But in the morning when I find her sleeping by my side, I stroke her salty cheeks, where the tears of the night have left their transparent tracks, like the slimy trail of snails, and then she opens her eyes, fringed by long, lacy lashes, I’m his daughter, she says, he has to love me, and I cut her short, get up Nogi, it’s late, stop brooding about it all the time, think about other things, and when she leaves the room, her lips pursed in frustration, I breathe a sigh of relief, how she loves telling me how miserable she is, but I have to push her away in order to be able to love her, when I load her pain onto myself it weakens me, and then I don’t have the strength to love, only to hurl clenched fists of pity at her. When we’re just ready to leave he phones, you’re still at home, he asks dryly, as if we’ve always been in the habit of talking on the phone in the mornings, as if we haven’t lain face-to-face in bed night after night, and I say, yes, I’m still here, even though I was on the point of leaving, and I tell Noga to hurry up and walk to school, I have a feeling that he wants to come home, and I pace the rooms triumphantly, smiling at the objects which saw me in my insult, if he comes back then it will be to a completely different life, I’ll tell him, a life of independent adults who have chosen each other, not frightened children clinging to each other in hatred, but when he comes in the sharp claws of loss dig into my flesh, he was once yours and now he isn’t, weep sore for him that goeth away, standing opposite me in a denim shirt and brown corduroys, tall and aloof, his face chiseled in miserly, pitiless precision. I came to get a few things, he says, I’m going away, and I curse him with clenched lips, you’ve won again, you were always bolder, crueler, for one happy day I thought I’d beaten you, now you’ll humiliate me for weeks, I thought I could make conditions, it turns out that there isn’t even anyone to make them to, and it seems to me that my face is falling, the force of gravity is growing stronger, pulling down the corners of my mouth, my shoulders, my breasts in their sweaty bra, my trembling knees, down, down, because he’s leaving me again, when I thought he wanted to come back, that stupid Hava, how dare she delude me that I’m better off without him, again I trail behind him from room to room, my teeth chattering in insult, weep ye not for the dead, neither bemoan him, but weep sore for him that goeth away, for he shall return no more, nor see his native country.
Where are you going, to Tibet? I try my luck with a clumsy lunge, and he says shortly, something like that, and I exclaim, so suddenly, you didn’t say anything yesterday, and he says coldly, I decided to go last night, I can’t stay here anymore, and I say mockingly, is this another prophecy? Something like that, he says, but I know that it’s more like punishment, he sensed that I’d been with another man and now he wants to punish me, the nerve of him, what gives him the right, and I announce to his back, I know that you’re not going alone, but he doesn’t answer, he drags a ladder from the porch to the bedroom and climbs to the snowy heights of the closet. I look with hostility at his shapely feet, toe after toe in a neat, disciplined slope peeping out of the brown strap of his sandal, inches from my eyes, and for a moment it seems to me that he isn’t really going, just helping me take down the winter clothes in the familiar, reassuring, cyclical routine, this summer will finally end, after all, the first signs arrived last night, and we’re getting ready for winter a little earlier than usual, but he cuts the illusion short, where did you put my blue windbreaker, he demands, as if it’s still my role to help him, and his to disappear without saying where to and with whom, and I whisper to his feet standing on the top rung of the ladder, you’re going with Zohara, aren’t you, and his toes shrink abruptly, hiding behind the sandal strap, in a confession of guilt.
I’m going with her but it’s not what you think, he blurts quickly into the depths of the closet, and I put my hands on the ladder rungs, in a minute I’ll shake it the way you shake a tree trunk to make the fruit fall, and he’ll fall broken to the floor and he won’t go anywhere with anyone, but all this has already happened, he already lay here broken and paralyzed and we all suffered, I have to let him go, how small my power over him is and how easily it’s turned against me, the sooner I get out of the picture of his life the sooner he’ll see it as it really is. For so many years I let him use me to hide from himself, to blame me in order to clear himself, to turn everything into a personal quarrel between us, so that he could throw the whole mess of his frustration into my face, so long as he didn’t have to examine himself, it isn’t going to happen anymore, I vow, and in order to get out of the picture I leave the room immediately and after a few minutes he appears, the blue windbreaker in his hands, together with a woolen cap and thick socks, and I don’t say a word, suddenly I understand that the more I say the less he’ll say, and I see him taking a plastic bag from behind the fridge and putting his things into it, strange that he remembers where the plastic bags are, and he finds the tap easily too, pours himself a glass of water and sits down next to me. It isn’t what you think, he says, I don’t love her like I loved you, it’s something completely different, she simply lets me live, she accepts me as I am, she doesn’t expect anything of me, she doesn’t try to educate me.
I find it difficult to console myself with these subtle distinctions, especially with the past tense deafening my ears, I loved you, I loved you, and the more he tries to explain the more I recede, I’m not sitting next to him on the sofa anymore but looking at him from a vast distance, a distance I’ve unconsciously traveled over the past few months, and I see how he’s doing the wrong thing again, running away from every problem, taking the easy way out, is this what he calls a change? Judging himself by the eyes of others again, punishing himself by punishing others, how weak he actually is, it was only by virtue of his weakness that he controlled me for all these years, but I know I mustn’t say anything, I can’t save him, and he can’t save me, each of us is on our own even though we lived in the same house for so many years, and have one name, and one daughter, and from a vast distance I put out my hand and stroke his hair, I feel as if he’s my child, as if I gave birth to him, this is the only way that I can love him, and for some reason I prefer to love him, and for a moment I see the aftermath of this warped journey, the farther he runs the farther he’ll get from real change, but I have no way of stopping him, as if he’s a moonstruck child walking on a narrow balustrade and if I try to direct him he’ll fall. I look at him with a new curiosity, he is no longer my husband, no longer Noga’s father, he’s a man neither young nor happy who believes he’s trying to improve his life, his hair droops on his head, limp and thin, his eyes are lowered, his lips pursed, even the high cheekbones around which the rest of his face is structured have dropped down wearily under his skin, and his hands cling tightly to the plastic bag with the socks and woolen cap and blue windbreaker as if they’re the last things he has left on earth, and I contemplate his dry hands, seeing them on baby Noga’s stomach, tickling her ribs, while she chokes with laughter and I scold him, stop it, it’s dangerous for her to laugh too much. What about the baby, I ask quietly, and he says, I try, and smiles apologetically, she’s so small, and I bow my head, how easy it is for him to give when he isn’t obliged to, all his resistance melts away, she’s still small, there’s no accusation in her eyes, no need to escape from them to the ends of the earth, it seems that it’s only easy to make love to a stranger, to bring up a strange baby, and what of all the years when we thought the opposite, who will avenge their insult?
With rare composure I analyze his words, something I have never been able to do before, I was too busy defending myself from their implications about me, and all of a sudden I’m as cool as a cucumber, only a few months too late, when it can’t help anymore, not the two of us at any rate, and when he stands up I look at the ridges of his corduroys, straightening out as if they have woken from sleep, and I remember how we bought them for him last winter, on his birthday, the three of us walking among the racks of hangers, and then I think with a pang about her approaching birthday, at the end of the month she’ll turn ten, an
d I want to remind him to write or call to wish her a happy birthday, but all that comes out of my mouth is a dry cough, it’s not my business, it’s between him and her. Did you say something, he asks, and I whisper, nothing, have a safe journey, and I brush my lips quickly over his cheek, a faint smell of dust rises from it, of a lonely desert fire, and he hugs his plastic bag, sends me a crooked smile, and when I see him descending the stairs I think, how can the whole of life consist of a mighty battle waged between two people, and as soon as one of them retires it all peters out in a small, still voice, as if there had never been any point or purpose to the battle in the first place, and I had always believed that it was stronger than us, that it would live on after us, that we would be mercenaries in a war without end forever.
At the end of the bend I still see his narrow back, he seems to stop, hesitate for a moment, but I don’t call him, we may be walking the same road but our lives have been completely separated, and I have no wish to fight for him, I let go like the sky, looking with silent surprise at the receding clouds, for so many years I have been trying to mend the tears, sewing them up with clumsy fingers, with crude ropes that only deepened the rent, and now it has become clear to me that this is not the point, the whole point is to learn to live with the flaw, to make friends with the lack, not to prettify the ugliness but to breathe it in, in lungfuls, to look down from above on the wasteland of life and to find a point in it, because what remains after giving up the fight, which seems to be harder than giving up the love, is only a terrible desolation, and any attempt to relieve it at night only makes it worse in the morning, and with this I have to live, and when he disappears round the bend I can’t breathe for a moment, it’s over, unbelievable that it should have ended before the end of life but that’s what happened, and the fact that it happened doesn’t mean that it had to happen, even that consolation is missing, only that it did happen, presumably it could have been averted, like most catastrophes, but now it is too late.
At the entrance to the shelter she’s waiting for me, her stomach pressing against the bars of the gate, Na’ama, she calls out to me, how did you do it? I say in alarm, how did I do what, and she says, how did you persuade him, and I ask nervously, persuade him to do what? And she says, to be with me, to help me, he called this morning and promised to come and see me later. That’s wonderful, Yaeli, I say with a sigh of relief, but don’t build on it too much, you’ll never get what you want from him, you’ll always have to rely on yourself, and she says, that’s not true, I believe that he’ll change, and I rumple the spikes of her hair, you’ll never change him, I say, you can only change yourself and even that will be difficult, and she looks at me in disappointment, so he isn’t going to live with me? He isn’t going to bring the baby up with me? And I say, no, he’ll come to see you once in a while and he’ll be so charming that you won’t be able to love anyone else, but that won’t last long either, you have to plan your life without him. But he’ll come to the baby’s birthdays, won’t he, she asks, and I think about Noga’s birthday, maybe I should have reminded him anyway, but what would have been the point, if it doesn’t come from him she’s better off without it, and I sit down close to her on the stairs, those damned birthdays, who needs them, but even if she gives the baby up they’ll haunt her, what will she do every year on his birthday, bake a cake and eat it by herself, a teddy bear cake, a rabbit cake, a train cake, blow out the candles by herself, grow older with him, in separate houses, in different towns.
All morning he’s been kicking, she murmurs, putting her hand on her stomach, he’s trying to tell me something and I don’t know what it is, if only I knew what was best for him, and I say quietly, so nobody will hear this heresy, even I can’t believe the words that come out of my mouth, you know what’s best for him, you have to be strong and admit it, it’s got nothing to do with Mica, it’s between you and your baby, I’m warning you, if you give him up you’ll never recover from it, and she sighs, I think about it all the time and it doesn’t lead anywhere, lucky I’ve still got two weeks to make up my mind, but when we stand up she utters a loud, deep cry, it seems as if the fetus is screaming from inside her stomach, look, the waters have broken.
Dripping water as if she took a bath in her clothes she stands and cries, and I run upstairs, her water broke, I say to Anat, gasping for breath, I’m taking her to the hospital, and Anat quickly packs Yael’s bag, are you sure you want to be there, she asks, usually this is her job, and I say, yes, no problem, trying to hide my unprofessional overinvolvement. Does anyone need to be informed, she asks, and I rummage in my bag and take out the white note, tell him, I pant, agitated, as if I am the one suddenly starting a new family, to take the place of the old one that disappointed me so badly.
She lies sprawled on the backseat, exactly like the sick Noga a week ago, my little car has turned into an amateur ambulance, accumulating pain and sighs, on every journey there’s somebody else groaning in the back and nevertheless I advance, driving slowly, almost at a walking pace, we’ll be there in a minute, Yaeli, I say, everything’s going to be all right, I’ll help you, and she whimpers, I’m cold, I’m wet through. In spite of the blazing sun I turn on the heat, it feels as if the car is on fire but she is still shivering, her teeth are chattering, and I can hardly breathe, boiling-hot sweat streams from my forehead to my dry mouth, and I swallow it desperately, in the grip of a terrible thirst, I open my mouth and I feel as if jugs of liquid are pouring into it from the sky, murky, lukewarm amniotic fluid, and I gulp them down gratefully, my eyes are melting in the heat, it seems as if the built-up town is receding from us, and I am driving in the heart of the desert, searching for Udi, I know he’s hiding here, and I have to tell him before it’s too late, a new baby is knocking at the creaking doors of our hearts, what will we say to it and how will we greet it, but there isn’t a living soul anywhere, only bonfires burning at the sides of the road, making the desert bloom with fiery yellow flowers whose smell is the smell of burning flesh, the smell of tender human sacrifices one day old.
When we enter the ward in a near swoon I remember how the nurse asked, can I help you, and Udi said, just get the baby out and we won’t bother you anymore, and this time there’s no need for questions, it’s all perfectly clear, the dropped stomach and the wet clothes, and they snatch her away immediately, telling me to wait outside, and I walk up and down the corridor, throbbing with an unexpected joy, the whole world seems to be waiting with bated breath for the little creature to be born, holding out giant arms to receive precisely this baby that nobody wanted. I stand at the window with my eyes closed, instead of the boringly familiar urban landscape I am confronted again with utter desolation, bald hills protrude from the earth like growths with predatory beaks, and at their feet sudden oases, which only serve to emphasize the desolation. A heavenly hand pulls the hills up higher, and they rise aloft, salt mountains glittering like icebergs, Udi where are we, where are we driving to, but the driver’s seat is empty, the wheel is steering itself into the chain of mountain ranges closing in on the desert plain, and from among the pale bushes of dust his figure emerges, what loneliness, he whispers, you have no idea how lonely I am, you never have.
A heavy hand shakes my shoulder, we only met yesterday and we’re already expecting a baby, he whispers in my ear, his smile tickling my cheek, and I marvel, Mica, you got here quickly, and he says ingenuously, I decided to do whatever you say, and I laugh, really, why? And he says, just because I like making you happy. But Mica, I say sternly, you didn’t come here for me, you came for Yael, and he grumbles, don’t be such a spoilsport, there’s no contradiction, can’t I make two women happy at once? And I laugh again, we’re so different that it’s almost amusing, he’d never let anyone ruin his life and I’m just waiting for it to happen, how nice it must be to live with him, but then I remember that he hasn’t even asked about her, he doesn’t really care that she’s suffering behind the wall, his love is charming and insubstantial, a passing affair, and I compare him t
o the tense, serious Udi, but his love didn’t last either, what difference does it make if it passed after two and a half days or two and a half decades?
The nurse who comes out of the room glances curiously at our embrace next to the window, you can go in to her now, she says to me, but I prefer to send him, you go first, it will help her more, and when he disappears inside, nervously dragging his feet, I sit down on a dirty chair in the deserted corridor, before my eyes I seem to see their voices weaving to and fro like the strands of a shawl, her moans of pain, his attempted reassurance, and between them the echo of the baby’s rapid pulse, like a divine oracle, thundering in the air, who will bring this baby up, who will push his carriage, who will get up at night when he cries, certainly not me, why am I clinging to their lives like this, I’ve done my job, I brought her here, and now I can go, I must go, and I try to stand up but I am overcome by exhaustion, as if I haven’t slept for years, and I lean against the wall and close my eyes. The proximity of the new life, this new family painfully coming into being, envelops me in a childish security, as if someone is watching over my sleep, and I who struggle to fall asleep night after night in my own bed fall into a deep sleep on the plastic chair in the busy corridor, my ears assailed by snatches of conversation and shouts, hurried steps and cries of joy, sobs and scoldings, and nothing disturbs me like Udi’s breathing by my side, the light of his reading lamp, and I feel like a little girl in a big house, the pampered youngest child of aging parents, with lots of brothers and sisters, fathers and mothers, with everything full of bustling life, abundant and benevolent. One of my beloved big brothers comes up to me and strokes my hair, his lips are on mine and he pushes a bittersweet marzipan tongue into my mouth, spreading the sweetness throughout my mouth, and I suck his tongue slowly, to make it last, feeling my body open, I’ll lie with him here on the bench in front of everybody, we’re all one family after all, but now footsteps approach and he lets go of my wet lips, sits down next to me and bows his head, and I put my hand on his shoulder, how is she, I ask as if we’re talking about our daughter, and he says, she’s okay now, the baby’s born.
Husband and Wife Page 29
