The Last of the Wise Lovers

by Amnon Jackont

  "The world is full of people who are going to die. You needn't get involved in it. Just make sure that your mother doesn't get hurt, that's all." He again pointed to the slide in my hand. "And as for that, I still think it should be destroyed."

  I was afraid to destroy it, or do anything else to it that would be final and irreversible. I still wasn't sure it wasn't important to one of the people involved, and that I wouldn't be sorry if it wasn't in my possession at some undetermined time in the future.

  "Could you hold onto it?"

  He hesitated, thoughtful a moment. Then he nodded, took the slide from me, put it back in the envelope, and placed it in his desk drawer.

  I felt a need to minimize the worth of his gesture, to balance the overwhelming gratitude that welled up in me and was likely to overflow into some stupid outpouring of emotion. "It's less dangerous if they find it on you, than if they find it on us...”

  "I think it's more dangerous for me than you understand," he noted judiciously. "From this moment on I'm aware of the fact that someone is spying in this country, and while in your case there may be extenuating circumstances, and while the others may have their own motives, I, as a loyal citizen, am expected to immediately inform the police or proper authorities...”

  "If so, why are you doing this?" I couldn't help asking.

  "Perhaps... perhaps because I remember myself at your age," he coughed spasmodically and spit into a tissue. "No," he shook his grey face, "that's not the reason."

  "What is the reason?"

  "Why do you want to know?"

  "It will make me feel more secure."

  He wiped the corners of his mouth with the tissue. "I don't know if you should feel so secure. Perhaps it's better if you stay alert." Nevertheless, for a minute he looked like he was going to start to tell me, but immediately he glanced at his watch and said, "In any case, we haven't any more time."

  But I had all the time in the world and all the desire in the world to get to know him.

  "We could meet later," I suggested.

  He shook his head so vigorously that he began to cough again.

  "No. Not now...” he took off his glasses and, turning to me with his soft gaze, he seemed more than ever like that drawing of Lord Byron. "Actually, that's why you can trust me. Under normal circumstances I might weigh how to act. Today, I see no reason to torture myself with questions of moral obligation."

  I didn't understand any of it, at least not then, but there was no point in asking any further. He didn't intend to say anything more.

  "Thanks," I said, just because I had nothing better to say. I lingered a moment by the door, hoping something would happen. But he just put the glasses back on his nose and went back to concentrating on his papers.

  "Thanks," I said again, closing the door behind me.

  *

  After all that had happened between me and Mr. K. I was left with the feeling that at least one person cared about what I was going through. At that point, that was enough. That evening, when I got off the bus, I was almost in a good mood. I walked along in the dark, whistling. I could already see from the end of the street that the house was dark, the garage open and empty. Mom and Dad had gone, each in his or her car. I went into the garage and from there into the house. At the top of the stairs I pressed the light switch. The light in the kitchen flickered for a moment, then went out.

  I turned on the light switch next to it. The light above the door also flickered and went out. There was something rustling in the living room.

  "Auntie Ida," I called. "Auntie Ida?"

  There was no answer. I was afraid to go in. I waited by the door, pressed against the wall. There was someone inside, poking around soundlessly except for a low, choked cough, as if he were clearing his throat of the remains of a meal. I stretched myself out along the length of the corridor and reached for another light switch. The bulb flickered and went out. Another cough, this time close by, then something small and agile passing me quickly. Instinctively I reached out to grab him, but he ducked under my arm, skipped down the steps to the door in two wide strides, opened it, and vanished outside.

  After a few moments of standing still in the dark, completely confused, I went over and peered into the living room. In the dim light that came from outside I could see that the buffet drawers had been pulled out of place, the TV was unplugged, and Aunt Ida wasn't on her usual perch. I turned on the light. But here, too, it went out. I went into the kitchen. The pantry cupboard was open, but nothing was missing. I found the box of light bulbs, went back to the living room and unscrewed the burned-out bulb from the lamp. Something small and round fell out. I got down on all fours and crawled on the rug. All I found was a dime. I went back to the light above the door. There, too, I unscrewed the light bulb. This time I cupped my hand under the socket. Another dime fell into it. I went through the same procedure in the kitchen, and then with all the lamps in the immediate vicinity until I had almost a dollar's worth of small, hot coins.

  I checked the other lights in the house. Then I went down to the basement and flipped the fuses back on. More than the intrusion by that little man, there was something frightening about the systematic way he had prepared his escape route - right past me - by interrupting all of the electrical circuits. It only reinforced what I already suspected: whoever had been there was no thief. He had been looking for something, and had searched all the buffet drawers, behind the pillows on the couch, in the silverware drawers, the pantry, the bread box, the night table in the bedroom, even Aunt Ida's suitcase.

  Aunt Ida! I remembered with a start. I looked for her in the living room, in Mom and Dad's bedroom, in the bathroom, even in my room. Finally, when I had almost given up, I went out on the kitchen porch to look in the yard and found her there, crouching her old Indian crouch among the geraniums, snoring away.

  I shook her by the shoulder. "Auntie Ida, are you all right?"

  She opened one eye and puckered a wrinkled cheek.

  "Did you see him? Did you talk to him?"

  "The Bar Mitzvah," she said. "I was thinking about your Bar Mitzvah, it's about time we arranged your Bar Mitzvah. Marvin will take some pictures of you at the Indianapolis Zoo, perhaps we'll take a trip to Chicago...”

  I led her inside and got her set up on the couch. She studied the drawers arrayed on the floor and the pillows skewed on the couch. "Are you moving away?"

  I plugged in the TV and looked around, trying to take in the damage. Other than the buffet drawers piled on the rug and a few signs of disorder nothing seemed amiss. It was clear that this quick little guy was no burglar; he had been after something very specific - but what?

  After I had put the drawers back where they belonged, the telephone rang. I ran to the kitchen and picked up the receiver.

  "Hello," I answered. No response. "Hello," I said again, but still there was no response. The other party didn't hang up, and he didn't do any of that heavy breathing those perverts do. He waited. I could tell by his hallmark: the little dry cough that sounded like faint background noise, or like some disturbance on the line. A moment later I realized that I had heard that cough not only here, in this house, a few minutes before, but somewhere else altogether: in the Lincoln Tunnel, when the guy who had broken into the car had leaned forward to whisper in my ear.

  After a long while he said, "You know the date and you also know who to warn."

  I was silent.

  "... and it's getting close. Another six days."

  He coughed again, and suddenly I could picture him reaching out to press the cradle, disconnecting the call.

  "Wait," I said.

  He hung up.

  It was almost 10:00 p.m. I was all alone and had no idea what to do with myself and with the mix of anxiety, anger, and fear that I felt. I thought that it must be moments like these that drove people to start smoking or drinking or going crazy, but I was not yet used to any of these, so I just went to the refrigerator and got some ice cream. When I opened the free
zer I found what that guy might have been looking for, and what he undoubtedly would have found had I not interrupted him: Mom's yellow notebook.

  It practically wasn't even hidden, just tossed under some packages of frozen beef and frozen bread, wrapped in several plastic bags encircled by a rubber band. Before opening it, I looked outside. Everything was dark and quiet. Aunt Ida was staring at an ancient horror flick in the next room. I went into the garage and closed the electric door. If anyone came home I would hear the car and the thud of the door hitting the ceiling. Then I removed the plastic bags one by one, careful to remember what order they had been in. In the middle, the telephone rang. I grabbed the receiver with frozen hands. It fell and bashed against the wall.

  When I picked it up again I heard Debbie whisper, "Hey, Ronny. What's that noise? Are you all right?"

  "My fingers are frozen," I explained. "I'm cleaning the freezer."

  "Didja miss me?"

  "Yeah."

  "Well, we'll be together soon. My parents are taking off again, to Maine, to take my brother back to prep school. Your mom suggested I come stay with you guys. We talked a bit... she's really a super woman, you know, she's really cool, and yet she's so... so polished and refined. She said she's got a couple of shirts she thinks I'll really like, and she promised to show me how to wear makeup better... boy," she sighed, "I wish my mom was so feminine and sociable."

  Her mother was overweight and had a fabulous sense of humor, but I wasn't in the right mood for giving out compliments.

  "Do you promise to pay some attention to me?"

  I promised.

  "And not to be so heavy and serious and down and caught up in yourself?"

  "No," I said flatly. Mom's notebook was burning in my hand.

  "Why did you answer me like that?"

  "How?"

  Now there was a note of despair in her voice. "What's happening to you, Ronny? What's happening to us?"

  "Nothing, everything's fine," I said, thinking that that was just how Mom had been answering me these last few days.

  "So, two days from now?" she asked, trying to sound optimistic.

  "Two days from now," I said, wondering what I was going to do with her over the next few days, and how it had happened that just a few days earlier a visit from Debbie - with all those chances to sneak into the room where she'd be sleeping at night - would have been the best thing that could have happened to me, and now it seemed like just a big bother.

  "You don't sound happy."

  "I'm happy."

  "Bye," she said dejectedly, replacing the receiver. I didn't have time to be sorry. I went back to the notebook. This time there was no need for facial powder. Some of the pages were filled with numbers and letters that I didn't understand, perhaps technical details related to the slides that had been taken. Half of the first page was taken up with the rough draft of a letter. It was not quite as poetic as the previous one, but I copied it anyway:

  “... alone with Yermi. Everything was as usual: the effort to keep things pleasant no matter what, the silence, the tension in the air and the good will, which always comes too little and too late. But none of this would have been so difficult had I not been thinking of you and of what's been happening between us lately.

  You didn't ask this time, but I did what I was supposed to anyway. Then I called the usual number. They answered immediately. Even the indirect contact through people connected to you meant a great deal at that moment. I sat by the windowsill and watched the car. There's no point in denying it. I waited for you to come. I hoped, and I ... I prayed.

  I think I'll send you this letter today. How simple it was when we could talk on the phone and meet without limitation. Could we just…”

  Here it broke off, as if she had forgotten what she'd wanted to say or had been interrupted in the middle. But it didn't make much difference, since the little there was contained an important new detail: The man Mom was in love with was also the man for whom she stole documents from Dad, and photographed them.

  I read the letter again. Then I went to my room and read the copy of the previous letter. I tried to put together everything I knew about the man she loved. It wasn't much - actually, it wasn't anything, except for the wisdom she ascribed him and the fact that they were teetering on the brink of separation. As I wandered back to the kitchen I wondered what my chances were of being able to convince her to be cautious, not to get involved, to think of Dad and me - but immediately I realized I hadn't a chance. The two letters - especially the sentence, `You didn't ask this time, but I did what I was supposed to anyway,' made me see just how deep in it she was.

  The letters expressed such a clear preference for this one man above all others that I felt sorry for Dad, and felt very angry at her. Then I remembered how she had waited by the window, and I felt sorry for her, too. Finally I tried to imagine how he must feel, getting these letters, and I hated him for loving her less than she loved him. Only after contemplating this for a few minutes did I realize that what I felt for him wasn't hatred, but intense envy.

  When I lay down on my bed I started practicing how I would begin the big discussion I planned to have with Mom at the first opportunity.

  "And so," I attempted, "the time has come to take off all the masks." Then I thought of a style that would be more like the one she herself preferred: "There are moments in a man's life when he must tell the truth, even if no one is listening." But the thought of her inevitable response, drenched with that phony pleasantness that she reserved for children and those idiots who dared to think of her as less than perfect, repressed my desire to continue and even aroused my animosity. I hated the whole world. I covered my head with a pillow. And that's how I slept, too, restlessly tossed between a headache, and lights and angry whispers.

  At some point I realized I actually was hearing angry whispers. I found myself still dressed, curled up on my bed in a fetal position. My clock-radio said 3:30 a.m.

  From the other side of the wall Dad said, "... what exactly do you want from me?"

  Mom said, "As of now, nothing. You have nothing to offer me."

  "And you, what do you have to offer, other than complaints?"

  "I've tried, God knows I've tried. I told myself: you've got a gem, a real diamond in the rough, all you have to do is make a little effort and polish it."

  "That is to make it into your idea of how a man should act or look, a kind of slavish, pandering lackey with taut skin and dyed hair...”

  "I never asked you to get a face lift, and the dye was more for you than it was for me. Isn't it nicer to look young? Haven't you noticed what a tire you've got around your middle?"

  Dad was at the boiling point. "How else do you expect me to look with the kind of life I lead?! Have you ever seen what they serve on airplanes or in hotels...?”

  "There you go blaming someone else. You could always order a vegetarian meal or buy fruit!"

  I thought Dad would agree with her or at least shut up. How else could he answer such a just claim? But he said something completely unexpected: "Why should I bother? You don't love or respect me, anyway."

  Mom didn't deny it. "So what do you suggest?"

  There was much pain in Dad's voice, as if he had hoped she'd say something else. "You know very well what I suggest."

  "Another try?" Mom said in a dubious tone so different from her usual, conciliatory one. "Please, tell me how this new try will look...”

  "Just like life. We'll be together, we'll love each other."

  "How? What else can we try that we haven't already tried?"

  "I'll be home more, we can go out on the weekends, take trips. This is a wonderful country and we still haven't seen it the way we ought to...”

  "I still remember your trip to the Negev," she recalled empathically, "with a tent, a sketchbook, and some canned food."

  "Back then you thought I was terrific. You called me your wild stud, your artiste, remember? Everything about me enchanted you...”

  "You ha
d promise. You taught, you drew, you sculpted, you wrote art reviews for the newspapers... I thought you would be someone...”

  "And what do I lack now? I have nothing to be ashamed of, d'you hear? When they brought me here from Africa there was nothing here. Nothing. I made connections, I set things up from scratch... "

  Ok, so in that field you're a success. But sometimes I look at you and I think, `There must be some mistake. The man I married was unique, inspired... '"

  Dad wasn't listening to her. "Great," he said bitterly, "Tel Aviv knows that Levin is a success, Jerusalem knows, the Embassy in Washington calls whenever there's a problem... but you'll never forgive me for not realizing your grandiose artistic dreams. Yermi Levin, the horse you bet on who finished last. And who's the next horse you'll send to the races, Ronny?"

  "Leave Ronny out of this," she said with a fierceness that did not suit her recent lack of attention to me. "What's so wrong with my wanting to see him succeed? He's gifted, bright, well-liked. He could be anything, and I want him to have everything that I didn't have, everything those anti-Semitic Rumanian bastards...”

  "`Those anti-Semitic Rumanian bastards'... as if no doctors or professors ever emigrated from Rumania. Besides, it's been twenty years since you left Rumania, more than enough time to make something of yourself if you'd really wanted to, if you'd really been capable...”

  That was breaking the biggest rule in the house, a rule so basic that I'd never quite realized it existed until I heard Dad's heretical words: never, ever were you supposed to doubt how wonderful Mom was, to doubt that she was terrific, bright, intelligent, successful and God knows what else. And the few times that I'd done so, Dad had forced me to apologize and Mom had gone into an alienating blue funk that had only ended when I'd admitted that I'd been wrong or sworn up and down that she was mistaken and I'd never said any such things. So it wasn't tough for me to imagine what was going on there, on the other side of the wall. I could see Mom sitting there, her face frozen as if she'd just been slapped. Dad didn't talk, either. I heard the closet door creak and I knew he was getting ready for bed. Afterwards there were footsteps. They were small, hesitant, coy. And they stopped when Mom hissed, "Stop it! I don't want to!"