Two
Engulfed in a torrent of almost boiling water I think I hear an infantile wail, which doesn’t penetrate my ear but sticks straight into my heart, between the ribs. Little Noga has woken up, her white forehead is burning, her eyes glittering with fever, and I regretfully turn off the water, part from its calming flow, and try to listen, but Noga’s already gone, I recall with relief, and her infancy is gone too, no longer threatening me with its helplessness, and I turn on the tap again, once my mother used to put a clock in the bathroom, only seven minutes, she would warn, so there’ll be hot water for everyone, and I would watch the racing hands with hostility, those seven minutes of the warm embrace of the water were so short, and I wanted to grow up and leave home simply in order to take a shower without watching the clock, and now I am ready to begin my shower again, eagerly embracing the stream of hot water, but once more I am alerted by the weak, demanding wail, and I run to him wet, and find him crying with his eyes closed, his nose running. Udi, calm down, everything’s all right, I shake his shoulder, my hair dripping onto his tanned face, even his tears are the color of sand, as if he has been sentenced to camouflage himself in the desert forever, and I sit down next to him and try to put his head in my lap, but his head is heavy and cold as marble, and suddenly a scream escapes from his throat, surrounded by a fiery red halo like a bullet escaping from the barrel of a gun, don’t touch me, you’re hurting me!
I get up immediately and stand in front of him naked, not the provocative, impulsive nakedness I once possessed, natural and confident as that of an animal, but a human, apologetic nakedness, in which a loving eye may find beauty, but it wasn’t a loving eye that was glaring at me now, spitting sand in my face. I thought you liked me to touch you, I mutter, trying to call the certainties of the past to my aid, but again the red fire sprays from his throat, don’t you understand that it hurts me!
Before you said that it didn’t hurt, I argue, unable to adjust myself to the upsets of this morning, still hoping that in a minute everything would return to normal, and we would begin to talk about it in the past tense, where did it hurt you, I would ask, and he would say, what does it matter, as long as it’s over, the only thing that still hurts is my prick, he would leer at me, it wants a kiss, and with assertive hands he would help my wet head to cover the distance, which always seemed longer than it really was, between my lips and his penis.
I want a drink of water, he mutters, I’ve been asking you for water for hours, and I hurry to fill the glass and hold it out to him, but he doesn’t stretch out his hands, thin and dry they lie at the sides of his body. Drink, I say to him, and he asks, how?
What do you mean, how, take the glass, I say, full of dread, and he sighs, I can’t, my hands won’t move. That’s impossible, I say in annoyance, only an hour ago those hands strangled the alarm clock, there’s no disease that advances so quickly, what’s going on here, he’s pretending, and violent swings of anger, pity and suspicion quarrel inside me like little girls, each reproaching the other in turn. How can you suspect him, look how he’s suffering, but it doesn’t make sense, maybe he’s acting, but the acting is also an illness, no less worrying, how am I going to cope with all this, until the voice of compassion rises, drowning out the others, which fade shamefully away, and thunders in the house, he’s sick, he’s sick, a sickness has come and taken him, dragging him down to the depths.
I cover myself with a terry-cloth robe and sit down next to him, trying to feed him the water with a teaspoon, the water slides over the parched soil of his tongue, and makes his Adam’s apple dance. Close the blind, he whispers, and I bravely repulse the sun and all its hosts, and lie down next to him in the gloom, stroking the ashen gray hills on his narrow chest, what’s happening to you, Udi, when did it start?
I have no idea, he shivers, when I came home last night I was exhausted, I could hardly climb the steps, I thought I was just tired, but now I realize it’s something else entirely, I’m afraid to even think of what it might be. Where does it hurt, I ask and he whispers, everywhere, it hurts everywhere, even when I breathe it hurts me, and I stroke his face, the delicacy of his features, their forgotten beauty, glow in the dim light, and the monotonous stroking calms me and makes me feel sleepy, already my eyelids are drooping in a pleasant languidness, it’s a long time since we lay in bed together in the morning, perhaps we’ll stay in bed like this all day, perhaps I’ll hide him like a kidnapped child, and he’ll stay at home always, he’ll never run away from us on those long hikes of his again, he won’t even take a hike to the bathroom, completely at our mercy he’ll lie here in bed, he’ll make up to Noga for his long absences, he’ll hear about her day at school, how the teacher yelled at her even though she didn’t do anything, just turned around for a minute to borrow an eraser, why does everybody always pick on her, and I’ll leave my job, I can’t look after other people anymore, I’ll say, I’ll take maternity leave without having a baby, but I’ll hide his illness, so I won’t be forced to take him to a doctor, we’ll take care of him ourselves, he’ll be a pampered prisoner, a giant baby who can’t turn over or crawl yet, we’ll keep him for ourselves, not getting better and not dying, he’ll be the baby I wanted, the baby who’ll make us into a family.
But now a whimper breaks the black silence, rips me from my drowsy cradle, Na’ama, I’m frightened, help me, and I start up, what’s the matter with me, what am I dawdling for, we have to go to the hospital, I announce in a brisk voice that jars on my ears too, and he recoils, his shoulders shrink, he’s always hated doctors more than illness, I don’t want to, I want to stay at home, but his protest is weak, easily defeated by my firm, decisive tone.
Try to move your hands, I suggest, perhaps the spell has been lifted in the meantime, but they don’t move, nor do his legs, or his back, his body doesn’t stir, only his lips twist, and his eyes dart fearfully around the room. There’s no alternative, Udigi, I whisper, you have to be examined, you have to be treated, I don’t know what to do, and he says, can’t we wait another day, and I object strenuously, as if only a moment ago I hadn’t been thinking of hiding him here forever, out of the question, it would be completely irresponsible. But how will we get there, I can’t walk, he whines, and I say, alarming myself with the explicit words, we haven’t got a choice, we’ll call for an ambulance.
His weeping accompanies me as I take clothes out of the closet, I haven’t heard him cry for years, not since Noga fell, and now it buzzes terrifyingly in my ears, and I put on a pair of faded jeans, but I change my mind immediately in favor of the suit I bought recently, a light gray pantsuit, and I make my face up carefully and loosen my hair, the more elegant I am the better I’ll succeed in chasing the illness away. In the miserable anonymity of the emergency room I’ll be radiant and assured, and all the doctors will be convinced that I’m only there by accident, and they’ll get us out of there quickly, and suddenly a strange excitement takes hold of me in anticipation of the adventure, we’re going out together this morning, not to work as usual, each on his own. I feel his eyes digging into my back in hostile astonishment, have you gone quite mad, he snaps, where do you think you’re going, and I turn my made-up face to him, what do you care, Udi, it gives me confidence, I immediately apologize as if I’ve been unfaithful to him, and he goes on, my shamed voice arouses him, how does it give you confidence to make yourself ridiculous, you’re going to the hospital, not to a party, you’re going because I can’t move, but you’re already celebrating because you think you’re going to get rid of me.
With heavy fingers I cover my face, as if he’s throwing stones at me from his bed, a gravel of filthy syllables, how dare he invade my inner self and pour out his garbage there, how will I get it out of me, how will I prove to him that he’s mistaken in me, and why should I prove anything to him, always having to justify myself, as if there’s no limit to my guilt. Take no notice of him, Anat would say, just take no notice, in any case he doesn’t hear what you say to him, he only hears himself, inciting himself against
you, and I would protest, but why should he, he loves me. Precisely because he loves you, she explains like an impatient teacher, and I plead with her as if it all depends on her, but why can’t we simply love each other, be friends, why is it so difficult, and she pronounces, that’s reality, Na’ama, and now I feel like running to the phone and calling her, like I used to, he said and I said, he insulted me and I was insulted, but I remember immediately, only his mouth moves, he has no power over me, he can’t get up and go, he’s completely dependent on me. His words are lost without my ears, ridiculous, meaningless, they’ll try to reach me in vain, and I leave the room, and go to the phone to call work, but then I see on the fridge in front of me, clinging to the edge of the brightly colored magnet that Noga once gave me on Mother’s Day, the crumpled phone number of the emergency medical service, and I look at it in surprise, since when has it been hanging there, who knew that we would suddenly need it.
In a smooth voice, as if I’m ordering a cab, I summon the ambulance, and return with brisk, almost provocative steps to the bedroom. I stand opposite his narrowed eyes, even when they’re open they look closed, and announce in a matter-of-fact tone, you have to put something on, Udi, they’re coming for you in a minute, and he shrinks, averts his face from me, his eyes parting from the inanimate objects, full of dread, clinging to the closet, the closed blinds, the picture of the old house, what is it there on the roof, clouds or the shadow of clouds. I hear the muffled sound of a siren, and I take out a white tee-shirt and a pair of gym shorts, easy to get on, and slip the shirt over his head, his neck is softer now, as if the knowledge that he’s about to leave the house makes him feel better, and his arms respond too, only his legs are still stiff and motionless, and I pull the pants up them, under his butt, and then he’s dressed, looking ready to go out for a morning jog. This is how he used to come to me sometimes in the evenings, telling his parents that he was going for a run and turning up at my house, short and enthused, and my mother would look him up and down in contempt, as if he was the least of her suitors, offer him a glass of milk, and then she would seat herself regally in front of the television, waiting for the old movies with the leading actress who looked amazingly like her. I was sure that it was really her, the same high cheekbones, the same curving lips, the same smooth brown skin, and I was sure that at night, when she left us alone, she would steal away to take part in those movies, why else were they black and white, if not that they were shot at night, and that was why she didn’t get up in the mornings and I had to wake my little brother and dress him and make our sandwiches. It was only years later that I discovered that she spent those hours in bars, sitting with her friends and drinking, and sometimes on the way back they would drop her off at an old house with a tiled roof, and she would wake my father and weep in his arms and promise him that the next morning she would take the children and come back to him, and he would listen to her sadly and say, yes, Ella, I believe you that this is what you want now, but tomorrow morning you’ll want something else entirely. Sometimes when she came home she would wake me up too, whisper that if I was a good girl maybe we would go back to live with Daddy, and I would get up early and go to the grocer’s and wash the dishes and make the beds, until I understood that I was the only one gullible enough to believe these alcohol-prompted promises in the night.
The knocking on the door is aggressive, impatient, as of police at a house where a criminal is hiding out. Where’s the patient, they ask, two stalwarts in phosphorescent jackets, and I squirm uncomfortably in my ridiculous new outfit, he’s in bed, I say apologetically, leading them behind me to his radiant boyish smile, which I haven’t seen in ages, the smile reserved for strangers, for the tourists who follow him devotedly. What’s the problem, they ask, and he says in a calm voice, as if he has fully accepted the situation, I can’t feel my legs, I can’t move them, and I can barely move my hands too, and they stare at him incredulously, he looks so athletic in his short gym clothes. When did it start, they ask, has it ever happened before, and he says, no, never, just this morning, I couldn’t get out of bed. Does it hurt anywhere, they ask, and he gives me an apologetic, sidelong look, everything hurts, even the limbs I can’t feel hurt, and they aren’t bothered by the contradiction, they take hold of his pulsing wrist, wrap a rubber tube round his arm and listen attentively to the steps of the air fleeing for its life, and then they inform him that he needs more comprehensive tests and they’re going to take him to the emergency room of the hospital on duty. Should I pack anything, my voice chokes, a change of clothes, a toothbrush? Good idea, why not, the older paramedic gives me a pitying look, and I smile back miserably, their presence reassures me somewhat, as long as I don’t have to be alone with him, and I rush round the house, cramming into my old overnight bag underpants and socks and a robe, just as I did when I gave birth, bent over in pain, the contractions splitting my body in two, and a hairbrush and a bra, and suddenly I look at the bag in astonishment, what am I doing, I’m packing for myself instead of him, and I spill everything onto the bed and fall on his shelves in the closet, and he says, put a book in too, so I’ll have something to read, and I ask, which book, and he’s already on the stretcher, his feet dangling in the air, my Bible, he says, it’s in my backpack.
In a melancholy procession we leave the house, Udi long and limp on his gurney, an expression of utter trust on his face, like a baby being carried down the steps in his carriage by his devoted parents, and I lock the door, leaning on it in agitated farewell, who knows when I’ll see it again. Next to the ambulance a few curious neighbors have gathered, what happened, they ask sympathetically, and he, who usually barely bothers to greet them, answers warmly, telling them the events of the morning, and the daughter of the downstairs neighbors, who has just returned from India, tells him about an amazing healer who practices Tibetan medicine, if they don’t help you in the hospital tell me, and he nods his thanks, it seems he would be glad to hear further details, but the men in the phosphorescent jackets interrupt this new intimacy impatiently, push him on the waves of sympathy into the back of the ambulance with practiced movements, like garbage removers, and I join him there, sitting on the bench intended for anxious relatives, whose profiles are revealed through the curtains when they pass you in the street with wailing sirens, and you raise your eyes, look at the worried profile and know, their lives have been broken, their fate sealed.
Three
Through the white, long-suffering curtains I see my familiar world waving good-bye to me with broad, hallucinatory movements, parting from me forever. Here’s the green-grocer’s, wild and colorful as a painter’s palette, and here’s the new café with its regular morning customers, suddenly I can see them so clearly, I can see everything on their plates, everything written in their newspapers, and soon we’ll reach the old café, where I liked to sit with baby Noga, the waitress would give her crisp, lemonflavored cookies, and she would melt them in her mouth, dribbling sour-sweet spittle down her chin, sending a beaming smile from her stroller, a smile too radiant to be personal, and I would look only at her, at the spit soaking into her neck, and not at the eyes fixed on me, following my movements with undisguised attention, accompanied by a quick hand writing without a pause, as if documenting something whose importance knew no bounds. I try to take no notice, to concentrate only on her, but then he comes up to me, his notebook open, I sketched you, he says, presenting me with my black charcoal face, and I exclaim in surprise, that’s not me, I’m not so beautiful, and he protests, you’re much more beautiful, people always tell me that I make them uglier, my friends refuse to sit for me because they say I make them uglier than they are. But you made me more beautiful, I laugh, and he examines me and the sketch gravely, as if making up his mind between us, nonsense, he announces, you have no idea how beautiful you are, wait till you see yourself in color, the charcoal misses your coloring, and he retreats abruptly, returns to his table, and his hand races over the paper, his eyes on my face.
The ambulance stop
s at the traffic light, and here it is on the right, the old café, my stolen mornings, it wasn’t him I loved there but myself, in his drawings, but where are the inviting wooden tables, where are the trays with the crumbly lemon cookies, the flames of a blowtorch shine from the door, flames forbidden to look at, or your eyes fill with white lilies, but I look anyway, how can it be possible, they’re destroying the café, wrecking the last monument, and I look at Udi in agitation, they’re destroying the café, I say, rashly revealing my inner turmoil, and for a moment he smiles a twisted smile, as if he’s the one standing behind the white fire. Perhaps I deserve it to be destroyed, because a few months after that meeting little Noga fell from the porch, on all her curls and chubby cheeks and dimples, and her soft belly and tiny legs, dropped like a rag doll from Udi’s hands, and I screamed, rushing down the stairs as if I had a chance of getting there before her and catching her in my arms, floor after floor, vow after vow, I’ll never fall in love, I’ll never be happy, I’ll never leave the house, as long as she can walk, my little Noga, as long as she can talk, as long as she isn’t hurt, and already we’re in the ambulance, like now, only then its sirens wailed and it didn’t stop at the traffic lights, she’s unconscious, a white wax doll, her face concentrated in terror under the oxygen mask as if at this very moment somebody is telling her a suspenseful story, and the end is not yet clear, and on her face the familiar pleading expression, a happy end, Mommy, give me a happy end, and Udi is crying hoarsely, it’s because of you, he yells, because of your artist, I haven’t slept for nights, all I do is smoke and drink, I picked her up and suddenly she jumped out of my arms, my hands are so weak, I can hardly hold a book, so how can I hold a child. I see him recede into the distance, leaving a little pile of bones behind it, before my eyes dozens of Nogas shine like stars in the sky, dancing in front of me in tutus, glittering hoops between their legs, why don’t they move their legs, those aren’t hoops, I realize in horror, they’re little wheelchairs, the sky is full of tiny wheelchairs racing each other down steep slopes, like cars at an amusement park, but instead of the merry laughter of the children, screeching in alarm and pleasure, there is a terrible sound of weeping, Mother, what did you do to me, and I shout, my darling little Noga, I renounce everything, take my legs, I have nowhere left to go, take my heart, I have no one left to love, take my health, I have no need of it, take my life, and my weeping clashes with his, we aren’t crying together, but one against the other, as a direct continuation of our quarrels.
Husband and Wife Page 2
