I put it back quickly into the straw basket, before it comes apart in my hands, and luckily it goes on sleeping quietly, as if it hasn’t yet been born at all, and I go out onto the porch, today it’s actually not quite so hot, friendly clouds soften the sun, the summer seems to have taken fright at its own intensity and decided to let up a little, and I stare at the little street, the Persian lilac opposite sends me a wilted, apologetic wave, and I smile at it, never mind, I haven’t got much to offer either. Only a few weeks ago her starry flowers blossomed giddily about her, weaving a tapestry of perfumed purple threads, and now not a trace of them remains, and she is left yellowing and humiliated, exposed to the glare of the sun, which sends me back inside, and I tiptoe past the closed door, a strange silence comes from the room, as if they’ve both fallen asleep in there, and in me the anger rumbles, that’s my Udi in there, my husband, once I would write my name on his earlobes, what gives her the right to seclude herself with him and leave me outside, to look after her baby. A cough rises from my throat as if I’ve swallowed smoke, the smoke of an embarrassing jealousy suddenly flaring up, I have to put a stop to this intimate communion, and there’s only one way to do it, and I go back to the living room and shake the basket, until the pink mouth gapes and a feeble cry of complaint rises from it, and then I hurry to the room and open the door, without knocking, and see her sitting on the edge of the bed, her fingers encircling his wrist like a velvet bracelet, while he sits erect with his legs crossed, his arms bristling with tiny needles, as if he’s turned into a hedgehog, and on the crown of his head, where his hair is growing thin, a stick of incense burning calmly, like a little horn.
She lets go of his wrist and quickly leaves the room, beckoning me to follow her, and I obey furiously, it’s my husband, it’s my house, who does she think she is telling me what to do, and follow her shamefacedly to the basket which is already quiet, the baby was crying, I stammer behind her back, I thought it was hungry, how can I let such a young girl shame me, and in my house too, and I immediately ask her impatiently, so what’s the story, when will he get better, and she smiles calmly, I hope not too soon. What did you say? I examine her in stunned surprise, and she repeats, I hope that the illness won’t be in a hurry to leave him, and you too, if you care about him, should hope with me, and I ask in a near shout, why? What you’re saying doesn’t make any sense at all, and she explains quietly, stressing every word, every illness is an opportunity, Na’ama, your husband hasn’t even begun to realize the opportunity that’s been given him here, he mustn’t waste this illness of his, because it will be a long time before he gets another opportunity. I stare at her in astonishment, I don’t get it, who does she think she is turning everything upside down, since when is illness good and recovery bad, and suddenly she seems monstrous to me, with that angular face of hers and that forward-jutting jaw, why did I let her into our house, and I beg her, as if it all depends on her, listen, Zohara, we can’t go on like this, this strange disease is ruining our lives, our daughter is depressed, I’m a wreck, I can’t cope at work, things can’t go on like this, and my voice is already disintegrating, and I’m so ashamed of crying in front of this stranger, but she listens to me with that profound seriousness of hers, moving her lips as if she’s measuring the words with the ruler of her tongue, and saying firmly, but this is completely unnecessary, you have to change your attitude, both for you and for your daughter this is a chance to develop, for you too this illness can become a source of inspiration and liberation from suffering. What are you talking about, I burst out, what inspiration is there in a person who rots in bed all day long and does nothing but complain and blame, and she looks at me patronizingly, try to understand, she says, both of you cling to each other too tightly, in order to benefit from the situation you must let go, relax your grip, think of two clods of earth ground up in two clenched fists, nothing will be left of them, and I protest indignantly, we barely talk to each other, you call that clinging? And she says, clearly, look how hard you’re taking it, it’s your choice, reacting like that. What do you mean, taking it hard, I ask, vacillating between dismissal and astonishment, any woman would react like me if her husband behaved like him, and she rocks the baby and says, are you sure? And this direct question awakes a doubt, and I say, I suppose you wouldn’t take it hard, you would celebrate if something like this happened in your family?
I’m not asking you to celebrate, she says, but it’s possible to carry on as usual, there’s no need to fall to pieces, it’s possible to accept what happens without anger, without blame, to believe that every difficulty is intended to strengthen us, and I object, but that’s inhuman, how can you not be angry when your whole life is disrupted, and she says, the Tibetans believe that the one who hurts you is your greatest teacher, giving the baby a rebuking look, as if her words are directed at it rather than me, and then she adds earnestly, sometimes we cling to our bad habits and when change comes we tremble with fear, without understanding that it is our only chance, and I protest, that’s just an empty slogan, there are good and bad changes, you can’t convince me that all bad things are actually good, everything depends on the circumstances.
But what are circumstances, Na’ama, she says in excitement, as if this is precisely the question she’s been waiting for, how far can we allow ourselves to be dependent on circumstances, like a slave on his master, today you’re happy because everything is all right for the time being, tomorrow you’ll be miserable because something goes wrong, and your happiness will turn into a distant memory—the question is, what is our basic character, our true nature, how can we live when everything changes, like the light, from moment to moment? So what do you suggest, I ask, and she answers quickly, I suggest that you try to reach the thing inside you that doesn’t change, that isn’t dependent on circumstances, and to draw your strength from it. You can’t be a slave to deceptive external reality, you have to lean on the steady thing inside you, and I ask, so what is this thing inside me, it doesn’t seem to me that I possess such a thing at all, and she opens her eyes wide, of course you do, it’s your true being, your basic, whole, enlightened nature, and I say, in genuine surprise, really, so how do I reach it?
I’ll explain next time, she smiles, and I’m glad to hear that there’ll be a next time, that she’s not deserting us yet, with all her surprising news, that she’s offering me something to wait for, and I ask willingly, how much do I pay you, and she says, at the moment nothing, we’ll talk about it at the end, and I wonder what this end is, it seems that she intends to settle in, deep inside our lives. The end of the illness? I ask hopefully, and she corrects me, the end of the process, as if it’s a question of linguistic distinctions, and then she returns to his room, with the baby in her arms, forgoing my baby-sitting services in advance, and after a few minutes she comes out heaving a sigh of relief, like a midwife after a difficult birth and a successful delivery. I’ll come here tomorrow at sunrise, she announces, there are a few tests I want to perform on you all, and I ask in surprise again, what do you mean sunrise, actually at sunrise or just early in the morning? And she says, actually at sunrise, this is the time when the energies are strongest in the main channel of the body. What time does the sun rise, I ask, and she shrugs her shoulders sternly, I have no idea, and thrusts out her slender wrist which is bare of any timepiece, as if the watch has not been invented yet, I simply sense the sun waking up, and I listen to her in shame, in an instant I have turned into the dull, insensitive representative of progress, helpless and frightened in the face of nature.
Ehud will wake you, he knows when the sun rises, she says, so they’ve already fixed it up between them, they appear to understand each other very well. She puts the baby carefully down in the basket and I can’t resist asking, how old is it? She’s exactly thirty days old, she replies proudly, and I’m surprised that she counts the time in days, as if we’re talking about the days of a period of mourning. And you’ve already gone back to work? I ask, hidden disapproval in my voice, a
nd she says, not really, I turn most people away, but when you called I couldn’t say no, and I ask, embarrassed, so you’re treating him only now, and she says, yes, only him. I accompany her to the door with an oppressive feeling of uneasiness, but it doesn’t reach her, from the stairs she sends me a smile full of goodwill, it’s very important to sleep well before the examination, to eat light foods, to avoid all tension, try to relax at least for tonight, don’t try to hold on to what cannot be held.
I hurry to his room, repeating her instructions to myself, relax, relax, and he seems to be repeating instructions of his own, he looks more relaxed, and I ask, how do you feel, and he says simply, I feel better. What did she do to you, I ask, and he says, I don’t know exactly, she took my pulse all over my body, examined my tongue, stuck needles and magnets in all kinds of places, and he rubs the top of his head, and that incense, it was soothing, and I think of all my efforts to help him, my frightened, pitying efforts, all of them in vain, and here she comes and burns a pagan fire and he feels better already, and I ask sourly, and what else, did she talk to you about your basic nature? And he says, no, she mainly asked questions, she didn’t say much, and I see that he isn’t interested in going into details, I sit down on the edge of his bed, taking over the place where she sat, and it seems to me that something has changed in the room, a sweetish smell is coming off the walls, obscuring the smells of neglect, even his dry body suddenly smells of a pleasant perfume, as if he himself is a slender stick of incense, burning calmly.
Wake me at sunrise, I ask him when I go to bed, but to be on the safe side I set the alarm clock too, how proudly she held out her watchless wrist, as if I and not she was the primitive one, and I open out the couch in the living room, another moth has been roasted on the halogen lamp, a cruel altar that claims its sacrifices every night, and its corpse joins the long line of former victims, filling the room with a smell of charred flesh. No breeze comes to blow the smell away, and so it squats over me as I sleep, covering me like a blanket of evil thoughts, and as I twist and turn beneath it the alarm goes off, it’s five o’clock in the morning, and I growl at it with hatred but immediately drag myself out of bed, like an obedient schoolgirl getting up for an early class. Inside the house the darkness seems absolute but on the porch a misty blue greets me with a cold caress, and I sit down with my coffee on one of the chairs, who would have believed that this is the way these sweltering hamsin days begin, like a baby born beautiful growing ugly in the space of a couple of hours. The trees sway in the breeze, darker than the sky, each moving in its own character, like human beings, the cypresses glum and heavy, the poplars dancing like excited young girls, even before the sun rises the darkness flees, only from the houses it peeps out, from the shadowy windows, where heavy sleep covers eyes like black patches. I raise my eyes to the east, a few branches flutter like the arms of swimmers drowning in the sea of pale air, on the roofs the ramshackle crosses of the television antennas crowd, commanding the sleeping concrete kingdom, trapping the moon between them, a whitish balloon still clinging to its borrowed light, but its entourage of stars are already fading, swallowed up in the mouth of the sky like lemon drops sucked to nothing, leaving one last glimmer, like tiny scars, behind them.
The sky is already light but there is still no sign of the sun, everybody seems to be waiting for it, the mother we can’t do without despite her wickedness, the brightening trees, the birds breaking into their loud chatter, and I gaze at the east in suspenseful anticipation, a few warm rays touch the curls of the poplar and turn them to gold but the sun is still missing, hiding behind the trees like a great eye hidden in a tangle of hair. I’m waiting in vain, what did I imagine, that I would see it rising, in the middle of the city, round and red like once upon a time, over the mountains I loved so much, in the empty countryside, when there was nothing between us, only the transparent, caressing air, and already I feel angry, what did I get up so early for, it’s impossible to see the sunrise here, and why didn’t she give me an exact time, I’m sitting here by myself on the porch for nothing, waiting for the sun, waiting for the doctor who believes in disease, I hate them both, I need them both, and then I see her running out of breath in the street below me, a bride late for her wedding, a slender girl all dressed in white, her long hair loose, softening her face, the straw basket in her hand as if she’s hurrying to the market, apparently there’s no father around to look after the new baby, and a wave of pity floods me, look at her, instead of worrying about her own problems she’s helping us, not like you, looking askance at the girls in the shelter, and I move aside so she won’t see me watching her run, her body tight, all of a piece, not like mine, all my limbs separate, each like a body of its own.
We missed the sunrise, I say to her in an accusing voice, and she smiles serenely, still panting from her run, don’t worry, this is exactly the right time. But by the time the sun rises above the roofs here it’s already full, it’s impossible to see the sunrise from here, I complain, and she says, trust me, Na’ama, and she puts the basket down on the carpet and examines me sorrowfully, as if I’m the patient here, she doesn’t even ask about him, and I’m in no hurry to wake him either, I sit down opposite her and let her touch me with her long, dark fingers, seeking treasure underneath my skin, lingering on my wrists, each in turn and then both together, crossing her hands, changing between right and left, and then feeling behind my ears, pressing down and letting go.
What are you doing, I ask, and she explains willingly, I’m listening to your pulse, the blood circulates in the body and tells us by means of the pulse what’s happening there, and I protest, but I’m healthy, there’s nothing wrong with me, it’s him you came to examine, and she says, the wife’s pulse reveals the condition of the husband too, the Tibetans believe that you can tell by the wife’s pulse whether the husband will live or die. Really, is the bond so tight? I ask in alarm, and she smiles a secret smile, as if it all depends on her, yes, and you can learn about the condition of the parents from the child’s pulse too, and suddenly she gives me a penetrating look, quickly scans my face, pulls up my eyelids and examines my eyes, pulls my tongue out of my mouth, and all the time with that secret smile on her beautiful lips, now that I’m so close to them I can see how beautiful they are, like he was close to them yesterday, close to her smell, actually the smell is strange, unpleasant, of private parts, like the smell of the little baby. So what’s with my pulse, what does it tell you, I ask nervously, and she ignores me, presses my fingers and listens, how did you sleep last night, she asks suddenly, and I’m surprised, it’s a long time since anybody asked me such a friendly question, I slept okay, except that I worried about missing the sunrise all the time. She goes on asking question after question, her hands hovering over my fingers all the time, simple questions, so simple that I’d forgotten the answers to them, like childhood friends scattered in all directions in the hurly-burly of life, reminding me of a distant time when I was still new to myself, what my favorite colors are, and what I like to eat and drink, what spices I use, what season I prefer, what I suffer from more, heat or cold, and my answers appear to fascinate her immeasurably, even though she takes no notes it seems that she will remember them to her dying day, and then she asks, and what do you like to do? And I stare at her for a moment, as if the words are incomprehensible to me.
She looks at me with questioning eyes, velvety black eyes fringed with a thick brush of lashes, and I giggle in embarrassment, what do I like to do, I’m so used to thinking of what I have to do that I’ve completely forgotten what I like, and I shrug my shoulders, I like to be with them, I point my chin at the doors closed on the sleeping Udi and Noga, but she isn’t satisfied with this pious answer, try to concentrate, she says, it’s very important, what do you like to do with yourself, without any connection to your family, without any connection to anyone but yourself, and her question gives me a melancholy feeling, like someone orphaned long ago remembering that once upon a time she really had parents. What did you lik
e doing when you were a child? She tries to help me, and I make an effort to remember, paging through the album of yellowing photographs stored inside me, it was so early on that Udi burst into my life, with his wishes that were always stronger than mine, his loves and his hates, what was there before him, and then I remember, like the first breath of wind breaking a hamsin the memory approaches, and I say hesitantly, almost shyly, when I was a child I liked to lie on the lawn and look at the clouds.
She is thrilled by my reply, she looks at me admiringly as if I am the incarnation of the Buddha on earth, wonderful, she says, and did it calm you? Yes, I say, encouraged, I think so. And when did you do it last, she asks, and I smile apologetically, years and years ago, before my parents got divorced, afterward it didn’t appeal to me anymore, and she nods sympathetically, and suddenly I long to lay my head on her shoulder and burst into tears, and cry all day, because it’s clear to me that she understands me, not even Anat understood me so deeply, and one moment I want to be her daughter and the next her mother, as long as she never leaves my life, as if the sentence of loneliness passed on this house had suddenly been lifted thanks to her.
Husband and Wife Page 14
