Sometimes Hava looks at me doubtfully during our meetings, and I am afraid that she can guess my thoughts, heretical thoughts forbidden in our profession, because as Anat and I always told each other, in the face of all this suffering our personal problems seemed insignificant, but suddenly with me it’s the opposite, my problems dwarf all the problems around me, which I am supposed to deal with to the best of my ability, and now I don’t have the patience. I don’t have the patience for the familiar discussions, to help them analyze their situation, to present them again and again with the other alternative, to explain the implications of their decisions to them, to visit them in the hospital when they are weak and shaken by the birth, and to reexamine their decision with them, whether to give the baby up or raise it. Suddenly I am sick of giving and giving, and it seems to me that Hava can see all this with her sharp senses and that she is looking at me doubtfully, I’m sure that she’s planning to fire me, and I stare at her anxiously, that’s all that’s missing now, Udi hasn’t worked for weeks, my salary is barely sufficient, I think twice before I buy anything, standing at the checkout counter in the supermarket as if I’m in the dock, waiting for the judge to pass sentence, what will happen if she lets me go, what will we live on? When I walk past her closed door I’m sure that she’s interviewing candidates for my job, and I pace nervously up and down the corridor and knock at her door on various implausible pretexts, that only make her more suspicious, and me more afraid.
I haven’t got the patience even for Noga, I’m sick of seeing the hope in her eyes when she comes home from school, a puppyish hope, the reflection of my own, altogether she is a reflection of my distress, she runs to his room and emerges again immediately, defeated, what’s there to eat, she asks in a beaten voice, no longer nagging, when will Daddy get better, when will Daddy take me with him on his trips, and after the meal she shuts herself in her room, staring at the old TV set, whose red light paints the faces of the people with a garish artificial blush. Why don’t you ask friends round, I ask her, and she mutters, I don’t want to disturb Daddy, and I know that this isn’t the reason, they stopped coming months ago. Then why don’t you go round to them, you used to go out more, what about Shira, what about Merav, why don’t you go and play with them, you can’t stay at home all the time watching television, I scold her almost harshly, and she whispers, but perhaps Daddy will need me, she doesn’t want to tell me the truth and I don’t want to hear it, that she has no friends anymore, that her world has emptied. I’m sick of worrying about her, I want everything to work out, at least for her, for friends to call, to invite her to pajama parties, to a movie, just yesterday I saw Shira and Merav eating ice cream in a cafe, both of them cheerful and slender in brief tank tops and short shorts, and only my little girl is wild and sloppy in Udi’s huge tee-shirts and a suffering expression in her eyes, and I look at her resentfully, why are you such a weight on me, can’t you even pretend to be happy, how am I going to stop up so many holes at once, I haven’t got that many fingers, can’t you just pretend to go out somewhere, let me fall apart without you, because I haven’t got the strength anymore to keep up a façade in front of you, and I am immediately filled with remorse and I hug her and tell her that I love her, and she squirms uncomfortably in my embrace, recoiling from its phoniness.
Sometimes she switches off the television and goes outside, and then I’m worried stiff that something will happen to her on the way, how will she cross the road with that moony look in her eyes, and I try to persuade her to stay at home, let’s have another ice cream, I coax her, and she says, maybe later, and I peep out of the window, hoping to see her disappear into the building opposite, where Merav who was once her best friend lives, but she goes on walking, and then I permit myself to collapse, I get into her bed and cry into her pillow, and then I quickly wash my face and begin to wait, and I know that she hasn’t gone to visit any girlfriend but to my mother, who lives not far from us, she only feels comfortable talking to her, she only tells her about her problems at school, and I’ve been avoiding my mother for weeks, not now, Mother, don’t tell me anything now. In the evening when she comes back she seems more lighthearted, and I can’t resist asking her, did you go round to Merav’s, and she answers sourly, no, to Granny’s, and then she gets in her own dig and asks me hopefully, how’s Daddy, and I answer sourly, there’s nothing new, what about your homework, and then comes the usual ritual of looking for notebooks and times tables, and all the contents of her book bag are strewn over the floor, chewed-up lumps of gum stuck like snails to notepads and textbooks, and I look at her in despair, not knowing where to begin, she’s forgotten to write down the homework again, or she didn’t have time to copy it from the blackboard, the teacher always rubs it out before she has a chance to copy it down, we’ll have to have your eyes tested, I say, and she nearly cries, I don’t want glasses, everyone will laugh at me.
Sometimes she stays at my mother’s place overnight, and then I go to sleep on her narrow bed, where I sleep the best, and when I wake up in the morning, at the first moment of the day, before you know if it’s hot or cold, good or bad, it seems to me that I am still a child in my parents’ house before they got divorced, and in a minute my father will come into the room and tell me what the weather is, whether to put on a sweater or a coat, and I luxuriate in bed for a few minutes longer, I don’t have to push Noga up the steep hill of the morning, urge her to get up and comb her hair and get dressed, I drink my coffee slowly and shower at my leisure, and then I go into the bedroom wrapped in a towel, to get my clothes, only my clothes are still there, a memorial to my previous life, and he is there as always, a fossilized remnant of primordial times, lying on his back with his eyes open.
One morning I get into bed beside him, straight from the shower, a surprisingly cool summer morning that for some reason fills me with hope, suddenly I feel that everything is simpler than I thought, that everything is after all up to me, and I shake his dry body, to make him come alive, laughing and crying and pleading, Udi get over it, Udigi get well already, let’s make love, and afterward we’ll have coffee on the balcony and eat breakfast, Udi, please, it’s up to us, let’s begin again, and it seems to me that his body stirs toward me, he embraces me with his feeble arms, and I kiss his sunken cheeks, gently stroke his penis, surprised to discover that it’s still there, I thought it must have rotted by now and fallen off like the oranges in the yard, and I throw off the blanket and sit on top of him, the way he used to like, pressing down on the hard pelvic bones, but his penis wilts beneath me, crumples between my thighs, nothing like this has ever happened to us before, and I whisper, never mind, Udi, we’ll try another time, it’ll be all right, and it seems to me that his whole body is weeping under mine, begging for help, and I scold myself, why did I even try, why did I force myself on him, now I’ve exposed his weakness, every attempt to help only makes things worse, only what comes from him will save him, if it ever does come.
He doesn’t react, as if he hasn’t even noticed what happened, but when I come home at lunchtime he calls me rudely, Na’ama, come here, and I hurry to the room, at long last a sign of life, and he asks, where have you been, his voice dull like the voices of the deaf, and I reply, what do you mean, I’ve been to work, and he says, but it’s already half past two, and I say, I stopped at the supermarket to pick up a few things. So where are they, he asks and I say defensively, I asked for them to be delivered, they’ll be here soon, and he laughs hoarsely, the veins on his neck sticking out, I don’t believe you, whore, you went to fuck, you went to get the prick I couldn’t give you, and I stare at him, stunned, how can I prove to him that he’s wrong? You’re out of your mind, I mumble, I’ve been at work all day, I haven’t got the faintest desire to fuck, and he yells, liar, I saw how much you were dying for a fuck this morning, you don’t care that it makes me ill, as long as you get your prick, and horrified I try to calm him down, Udi, what’s wrong with you, I wanted to go to bed with you because I love you, because we’re hus
band and wife, I’m not in the least interested in sex for its own sake, you know that, I never have been, and he growls, you’ve changed, I’ve seen you change, when we were in that hotel I understood it, and that’s what made me sick, you hear, that’s what made me sick, I saw that the only thing that interests you is fucking, you don’t care who you do it with, you’d be happy to do it with the delivery boy from the supermarket, if you were really there at all.
I stare at him in shock, my teeth are chattering uncontrollably, the sweat is pouring furiously from my forehead, burning my eyes, Udi, believe me, all I want is for you to get well, and for us to be the way we were again, that’s all, and for a moment he examines me in surprise, as if weighing my words, and then he bursts out, you want them to take me away, that’s why you keep nagging me about doctors, they promised you to hospitalize me and that’s all you’re waiting for, to throw me out and bring someone to fuck you every night, and I leave the room and lie down on the living room sofa, the tears and the sweat mingling in a sour, stinging solution, and then the delivery arrives, with the smiling boy, who disappears before I can open my purse, he has no idea what he’s suspected of, and Udi shouts from his bed, make me something to eat, if you still remember what I like at all.
I try to cheer myself up, perhaps he’s returning to himself in spite of everything, if he has an appetite, and I decide to make spaghetti and meatballs, for two hours I stand in the kitchen, and when the food is ready I go to him, do you want to eat in bed or will you come to the table? He looks at me disdainfully, you won’t make up for your cheating with your fancy meals, I’d rather die of starvation, and I leave the room in silence, my hands trembling with the desire to hit him, to tighten round his neck, to tear off his limbs, I grab the saucepan and eat the boiling dish straight out of it, without even using a fork, my hands red from the fresh tomato sauce, my mouth burning, I swallow without chewing, without tasting, until I reach the bottom of the saucepan, scraping with burning fingers, fatty bits of red meat collecting under my fingernails, and then I realize that I’ve eaten it all, without leaving anything for Noga, her favorite food, how could I have done this to her, and I stumble to the bathroom and kneel down next to the toilet, I can’t keep all that food in my stomach, and I push two fingers down my throat, it seems to me that when everything comes out I’ll be purified, but nothing comes out, the meatballs stick to my stomach like unwanted fetuses, and I push my fingers deeper and deeper until my throat is scratched and bleeding, what have I done, what have I done, red tears drip into the toilet bowl, and I get up and wash my face, I hardly recognize this filthy face, it isn’t me, what has he done to me, turned me into an animal, a wounded bear, it can’t go on like this.
I’ll never go into his room again, I swear to myself, I’ll move all my clothes into the living room and be finished, there’s nothing for me to do there, let him take care of himself, let him hate himself instead of me, and in the evening he comes out of the room, hanging on to the walls, thin and trembling, I can’t see anything again, he says, where are you? And I whisper, I don’t feel well, Udi, I can’t help you, and he creaks in a hoarse voice, you break so quickly, there are women who look after their husbands for years, and you break after one month, suddenly you don’t feel well either, trying to compete with me, after you made me sick, and I don’t reply, I feel faint, I can hardly hear him, dull syllables smashing on the floors of the house, I must be careful not to tread on the shards with my bare feet, and his outburst peters out, like a dead cat jerking, a kitten run over in the street, he jumps a few more times but in fact he’s already quite dead, and I too, buried beneath him, not expecting anything, and only the fear still sends an occasional jolt of life shuddering through me, what will happen if they fire me from my job, what if something happens to Noga?
Little by little, almost imperceptibly, the forgotten fantasies of his recovery give way to fantasies of his death, and I wake early in the morning and stand on tiptoe opposite the closed door, seeing in my mind’s eye the thin, stiff body, frozen as a mummy, shining with a heavenly radiance, commanding me to live, and I fill with pure sorrow, free of anger, almost pleasurable, like the sorrow that accompanies the first love of youth, the feeling of relief competing with the pain of the loss, how easy it is to love him when he’s dead, and I imagine how I’ll climb the stairs to the rooftop studio after the days of mourning are over, how I’ll stand in front of the parade of my painted faces, without saying a word I’ll take off my clothes, my painted nude will turn me on, and there on the armchair all the vows will be canceled, completely canceled, they won’t exist anymore, and I’ll tighten my thighs round his waist, the curls on the nape of his neck will coil round my fingers like silver rings.
With a faint creak I open the door, our double bed is almost empty, he lies on the edge as if he’s been kicked there, one leg hanging in the air, his night face full of suffering, how abandoned he looks at the edge of the bed, like a helpless child in the prison of his sickness, and suddenly his eyelids flutter, I see him smile in the bitter moonlight, Na’ama forgive me, he whispers, I don’t understand what’s happening to me, I don’t know what to do, I need help, and I lie down beside him, stroke the transparent hairs on his chest, Udigi, I only wish I could help you, if we were only together we could drive the illness out, but it comes between us and makes you hate me, and me hate you. I know, he whispers, you’d be better off if I was dead, and I don’t trouble to deny it, in any case these dawn murmurings will soon be swept into sleep, and I myself won’t know if they were really said, when I hurry to the car in the morning, tired and worried, and a clear tinkle of bells will greet me, as if a flock of sheep are grazing between the buildings, and then I’ll see the neighbors’ daughter coming toward me with shopping baskets full of groceries, the one who was in India, and she has bells on her ankles and her hands and in her hair, and I’ll gaze at her with an unclear thirst, and then I’ll remember, tell me, didn’t you once say there was some kind of Indian doctor that you could recommend? And she’ll laugh, not Indian, Tibetan, and I’ll say, it doesn’t matter, as long as she’s good, and she’ll say, she’s not just good, she’s amazing, she can bring the dead to life, and I’ll say eagerly, give me her number, I have to try her, and she’ll ask, it’s for your husband, right, I haven’t seen him outside for a long time, and I’ll say, yes, he isn’t getting any better, do you think she’ll be able to help him? And she says, sure, she’ll get him out of it, just be careful, and I ask I surprise, careful of what, of her? And she’ll say, no, not of her, just be careful, because the Tibetans say that it’s dangerous to put an end to suffering.
Ten
When I open the door to her she looks to me like a beggar-woman, young and skinny, with a big basket in her hand and a dark, hungry face, and I’m already on my way to my purse when she says, I’m Zohara, and just then her basket begins to squeal, and she takes out a little baby and immediately pulls out her breast and starts feeding it standing up, holding it firmly in her thin arm. Loud gurgles of pleasure break out of the baby’s throat and I marvel at the amount of milk gushing out of that shriveled breast and I examine her in surprise and disappointment—this is the woman who’s going to save us? She seems more in need of salvation herself, just like one of the girls who come to us at the shelter, young and lost, burdened with her heavy basket, and after all my efforts to persuade Udi to agree to see her, it took me hours of coaxing, why not give it a try, what have you got to lose. I’ve got nothing to gain either, he grumbled, all that voodoo and witchcraft isn’t for me, and I protested, it’s an ancient, natural form of medicine, what do you care, just give it a try, and now what—I’ll show this black girl into his room and he’ll kick her out in a second and never agree to see anyone again, and I count her steps resentfully as she moves calmly around our living room, circling the armchairs with quiet steps until the baby falls asleep on her shoulder, and then she puts it down in the basket and asks with surprising authority, so what’s the problem?
; There’s the problem, I point to the closed door, he hasn’t been functioning for weeks, and I fill her in reluctantly on the progression of his illness, I’m wasting my time, it’s clear to me that she won’t be able to help him, but she listens gravely, nodding her head, her eyes fixed on my face, I’ll go to him, she says, leaving the living bundle on the living room carpet like Moses in the ark of bulrushes, and marches confidently to the door, which immediately closes behind her. I sit down on the carpet next to the sleeping baby, and examine its plump, fair face, so different from its mother’s, bending over it curiously, I haven’t examined a baby at such close quarters for ages. So that’s how you really look, I whisper, excited as a spy who has succeeded in penetrating the enemy camp, because even though I tirelessly repeat to the girls in the shelter, this is a living creature we’re talking about here, full of needs, just one big need, it seems that I too have unconsciously grown used to seeing the tiny creature in their stomachs as something abstract, a supernatural being, alternately monstrous and messianic, a fist from heaven smashing their youth to smithereens. I pick it up carefully in my arms, unbelievable how light it is, its face connected by a tenuous thread to a tiny, weightless body, as if it’s still a darting tadpole of sperm, and I sniff it, seeking the famous, soothing baby smell, but instead I smell something deep and salty, the smell of private parts, and I recoil as if I’ve smelled my own insides. How can that be possible, I wonder, shocked, haven’t they even cleaned it yet from its embarrassing passage into the world, and again my resentment flares against the young mother, how will she take care of Udi if she doesn’t even bother to wash her own baby.
Husband and Wife Page 13
