I no longer need to travel far to read those letters, hundreds of miles, to foreign hotel rooms, in the wee hours of the morning. Now I’m here, wandering through them, at home. Soft music in the air, the aroma from Saturday’s cooking. Iddo’s in the army now, his room stands empty.
My Iddo. He’s exactly our age, our age then. He already knows what he wants to do when he grows up. “I’m going to be a farmer, maybe I’ll grow avocados. The world needs people for agriculture.” That’s what our idealistic son said. And your Iddo, what kind of child is he? And what does he look like? And Michal? How come I know virtually nothing about them?
Iddo. A kit bag, army uniform boots. Furloughs that are always too short. And what’s he going through? Does he write letters, will someone be reading them again in another twenty-eight years? Will he grow up to be like Uri? Who will be his Aya? And what path will his life take, till then?
Sitting in his room, which is now too clean and tidy. Three days ago he returned to his base. I haven’t got used yet to seeing him in uniform. Or the boots. And suddenly, before he left, when we hugged, with the door standing open, I pulled him towards me, maybe he can leave me a little of his scent until the next furlough, suddenly he turned back to me, “Mum, I want to ask you something.” “What, Iddo dear?” A knot of anxiety in my stomach, what was he going to say if it was something he could only summon up the courage to ask at the threshold. “Everything’s all right now, isn’t it?” “Yes, Iddo, everything’s all right.” I hugged him, trying to suppress, to suppress his thoughts, to calm him down, wordlessly. I can never really know what is actually going through his mind. “I wrote you both a letter, you didn’t even answer me,” he said. True, we didn’t really answer. What could we say, what could we say to you, my son, how could I explain that Yaron was suddenly present here, with his letters, and that I had only seen him that one time, and for twenty-eight years he had not existed. And that I could not see him, that time was passing, time would not wait, it doesn’t stand still. “Who is Yaron?” you would have asked, “and what’s this letter thing about?” “Don’t worry,” I said again, “everything’s all right.” “Promise me, Mum?” “I promise,” I answered, and I sealed it with another hug. “I promise,” I repeated. Maybe the promise would come true, self-fulfilling, such is the power of words. “Iddo, you coming?” called Uri, putting his army kit-bag into the car. “We’ll be late.”
Sitting in Iddo’s room. And your letters are all around, in piles. I brought in a stronger reading light, which I didn’t need back then, in my room on the kibbutz, and in the day nursery. It’s noon, the toddlers are taking their midday nap, fast asleep. Here I am, a soldier girl, looking after them as they sleep. Their tiny shoes are in the corner, their clothes in a heap. Colourful plastic dishes are in the sink, waiting for me to wash them up. Soon, I’ll do it soon. There’s a little time, the washing up can wait; a letter from Yaron has just come.
And now, it’s already evening, quite dark outside. And your handwriting is so tiny. Do you still write like that? I wouldn’t know, for the scant words you wrote to me, over the past year, were typed on a keyboard, and sent to me via incredible electrical pulses. The era of rustling letter paper is gone, never to return. Gone are the stamped envelopes, the army censor’s stamp alongside them, letters lying innocently in the enormous postbag. A red post office van arrives in the kibbutz courtyard every day, like a magnet that attracts all those eager souls awaiting letters.
Clearing a space, sitting down. Where did I put my reading glasses? After all, my forty-year mark passed long ago.
I open, I read, and I pause. And then continue reading. Sometimes it’s the same pages, again and again. To let our relationship, with all its upheavals, take on some kind of interpretation. Sometimes it all seems like new, as if it wasn’t me there, there are no fingerprints of mine visible on the pages. How can I possibly absorb those three years, which are so heavily documented in thousands of pages? I’m there, but my voice is missing. I need to build up an archive in my head, deciding what to put where. And how should I construct it — by time periods, or by subject matter? So what, then, would those subjects be, and what has the time wrought?
Comparing. Is it even possible to compare? Suddenly, one day, I found myself – comparing. A youthful love, we were twenty... What was there in it, why did it gnaw away at us? How could there be a gnawing happiness?
And our life, mine and Uri’s, throughout all these years. Until this underground whirlpool, when I met up with you. And since then it’s been the start of a new era; a new way of registering time.
***
Do you remember, Yaron? Or is it that you prefer, in your wisdom, to forget?
…
I’m twenty. Three years have gone by since we became girlfriend and boyfriend. We split up and got together again, over and over. Even our letters can’t really say how many times. “I just couldn’t stay indifferent to your pleading,” you wrote me on one of these countless occasions. And another quote. “We’ve already decided a thousand times that we should split up,” you wrote, “we both decided. But you just can’t stick to it, so now I’ve broken down and I’m writing to you.”
What kind of separation was it? A nightmare surfaces in my memory, like the decision to amputate a living limb. And in the end we took silence upon ourselves, you wrote, a silence which drove you crazy, and must have done the same to me. And I had already started a new path in life, though I didn’t yet know it. The start of a new life.
Uri.
And you.
You were absorbed, with every fibre of your being, in trying to understand what had happened, in feeling the pain. And in hoping that maybe, just maybe, our dream would still come true for us. Taken up by your longing for the time that had gone. Why wasn’t it possible for us? Why didn’t we succeed, for doesn’t love overcome everything? Turning my name over and over in your heart, in your sleep. Aya, my Aya. What’s happening to you, Aya? Where are you?
And where was I? The joy of a new life was imperceptibly blurring my senses. My eyes closed, floating in the air, my body relaxed, tranquillity throughout me, in all my limbs, a quiet smile on my face. And Uri, he was already around. Not yet mine, and I was not his, not yet, but about to be. Sometimes he would drift alongside me, as if inside a bubble that would turn into the love of our lives. And sometimes he’d stand to the side, his hand shading his eyes, as if watching me drifting down from afar. Noting the way the wind was blowing, such a pleasant spring breeze, he’d slightly adjust the parachute, so I would come down, land next to him.
And you, then, in those days, though but a few hours away, in your rented room, but in such a different world. An alien cold that lashed you like hail. The letters that you sent to me then, is it possible that I didn’t answer them? Evasive, not answering, not responding, is that possible? Could it be that by the end I was so frozen towards you, so sealed off - that’s what you wrote - that not a heart-string of mine flinched inside me toward you? Those days which I floated over, closing off my face from yours, have those days all of a sudden been awoken from an age-long slumber, as if a match has been tossed into them — are they now catching fire, burning in front of me?
There is one meeting of ours that I do remember. I always remembered it, all these years. Of all of them, why is that one etched in my memory?
We’re close, completely. Together. And what’s impossible, a closeness permeated with such a deep sadness, and with sorrow, that sorrow and that sadness were so much greater than us. And perhaps it’s more accurate to call it mourning. We were in mourning, for what had been, and for what we had dreamed of, which had vanished. A dream we had aspired to, a future that we had created in our hearts, down to the very last detail, in such clear colours. Over and over, it appears incessantly in your letters, probably in mine as well, which no longer exist. A small house, a father, a mother, a boy, a girl. A house with a door, windows, tiled roof, a chimney, just like in children’s books, since only children can dr
aw like that. And how could we have known, then, at that age, that life would continue, for you and for me, that after our separation there would be more life, a new life.
And that meeting of ours — it must have been our last meeting, there would be no more. The last time, the final one. Both of us knew it. How could that be, that combination. How can one experience such a thing with mourning in one’s heart? For shouldn’t it be done only with happiness? Surely it’s only with joy that it should happen.
But how is it possible to meet up, after months without any contact, when we tried with all our might not to have any contact — a meeting which we knew, in our heart of hearts, would be the very last, that there wouldn’t be any more — and yet stay distant? Talk, like old friends?
Impossible.
Unbearable.
And that force, that force of gravity, dizzying, drawing everything into it. And then, just then, when the body reaches its peak, the heart suddenly collapses. Splits open. Because that’s when it’s so clear that this pull is not just to the body, the here and now, which is so tangible, so precise to me. Your height. Your weight. The whole of you. Suddenly it’s clear that the desire is for closeness, for the power of the heart. Which has evaporated. Is no longer. What’s left of it? Dust. A love devoid of life. The remnants of a love that was. Skin without body. Body without soul. Soul without life. A desire that we cannot resist, pulling us into a black hole.
And the inconceivable egotism of mine. How could I have been so completely focused on myself?
Everything is written, documented; nowhere to escape.
And how you loved. Despite everything. Beyond all the nightmares, the endless quarrels of ours. How could that have been? And how considerate you were then, at the end, full of concern, all for me, not daring to ask a thing for yourself, even after all our love.
Hoping against hope that a miracle might yet take place, that I would wake up, sober. How can it be, Aya, how can you turn your back on such an intensity of love? For there never was, and never will be, such a love like this in the world.
And the end. Of that letter.
Go on your way, go in peace, Aya. I hope things will go well for you. You were part of me, and you always will be.
Yaron.
Words which you wrote to me, then, almost thirty years ago, and which were so forgotten.
Is it possible that words can dive down and get forgotten, inside a deep cavern, for thirty years? And then rise, resurface, return like an echo, from me to you?
28. Yaron
Her birthday. Tomorrow. What am I doing? I didn’t send her the number of my new phone. I hesitated whether to send it, in the end decided not to. She doesn’t know I have a different number. So how am I going to phone her now? And what if he happens to be right next to her just then? It would only complicate things for her. Even if that Uri of hers is so perfect. Not that I have anything to hide, just to congratulate her. She called me, after all, at Passover.
Still. If I could be sure that she’d be alone.
So perhaps I’ll send her an email. Also not simple. What if she happens to open it when he’s next to her? That could also be unpleasant. What if Hagar saw that Aya had sent me an email? Even just congratulations. Or happy holiday. Straight away there’d be a thousand questions.
Complicated.
Annoying.
Perhaps she was right when she wanted us to be friends. Simply friends and that’s it, that’s what she said, Why not, Yaron, what’s the problem with it?
But how would it work?
Whenever I saw her, I’d remember.
How it was to be with her.
How she was with me.
And I’d think about how she is with him.
I’d say, “Hello, how are you, should I put on some coffee?” And she’d say, “Sure, why not,” but there’d be other things going through my head.
And he knows it. Any man would know it.
So without him knowing. To stay in contact, just like that, without him knowing.
Hagar doesn’t need to know either. I told her then and that’s it. You don’t need to share every single detail.
Everyone does it. They don’t talk about every little thing.
But with Aya, with Aya something like that is impossible.
Even that simple.
She won’t agree. She can’t agree.
She always was kind of stubborn.
Tomorrow’s her birthday and I can’t even wish her happy birthday.
29. Hagar
The weekend’s almost over and I still have a million things to do. And in the end I didn’t run today. People think that when your children grow up and leave home you’ve got time for yourself, but it’s really not like that. We’ve started doing these nice Saturday meals for them. Yaron bought a cookbook For Very Special Guests and said, “Come on Hagar, let’s pamper the kids, we can do it together.” All the work in the garden that Iddo used to do is now down to me, and every week Michali comes back with a heap of laundry. We don’t dare budge from the house the entire weekend so that we won’t miss a second with them. But it was great that we did it today. Yaron woke me at six a.m., already dressed. “Hagari, wait till you see what I’ve cooked up for us.” I could see how delighted he was, so I hauled myself out of bed. The old mountain bikes stood outside, he had even put some air in the tyres. I hadn’t heard a thing, I must have been fast asleep. And then he said, “Come on, let’s take a bike ride. There’s time till the kids wake up, we haven’t done it for ages.” I couldn’t believe it, everything was ready – water, a pita bread for him and a sandwich of low-carb bread for me, even two oranges with the peel scored so they’d be easier to tackle. And then he brought me my new Nikes, I hesitated but decided that it was a shame to use them, better keep the shock absorbers brand new for the marathon — so I took the blue Reeboks and we set out.
It was a little while after we had set out that I realized I had forgotten my heart-rate monitor. I wanted to go back, I’m not used to being without it. But Yaron said, “It doesn’t matter, Hagari, let’s just enjoy our bike ride; I haven’t even brought my camera.” So I said all right and we continued. We started out riding next to one another and talking, but after the turn to the French Carmel there’s a steep uphill rise and the road narrows. I let him go ahead since I’m in better shape. I saw that he was struggling a bit with the gears but basically coping. It was a nice day, we rode on and on, I didn’t find that uphill hard. Being without a heart-rate monitor frees your mind, I started thinking about things I’ve got to do, organizing Iddo’s birthday – it’s inconceivable that he’s already twenty-two – and then my mind went back to his birth. I can remember his birth as if it were yesterday. I have this habit every year of going over his birth in my mind, all over again. Maybe it’s because the birth of your first child is so intense. There were no mobile phones at the time, and Yaron never liked to tell me what he would be doing during the day or where he’d be. “Why do you think I’m nagging you, when all I’m trying to do is find out what kind of day you have ahead of you?” That’s what I’d say to him, trying not to let him see that I found it hurtful. That morning I didn’t feel so good, but I hadn’t realized that I had actually gone into labour. We were living in that small flat in the Hadar neighbourhood, it was the end of my eighth month. Yaron was about to finish his Masters in electrical engineering at the university but he had a project way down in Beersheba and sometimes had to head over to Afula as well. The labour pains really got going by the end of the second lesson. In the break I went back to the office, standing there with my huge tummy, making hundreds of phone calls, no one knew where he was. I went to the gym to start the third lesson, by the break at eleven o’clock I was absolutely drained; I went back to the office and went on trying to find him. At the end of the break, Yigal, the substitute teacher, said, “You’re stark raving mad, you can’t go on waiting for him like this, it’s dangerous,” and he bundled me off to hospital.
By the time we
got there, the pain had become really intense, I was writhing about on the chair in the emergency waiting room of the maternity wing, but they don’t let you skip a single form that needs to be filled in. At long last a nurse said to me, “You can take a hospital gown from the cupboard over there. That’ll be your bed, give your clothes to your husband, he can look after them for you for now… Oh, you’ve come on your own?” “He’ll be here any minute,” I said. “All right, but he should hurry,” she said, “there isn’t much time.” I kept looking at my watch, praying that by now someone would have told him; I didn’t know if he had gone as far as Beersheba that day, I left messages everywhere I could think of. The contractions were now coming every two and a half minutes, I didn’t know what to do, the pain was agonizing, piercing my stomach, I could barely stop myself from screaming, all I wanted was for it to be over but I also wanted him to come. Time was passing, by now it was one-thirty. And then the nurse said, “That’s it, here come the pressure contractions. Let’s get you to the other ward.” So they took me to the labour room, there were other nurses there, one of them said, “I can’t take another one now, I’m off in a few minutes, my shift’s almost over,” but after that she came up to me. “Fine, all right then, I’ll help you with your delivery. Here, we’re almost at the end, push, yes, push harder. You’re almost there, we can already see the head. Well done, good job, Hagar, that’s your name, right? You must have been exercising, you’ve got nice strong tummy muscles. Oh, you’re a gym teacher? I knew it, I knew it right away, it’s going easier for you because you’re so sporty, believe me, I know what I’m talking about.” To the left side of the room, on the wall above the sink, there was a square clock, both dial and digital. Just then it ticked another minute, it was 13:47. Suddenly he dashed in, running, out of breath, rushed into the labour ward in green hospital overalls. “Here you are! I’ve parked on the double yellow line – completely illegal!” I saw him and I just couldn’t take it any longer, “Why didn’t you tell me where you were, why didn’t you tell me?” “Leave it be, Hagar, leave it, I’m here, you can see that I’m here now, don’t cry, Hagari, everything’s all right,” and he leaned over me and kissed my face and my forehead and my hair and my hands, he couldn’t stop. “Look, your husband’s come, here he is,” said the midwife. “Sit over there,” she pointed to a chair by my head. “And you, don’t stop, you’ve got to go on, you were doing fine up to now, don’t stop, let’s get this over, I should have already ended my shift.” I pushed and pushed, a bit more, “Well done, just a little more, we’re almost there.” My whole body was trembling, I felt nauseous, I gripped the handles of the bed with all my might, Yaron was sitting on my right stroking my forehead, and then she said, “Congratulations, you’ve got a son.” I couldn’t believe that he was out, I really couldn’t believe it, my entire body was shaking with the effort, it was 13:58, and then Yaron let go of my forehead, I saw him get up and turn sideways. I didn’t understand why, I thought that something might be wrong with the baby, he went and stood by the wall, stood there completely hunched over, leaning on the washbasin, I remember his back all bent over, his shoulders shaking, and then I saw in the mirror above the sink that his face was all red. Meanwhile, Iddo had also started to cry. “Come here, Yaron,” I said to him. “Come to me, everything’s all right.”
So We Said Goodbye: A Contemporary Fiction Novel Page 13
