by Amos Oz
“I don’t know,” said Yair.
“I wasn’t asking you. It was a rhetorical question.”
Yair began scratching the lobe of his ear uneasily. What’s the matter with her? What’s she up to? There’s something about her that I don’t like at all. She isn’t being sincere. It’s very hard to tell.
“Now you’re searching for something to say and not finding it. It doesn’t matter. Your manners are perfect, and for heaven’s sake, you’re not in front of a board of examiners.”
“I wasn’t thinking of you as a board of examiners, Lily. Not at all. I mean, I . . .”
“You’re a very spontaneous boy. And quick and witty replies don’t matter to me. What interests me is, rather, your . . . how shall I put it, your esprit.” And she smiled in the dark.
Chance led them to the upper part of the suburb. They reached the center of Rehavia and turned north. A passerby, thin and bespectacled, definitely a student of extreme views and crossed in love, passed in front of them with a transistor radio in his hand. Yair paused for a moment and turned his head, straining to catch a fragment of the fascinating program that Lily had interrupted. Not on the hill or in the vale, where stands an old acacia tree. Thanks to her he had gone out of the house without a coat, and now he was cold. He did not feel comfortable, either. And he had missed the climax of the program. Time to get to the point, and get it over with.
“Right,” said Yair. “OK, Lily. Are you going to tell me what the problem is?”
“Problem?” She seemed surprised. “There’s no problem. You and I are going for a stroll on a pleasant evening because Dinah has gone away and your father isn’t at home. We are talking, exchanging views, getting to know each other. There are so many things to talk about. So many things that I don’t know about you, and there may even be things that you would like to know about me.”
“You said before”—Yair scratched his ear—“you said there was something that you—”
“Yes. It’s just a formality and really quite unimportant. But I would like you to sort it out as soon as possible. Let’s say tomorrow or the day after, at the latest by the beginning of next week.”
She put out her cigarette and refused the offer of another.
Many years ago a famous architect sketched the plan of Rehavia. He wanted to give it the character of a quiet garden suburb. Narrow shady lanes like Alharizi Street, a well-tended boulevard called Ben-Maimon Avenue, squares like Magnes Square, full of the pensive murmur of cypresses even at the height of summer. An enclave of security, a sort of rest home for fugitives who have suffered in their lives. The names of great medieval Jewish scholars were given to the streets, to enrich them with a sense of antiquity and an air of wisdom and learning.
But over the years, New Jerusalem has spread and encircled Rehavia with a noose of ugly developments. The narrow streets have become choked with motor traffic. And when the western highway was opened and the heights of Sheikh-Badar and Naveh Shaanan became the heart of the city and the state, Rehavia ceased to be a garden suburb. Demented buildings sprouted on every rock. Small villas were demolished and tenements built in their place. The original intentions were swept away by the exuberance of the new age and the advance of technology.
The nights give back to Rehavia something of its plundered dreams. The trees that have survived draw a new dignity from the night and sometimes even act like a forest. Weary, slow-moving residents leave their homes to stroll at dusk. From the Valley of the Cross a different air arises, and with it a scent of bitter cypresses and night birds. It is as if the olive groves rise up and come into the lanes and the courtyards of houses. By electric light, book-laden shelves appear through the windows. And there are women who play the piano. Perhaps their hearts are heavy with longing or desire.
“That man on the other side of the street, the one feeling the sidewalk with his stick,” said Lily, “that’s Professor Shatski. He’s getting old now. I don’t suppose you knew Professor Shatski was still alive. I dare say you thought he was something out of the last century. Perhaps you’d have been right. He was an elegant and venomous man who believed in mercy, and in his writings he demanded mercilessly that all men show mercy to all men. Even the victim should show mercy to his killer. Now he’s blind.”
“I’ve never heard of him,” said Yair. “He isn’t exactly in my field, as they say.”
“And now, if I may just ask for one more cigarette, let’s talk about your field, as they say.”
“By all means. Take one. I’m curious to know about the formality that you started talking about before.”
She narrowed her eyes. Tried hard to concentrate. Remembered moments of pain that she had lived through long before this clumsy cavalier was born. She felt a momentary nausea and almost changed her mind. But after a while she said:
“It has to do with an examination. I want you to have a medical examination as soon as possible, certainly before we announce the wedding officially.”
“I don’t understand,” said Yair, and his hand stopped halfway to his ear. “I don’t understand. I’m a hundred percent fit. Why do I need an examination?”
“Just a screening examination. Your mother died of a hereditary disease. Incidentally, if she had been examined in time, she might have lived a few years longer.”
“I had a physical two years ago, when I started at the university. They said I was as healthy as an ox. I know very little about my mother. I was young then.”
“Now, Yair, don’t go making a big fuss over a little examination, OK? There’s a good boy. Just for my peace of mind, as they say. If you knew any German, I’d make you a present of all the economics books that Erich Dannenberg left me. He’s someone else that I’m sure you don’t remember. A new leaf, as they say. I shall have to think of some other present for you.”
Yair said nothing.
As they walked up Ibn Ezra Street, they were confronted by an elegantly dressed old woman.
“There is a personal link that joins all creation. God is angry and man does not see it. One meaning to all deeds, fine deeds and ugly deeds. They that walk in the darkness shall see a great light. Not tomorrow—yesterday. The throat is warm and the knife is sharp. To all of creation there is one meaning.”
Yair moved away from the madwoman and quickened his pace. Lily paused for a moment without speaking, then caught up with him. A poisonous, twisted sort of expression spread over her face like a disease. And then passed. In Jerusalem they called the elegant woman “One Meaning.” She had a startlingly deep voice and a German accent. From a distance the madwoman of Rehavia blessed the two who were walking by:
“The blessing of the sky above, and the blessing of the water beneath, from Düsseldorf to Jerusalem, one meaning to all deeds, to those that build and those that destroy. Peace and success and full redemption to you and to all refugees and sufferers. Peace, peace, to near and far.”
“Peace,” replied Lily in a whisper. From there until they reached the Rothschild School, not a word was said. Yair was humming or murmuring to himself, “Not by day and not by night . . .” and then he stopped.
Lily said, “Let’s not quarrel over this examination, even though it may sound to you like a whim. Your mother died only because of negligence, and as a result your father was left alone again and you became an orphan.”
Yair said, “All right, all right, why make an issue of it?” Then, with a slow realization, he began to see the significance of something she had said. He put his tongue to the edge of his mustache, caught a fragment of tobacco, and said:
“Again? Did you say that my father was left alone again?”
Now Lily’s voice had a cold and authoritative sound to it, like that of a clerk at an information counter:
“Yes. Your father’s second wife died of cancer when you were six. Your father’s first wife did not die of cancer; she left him. She was divorced. Soon you will be a married man yourself, and it’s time your father stopped hiding elementary facts from yo
u as if you were still a child.”
“I don’t understand,” said Yair, hurt. “I don’t understand—you say my father was married before?”
In his puzzlement he raised his voice beyond what was appropriate to the time and place. Lily was anxious to restore things to their proper level.
“Your father was married for four months,” she said, “to the woman who later married Erich Dannenberg.”
“That’s impossible,” said Yair.
He stopped. He took out a cigarette and put it between his lips but forgot to light it. Then for a moment he forgot his companion and forgot to offer her a cigarette. He stared into the darkness, deep in thought. At last he managed to say:
“So what? What has that got to do with us?”
“Be a dear,” Lily said, smiling, “and give me another cigarette. I left mine at home. You’re right. I myself find it hard to believe that there ever was, or could have been, such a marriage. I myself can hardly believe what I’ve just told you. But you should know, and you must learn what there is to be learned from that episode. Now, please light the cigarettes, mine and yours. Or give me the matches and I’ll light them. Don’t let it upset you. It happened in the past. A long time ago. And it lasted less than four absurd months. It was just an episode. Come on, let’s walk a little farther. Jerusalem is wonderful at this time of night. Come on.”
Yair began to follow her northward, lost in thought. And she was filled with a savage joy. A car honked and she ignored it. A night bird spoke to her and she did not answer. She watched her shoes and his on the sidewalk. And she took the lighter from his distracted fingers and lit both the cigarettes.
“And I was never told anything about it,” said Yair.
“Well, you’ve been told now. That’s enough. Relax. Don’t get yourself all worked up,” said Lily warmly, as if to console him.
“But it’s . . . it’s so strange. And not very nice, somehow.”
She touched the back of his neck. Caressed the roots of his hair. Her hand felt warm and comforting to the boy. They walked on, out of Rehavia and into the neighboring quarter. The winding streets became sharp-angled alleyways. And there in front of them was the olive tree, embracing and crushing the iron gatepost.
6
ELHANAN KLEINBERGER and Yosef Yarden were engrossed in their game of chess. A lamp styled in the shape of an old Bavarian street lamp shed a dim light on the table. On the bindings of the scholarly books danced gold letters which gave back a light still dimmer than the one they took from the lamp. All around stood Dr. Kleinberger’s bookshelves, set out along the length and height of the walls of the room, from floor to ceiling. One special shelf was devoted to the Egyptologist’s stamp albums. Another was reserved for Hebrew literature, Elhanan Kleinberger’s secret love. In the few spaces among the rows of books there were African miniatures, vases, primitive statuettes of a crudely erotic style. But these statuettes also served as vases, holding colored paper flowers that never wilted.
“No, Yosef, you can’t do that,” said Dr. Kleinberger. “In any case, you have no choice now but to exchange your knight for my rook.”
“Just a moment, Elhanan, give me a chance to think. I still have a small advantage in this game.”
“A temporary advantage, my friend, a temporary advantage,” replied Dr. Kleinberger playfully. “But think, by all means. The more you think, the better you will appreciate just how temporary your advantage is. Temporary and irrelevant.” He leaned back comfortably in his armchair.
Yosef Yarden thought hard: Now I must concentrate. What he says about the weakness of my position is just tactics in a war of nerves. I must concentrate. The next move will decide the game.
“The next move will decide the game,” said Dr. Kleinberger. “Should we call a ten-minute break and have a cup of tea?”
“A Machiavellian suggestion, Elhanan, and I don’t hesitate to call the child by his name. A diabolical suggestion designed to upset my concentration, and you have succeeded in doing that already. Anyway, the answer is: no, thank you.”
“Did we not say before that every child has more than one name, Yosef? We were talking about that only two or three hours ago. It seems that you have already forgotten our conversation. Pity.”
“I have already forgotten what I was intending to do to you. To your rook, I mean. You’ve succeeded in distracting me, Elhanan. Please, let me concentrate. Look, so. Yes. I am here and you are there. What do you say to that, my dear doctor?”
“For the time being I don’t say anything. All that I will say is: let’s break off for a moment and listen to the news. But after the news I shall say ‘check,’ Yosef, and then I shall say ‘checkmate.’”
It was nearly midnight when the two men parted. Yosef bore his defeat with dignity. He consoled himself with the glass of brandy that his host offered him, and said:
“At the end of the week we shall meet at my house. On my territory you will be the loser. You have my word on it.”
“And this,” said Dr. Kleinberger, laughing, “this is the man who wrote that eloquent article ‘Against the Politics of Revenge’ in The Social Democrat. Sleep well, Yosef.”
Outside were the night and the wind. An ill-mannered owl urged Yosef to hurry up. I forgot to phone her to ask what happened. Better wait until tomorrow. She will phone and apologize and I won’t accept her excuses. At least, not right away.
7
THE ACACIA solves mysteries/And tells what lies ahead,/I shall ask the acacia tree/Oh, who is my bride to be?
The insistent tune takes no account of circumstances and will not leave Yair alone. Already he has whistled it, hummed it, and sung it, and still the song gives him no peace.
Lily has questioned Yair about his professors, about his studies, about the girl students who were sure to be mad with grief at the thought of his forthcoming marriage.
Yair was thinking: That’s enough. Let’s go home. What she’s told me isn’t necessarily true. And even if it is true, so what? What does she want? What’s the matter with her? Time to put a stop to all this and go home. Besides, I’m cold.
“Perhaps,” he said cautiously, “perhaps we should start heading back home. It’s late, and there’s a dampness in the air. It’s cold as well. I don’t want it to be my fault if you catch a chill.”
He gripped her arm, just above the elbow, and began gently drawing her toward a street corner lit by a lamp.
“Do you know, my dear child,” she said, “the amount of patience that is required of a man and a woman to prevent their marriage from turning into a tragedy after a few months?”
“But I think . . . Let’s talk about that on the way home. Or some other time altogether.”
“For the first few months there is sex and sex is all that matters. Sex in the morning, at midday, and at night, before and after meals, instead of meals. But after a few months you suddenly begin to have a lot of time to sit and think—and you think all kinds of thoughts. Infuriating habits come to the surface, on both sides. And this is when subtlety is required.”
“It’ll be all right. Don’t worry. Dinah and I . . .”
“Who said anything about you and Dinah? I’m talking in general terms. Now I can also tell you something from my personal experience. Put your arm around my shoulders. I’m cold. Yes. Don’t be so shy. Be a nice boy. Like this. I’m going to tell you something about Dinah and something about you, too.”
“But I already know.”
“No, my child, you don’t know everything. I think you should know, for example, that Dinah is in love with your outward appearance and not with you. She doesn’t think about you. She’s still a child. And so are you. I don’t suppose you have ever once been depressed. Don’t answer me now. No, I’m not saying that you’re a crude boy. Far from it. I just mean you’re strong. You’re straightforward and strong, as our young people should be. Here, give me your hand. Yes. Don’t ask so many questions. I asked for your hand. Yes. Like this. Now, squeeze my hand, please. Be
cause I’m asking you, isn’t that reason enough? Squeeze. Not gently. Hard. Harder. Harder still. Don’t be afraid. You’re afraid of me. There, that’s good. You’re very strong. Have you noticed that your hand is cold and mine is warm? Soon you’ll understand why. But stop whining and trying to persuade me to go home all the time, or I’ll begin to think I came out for a walk with a spoiled toddler who just wants to go home and sleep. Look, child, look at the moon peeping out from behind the clouds. Do you see? Yes. Just relax completely for a few moments. Don’t say anything. Hush.”
The dim wailing of jackals is heard from far away. Words flee from him. Something other than words now strives to assert itself but finds no outlet. A sharp and mischievous wind rises from the desolation on the fringes of the town and comes to play in the stone-flagged side streets. Windows are shut. Shutters closed. Drains with iron gratings. A long procession of trash cans frozen on the sidewalk. Cats prowl on the mounds of Jerusalem stone. Lily Dannenberg is sure that the things that she has said to Yair Yarden are “educational.” She tries hard to keep to the rhythm of events, lest everything be wasted. But the blood is pounding in her temples, and some inner agitation urges her to go racing on without drawing breath. Here among the houses there is no acacia solving riddles. The two walkers emerge from the side streets and pass through the market of Mahaneh Yehuda toward Jaffa Road. Here Lily leads the young man to a cheap cafe that caters to the all-night taxi drivers.
Beneath the electric light the moths are singeing their wings in token of their love for the yellow bulb. Mrs. Dannenberg orders black coffee without sugar or saccharine. Yair asks for a cheese sandwich. He hesitates and asks for a small glass of brandy as well. She lays her hand on his broad brown hand and carefully counts his fingers. In a state of mild dizziness he responds with a smile. She takes his hand in hers and raises the fingers to her lips.
