***
Yaron. What’s to be done with Yaron? This old-new connection, what’s to be done? Friendship would have solved it; friendship was the solution from the start, for without it there would again be a total cut-off. Yet to cut off once more would be impossible, it would usher in the redundant questions, these toxic questions that corrode life. Our happy, tranquil life, which would lack for nothing, had those redundant questions not crept in.
Won’t we meet for another twenty-eight years?
How old will we be?
How will we look?
And what if we never do?
And time passes.
And I, I take up another undefined, immeasurable fistful of the substance of life; of the most precious, most finite core.
I take up another fistful, and yet another, of time.
Wait, Yaron, hold on.
Don’t move, don’t breathe. Don’t allow another wrinkle to be added to your face.
I can’t bear it.
What are you thinking?
What are your thoughts, Yaron, when you’re all by yourself? During the days, and the nights. Am I there, occasionally passing through your thoughts?
I sometimes feel that I’m no longer there.
And rightly so. Whatever could you have gathered from the flimsy signals that I sent out to you then, at Passover, months ago? Not waving but maybe drowning, sending out a signal - Happy Holiday. Thrusting out my hand into the air from the whirlpool that our meeting has stirred up.
And I fell silent, diving down, leaving behind a wake that disappears in seconds.
Did you know that life has shifted a little? It hasn’t gone back to how it was. Nor did it take a different direction. And, since then, I’ve been slightly up in the air, not really knowing where solid ground is, how to carry on with life from here.
So for you, in the brief few words that I heard from you, life is all right. Yes, all right, you said, and I’d known it anyway without you saying. Has the Earth steadied itself for you since we met, have things settled down? You’ve left your work, you said, you’ve begun doing photography, everything is fine. And your daughter got married, you added, and there was no time to ask, to wonder. What is it like for a father to give his daughter away. To be a father, a real, mature father. To plan a wedding for your grown-up child. For I, myself, feel sometimes quite like a child. Sometimes like a leaf, blown about, the wind is a little too strong. But not you, I didn’t hear that in your voice. How did it feel? Months of preparations, excitement that climaxes in a dizzy peak on one unforgettable evening. Cries of congratulations, warm hugs on every side.
So you, Yaron, and your Hagar, now have a married daughter. Invitations were sent out: We’re delighted to invite you to our daughter’s wedding. What does it do for you, in your innermost heart, what did it do? Has it reignited love, has a wave of love for her flooded over you? A mature, complete love. And inside yourself, are you still young? The parents of the bride. A festive event, white bridal dress, flowers, elegant evening dresses. And you, Yaron, I can’t seem to picture you. You must have chosen your outfit carefully. Yaron, Yaron-of-back-then, so young. I can even remember your brown sandals. The wide belt. Those olive-green trousers. A wallet stuck into your back pocket, I’m trying so hard to remember, was it always the back pocket on the right? Yes, I think it was. Why is it suddenly so important for me to remember? And a comb – always stuck in the left one. And the uniform. I remember your youthful slimness. And your crest of dark hair. The features of a youth who feels so grown up, already carrying the burden of life. Hitchhiking your way all over the country, making your way to me on the kibbutz for a visit, even a snatched one. And the joy of our meetings, the excitement, I remember that. Did I run towards you? Did I start running when I saw you from far off? That I don’t remember. But we would be hugging one another, so close. And in my room. My face in your shirt, breathing your skin into my lungs. Your lips on my hair. And then on my neck, slowly dropping down. Clothes tossed aside, shyness in my heart. Love. A smile playing on your face. Strange, I remember that smile, your eyes smiling, looking up into my eyes, I remember that so well. A night that would end too fast. And parting, once again. Standing at the bus stop in the pale light of dawn, pressed tightly together, so tight, taking in those last moments. The bus approaches, we barely manage to tear ourselves apart, and you get on, wave to me, my eyes following you from a distance as the bus drives away. Trying to pull myself together, walk back up the slope of the path, my work boots, a grey apron that comes down below my shorts. Here she is. Good morning, Aya, nice of you to come. What time do you call this, then? Hurry up, they’re waiting for you in the laundry.
And now. A wedding. How did you look? And what thoughts went through your mind? And in your heart, what was in your heart? And she, your daughter, she’s in love, no doubt. And so is he. I could see that so clearly in the beautiful picture that you sent me. And their happiness, glowing in her pretty eyes. How lovely to see your eyes, your features, in your daughter.
***
So, if it was all as it should have been, we would have observed each other’s lives from a distance. And meet up, on the happy occasions.
Remember, recall. Relive.
If it was all as it should have been.
For then, I was also there.
A Fantasy
“Uri, Yaron’s daughter is getting married. Unbelievable. The invitation came in the post today.”
“Is that so? Time flies.”
He hears my sigh.
“How old is Michal now? She’d be twenty-four, wouldn’t she?”
“And a quarter,” I reply.
“So what do you expect? It’s her right,” he quips. “Are you putting on the kettle?”
“Well, Aya. What about a coffee? You need to look after your man here, you know.”
I smile. And get up, slowly. The years weigh upon my shoulders.
The steam of the coffee wafts in our nostrils, curling up together on the old sofa, my right leg on his left one, his arm around my shoulders.
“He’ll be a grandfather in the blink of an eye, before we know it. A grandfather, I really can’t take that in.”
“Take it easy, Aychuk. I know someone else who married at the age of twenty-four,” his words whispered into my ear, bringing back events long forgotten. Black-and-white pictures smile down from the wall opposite us. That was once me, in the white dress, a veil of excitement hiding my eyes. And Uri, such a kid. How did he know what was right for us back then, so long ago, when he was weaving our future. Moments suspended in time, hung on the wall, from a previous life.
A glossy invitation stuck on the fridge, I’ve circled the date. An elegant off-white card with margins scalloped as flowers, gilt edges, touching yet isolated from their neighbours – notice of a parents’ meeting, a parking fine, a local tax bill, and the car test; time for that annual car test again, another year flown by.
Standing opposite the mirror, the wardrobe wide open.
“Uri, look here a second, do I look okay in this dress?”
“Not really,” he quips.
“For God’s sake.”
“What suits you best is wearing nothing at all.”
“Uri, can’t you see I have nothing to wear?” My clothes are scattered all over the place, despair in my eyes.
“Okay, I’m ready. You wanted to get there early.”
“Yes, I’d like to. But not too early.”
Later, in the parking lot.
“Just a second, Uri, I need to sort my hair out.”
And those sandals.
My Uri is waiting, the keys are in his hand. It’s all so simple for him. No issues - sandals, clothes, hair. No issues.
I pull myself out of the car, stepping down the gravel path, lanterns glowing in the twilight, marking the path. My overly elegant sandals pinch, taking small steps, Uri’s back slightly in front of me. Why this sudden pressure in my stomach. And there you are– no mistaking you and your bea
ring – standing at the entrance, in your tailored clothes; how come they suit you so well, as if this role was cut out for you long ago, the father of the bride? Who tailored that role for you, and when, and how did you just slide into it? And there’s Hagar, by your side, more beautiful than ever, surrounded by her women friends, her face brimming with excitement. The men slap each other’s shoulders, masculine hand-shakes. “Hi Yaron, congratulations,” Uri says to you. “Thank you,” you answer, “did you find it easily?” “No problem,” says Uri, and moves back a step, leaving the arena to me.
“Hello, Aya,” your hand envelopes mine, your handshake is soft. Your eyes, your steady gaze, looking straight into me. An all-knowing smile in your face, as always, I recognize that smile. “Hello, Yaron, congratulations,” I respond somewhat quietly, because an image of us forms for a fleeting moment, a momentary picture. Children, floating on love. Daring to dream. One day we’ll marry, you wrote to me, the letters are still there. And what did I reply to you, and what did I dream, in those letters that no longer exist? And in my memory, which had almost gone. An embarrassed smile appears on my face; my eyes look down and finish up at your shoes - new shoes, of course. How upright you’re standing, confident, you’ve grown tall with the years. “I’m happy that you came, Aya,” you say to me quietly, almost into my ears, smiling. “Me too,” I respond. A flush of warmth washes over me, bearing me to safer ground, Hagar.
“Congratulations, Hagar, you’ve chosen a wonderful place. You look fabulous.”
“You too, Aya. Nice that you’ve come. Hopefully it’ll be your turn soon.”
No, not yet, not so fast, let those pulsing moments of life slow down a bit. Come Uri, let’s sit to the side, take in the event. Sitting quietly with Uri at a side table, my hand searches for his, squeezing his wedding ring. On its own, my heart is too narrow to contain it all. The music changes pace, there’s a commotion around us, Come Uri, the ceremony is starting, I need to stand near. You go, I’ll wait for you here. I walk over, draw a bit closer. Alone among the clan, seeing without being seen. The blessings go on. And then it’s your turn, your blessing. Your voice loud and steady, careful with each nuance, each inflection. A father seeing his daughter married. Who readied you for this role? A glass shattering, calls of congratulations, the music sending a tremor through me. And you, Yaron, at the centre of the picture, filling it, entirely. Holding your daughter in her bridal dress, her dress enclosed in your arms, kissing her hair. And me, I’d best hide my face. I move away, withdraw to our seats. “Aya, my little sentimental Aychuk, everything’s fine.” Uri’s warm breath in my ear. “You’re exaggerating. Keep this excitement for us.” A mischievous smile in his eyes, as always. He reaches out his hand to my cheek, stealthily wiping my eyes.
Who are those guests sitting there, are they close relatives, on which side?
Not close but distant. Very distant.
They say that she’s related to the father of the bride.
***
Memories
Words, memories.
Beginnings.
Uri and me. Talking about Yaron.
Wandering around, in my past.
Yaron.
My first.
Previous beginnings, previous disappointments - ignored, brushed away.
Uri is relaxed, loving. I’m with him, seventeen; Yaron’s girl. Uri envelopes me in love, in talk. A question, and another, holding out his hand gingerly towards me. What do you remember, Aya, tell me; what happened first, and what afterwards? When did you first see him? How was it for you then, so long ago, the beginning of love. Uri’s eyes are wide open, fixed on the ceiling; carefully selecting his words, helping me clear out the mist, bringing back shards of memory. And then, makes a move, steers us gently through the tunnel of time, to now. Come on, Aychuk, be with me. And Yaron comes along with us, stands to the side, watches. Leans against the wall of our bedroom, relaxed, smiling. My Uri clears some space for him, for the Yaron-of-then, He loved you, he whispers in my ear. And me him, I say soundlessly, my heart swelling. Does Uri hear me, it seems he does, I’ve begun to remember, memory is rising up, borne aloft on a wave of happiness, our hands holding tight.
Uri is steady, holding me tight, all of me in his arms, a child, a young girl, already a woman. We’re stepping into the sea, the waters are deep, and cold. I shiver. The storm approaches, it’s whipping up, whirling about, the ground falling away from my feet, my lungs are full to bursting, can’t breathe. A wave of tremors, delight, dizzying, washing over, returning and diffusing, with such softness, onto the shore; falling asleep so tranquil, in complete repose, dissolving in the sun.
***
A perfect marriage, that’s what it is. Uri, look, have we got it back? That’s what I thought, that’s what I said; not just to myself, I said it to him, he was by my side when the words were said, coming out all by themselves. Words which slip out of the body, flow with a power all of their own, power of life, as if words themselves can create new life. Our bodies are entwined, floating inside an enchanted bubble.
Love – an ever-bubbling stream; just to still the noisy hubbub of life for a bit, if only we can.
***
“No, you didn’t run to greet Yaron when he came to visit you,” Uri’s quiet words fall in the space above us.
“What? Really, Uri? I didn’t run towards him when he’d come to the kibbutz? How do you know?” My eyes gaze at the ceiling.
“I remember.”
“What do you mean, you remember?”
“I was watching you, Aychuk. Even then.”
“But I was so much his girlfriend, he would come to be with me on the kibbutz, and we loved one another, we were together… why wouldn’t I run to him?” I ask, stacking up my protests.
“That’s right, Aya, that’s what you were, everyone knew that Aya had a boyfriend. But you walked towards him quietly, slowly. In shorts, a sky blue blouse with laces, sandals. In winter you wore a checked, flannel shirt. Your hair would be pulled back in a plait. If you’d just had a shower, it would be loose.”
“Really, Uri, you really remember?” How can it hurt, a non-existent memory? And why should it matter now?
“I remember,” he whispers into my ear. A Saturday of love, the clock has stopped, or has turned back thirty years. “I remember Aya, I remember Yaron, his face, his walk, his voice. The evening meals in the dining room. And I remember you, I was looking at you from a distance, not daring to feel.”
A Saturday of love, the clock has stopped. Uri’s hands are holding me, his breath on my neck. Such new filaments have appeared in me, suddenly revealed, and in our happiness. A storm passes through my body, where is it pulling, there is no gravity, are we the age we are, or in our twenties, how could it be? Falling into his arms, the imprint of my body on his chest. To feel this serenity, to draw out that calm into an infinity of time, his words in my hair, plummeting into his arms. Our skin is exposed, the two of us together, inside ourselves.
Illumination
Memory.
Such a strange phenomenon. What does a person remember, and what does he choose to forget?
Perhaps he’s not choosing, but forgetting.
And what does he remember, and for what reason?
Why did I forget those bygone days of love? Days of happiness, youthful love, preserved in his letters. Yet they vanished from my memory. Did our love turn into excess weight, like a plane that has to take off but its engine can’t cope with the load, and as it gathers speed, rises, takes flight, it needs to eject anything that isn’t crucial, throw it away without looking back – cast away the memories of love. So what remains of its cargo? Two memories, two miserable sentences that Yaron-of-back-then once said, they are what’s left. “You’ll never be able to find someone just like you want, there is no one like that; there is no such relationship.” “It’s impossible with you, Aya, when are you going to understand that you have to change?” These are the sentences that were left in my cargo, though they’re t
he ones I should have ejected. But there they stayed, echoing over the years.
“Maybe Yaron was right,” I’d ask myself, and Uri too. “He knew me so well, he sounded so right, maybe he really was right?”
“When are you going to forget it, Aychuk?” Uri would say. “A man’s allowed to make mistakes.”
But I didn’t forget, they were what I’d remembered, perhaps because we carried on from exactly there, Uri and me, perhaps that was the reason they were etched in me. Is the garden that I planted with Uri flowering on the remains of its predecessor without me first making sure to clear away the traces? Clear away the remains and organize them neatly at the side, where they should be. Is that what I should have done and yet I didn’t? Is that what I’ve been doing now, after a delay of twenty-eight years?
So We Said Goodbye: A Contemporary Fiction Novel Page 18
