’ve got a scratch here, quite a deep one. You’ve even been bleeding. Can I disinfect it for you, and put a plaster on it?
Leave it, it’s nothing.
Did you bump into something? Your shirt is torn.
I fought a dragon for you. I fought against seven wizards, five demons and a dragon. I slew them all for you, but first they cut me with a sword.
Keep still. Don’t be frightened, it’s only iodine. It’ll just sting for a moment. That’s it, all done. How come you slay wizards and dragons and you’re scared of a drop of iodine and a sticky plaster?
*
Now here he is, no longer lying on his back, no longer ashamed or triumphant, because now he is busy: he gets up, wraps himself in her sheet, lights another cigarette, stubs it out after taking a few puffs, gathers up his scattered clothing, goes into the bathroom to have a pee and a shower – in cold water – and emerges dressed but soaked because he decided not to dry himself: it’s more refreshing.
Coffee? A roll? Toast? It won’t take five minutes.
No thanks, little squirrel, I’m off. It’s almost half past two.
Wait. The water’s boiling. Have a coffee at least.
No thank you, forgive me but I really and truly have to run. (‘Really’, ‘really and truly’, those code words which barely conceal a lie.)
Tell me, it was good, wasn’t it?
Very. I had a wonderful time with you. And listen. Rochele. I’ll ring you soon. (You won’t ring. Why should you?) And try not to be angry. With me or with yourself. And don’t be sad. (But she’s already sad, because of you, wretch, and you know she is, as you knew she would be.) So, see you? Bye, Joselito, and I’m warning you, take good care of this young lady, otherwise you’ll have me to reckon with. (It is getting harder for him to disguise his impatience. His hand is already on the door handle, the same handle that he tried very cautiously from the outside less than three hours ago, although in fact he preferred then that the door should stay locked. But in that case, why did you come up here? Why did you try the handle?)
Wait a minute. How about a herbal tea, at least? I’ve got some hierba mate from Argentina, too. Why don’t you stay the night? We’re inviting you, aren’t we, Joselito?
Thank you both, really, but I really do have to go. I’ll ring you. We’ll talk.
And her voice is suddenly low and quivering again, as it was when they first came out of the cultural centre: Are you disappointed? With me?
Disappointed? Why should I be? What about?
She says nothing. Her fingers try to button up her nightdress, but they fail because it is already buttoned.
No. Not disappointed. Why? You were wonderful, Rochele. (But these are hollow words, because he is already asking himself what on earth brought him here in the middle of the night. What got into him? His hand is already on the door handle, and he is glancing at his watch: he’s been here for two and a half hours. A little more: two hours and forty minutes.)
I just want you to know that I—
I know, Rochele. (He interrupted her on purpose, so as not to hear what she was apparently about to say.) I know. And don’t worry. After all, you yourself said that we had a truly wonderful time together. Well, I’ll be seeing you. Go back to sleep till the morning. Or till midday, why
not? (The words ‘after all’, ‘why not’, and particularly the word ‘truly’, make his empty speech even more hollow and false. Shabby, he says to himself. Shameful, he says to himself.)
What next? Maybe go to check if Ricky’s cafe is still open at twenty past two in the morning, and if by any chance Ricky herself is still there?
*
So here he is out in the dark again, dragging his feet from the street to the avenue and from the avenue to one side street after another. Well, where have you been? His penis is starting to give signs of life all of a sudden. Welcome back, you dummy. Do you remember what you missed? I’m very sorry, but which of us do you think is the bigger idiot, you or me? So just you shut up.
As he crosses an empty street lit by yellow street lamps and turns right into an empty, almost dark side street, the Author starts mentally sketching in some more lines in the character of Mrs Miriam Nehorait and that of Yerucham Shdemati, the cultural administrator, so they don’t come out flat.
Meanwhile his feet have led him to an unfamiliar neighbourhood, not far from the point where the city ends and the empty night fields begin.
The wind blows where it listeth,
And as it blows it sings:
Perchance this time the soaring wind
Will lift you on its wings.
Next to an unfinished building stands a thickset, slightly hunchbacked nightwatchman, lifting one shoulder while he takes a long, motionless piss. Behind him is nothing but a row of electricity pylons, an unmade pavement, some sheds, corrugated-iron shelters, piles of sand and gravel. The street tails off into a dirt track, and here is the end of the city: fields of thistles, four rusty barrels, empty building plots piled high with rubble, broken furniture, shadowy castor-oil plants on the slope, the skeleton of a jeep, a tyre half buried in the sand, at last you are alone. You sit down on an upturned crate. You see the dim outlines of hills. Stars. Flickering lights in windows. A witless traffic light changing colour aimlessly, amber, red, green. Barking of distant dogs and a faint smell of sewage. Why write about all these things? They exist, and will go on existing whether you write about them or not, whether you are here or not. Surely these are the basic questions that figured at the beginning of this text: Why do you write? Why do you write the way you do? What contribution do your books make to society, to the State, or to the enhancement of moral values? Whom do you hope to influence? Do you actually only write for the fame? Or for the money?
