Black Box

by Amos Oz

  So, like people slowly saving a nest egg, we built up our meager stock of happiness evening by evening. We shaped our Chinese vase. We feathered a love nest for mute doves. In bed I initiated him into ecstasies he had not imagined in his wildest dreams, and Michel repaid me from his reserves of silent, fervent adoration. Until you opened up the windows of heaven on him and flooded him with your money, like an airplane spraying a field with poisonous pesticides, and at once everything began to wither and fade.

  At the end of the school year Michel decided to resign from his job as a teacher of French at Isaac’s Tent school. He explained to me that the time had come for him to “escape from bondage to liberty” and that he would soon demonstrate to me how “the moss on the wall would flourish like the cedar in Lebanon.”

  His new-found wealth he has decided for some reason to entrust to Zakheim and his son-in-law.

  Ten days ago we were even privileged to receive a visit from the Etgars. Dorit, Zakheim’s daughter, a bustling Tel Aviv beauty, who called Michel “Micky” and me “darling,” led her tubby little husband along on a lead; he was polite and nervous, and was wearing a tie, despite the heat, and frameless spectacles, and had a Kennedy haircut. They brought us a present of a wall-hanging featuring monkeys and tigers, which they had bought on their last trip to Bangkok. For Yifat they brought a windup doll with three speeds. Our flat did not suit them; no sooner had they arrived than they begged us to join them in their American car, which looked like a pleasure cruiser, and treat them to a “nice, wholesome tour round the pedigreed, nontourist Jerusalem.” They took us to lunch at the Intercontinental Hotel. Evidently they had completely forgotten about the problem of kosher food: Michel was too shy to mention it, and invented a stomach upset. In the end all we ate there was hard-boiled eggs and cream cheese. They talked between themselves about politics, about the prospects for the opening up of the Sinai and the West Bank to private enterprise, and Zakheim’s daughter tried to involve me in a discussion of the “just unbelievable” price of a Saint Bernard puppy and the equally unbelievable cost of keeping one in Israel. The bespectacled young man insisted on beginning every sentence with “Let’s say that,” and his wife classified everything under the sun as either “frightful” or “just fantastic,” until I wanted to scream. When we parted they issued an invitation to us to spend a weekend with them in their house in Kfar Shmaryahu, with a choice between the sea and their private pool for swimming. Afterward, when I said to Michel that as far as I was concerned he could go and stay with them as often as he liked but without me, my husband replied, “Let’s say that you’ll think it over.”

  And then a week ago I learned, by accident, that Michel is selling our flat (with the unfinished extension) to one of his cousins, with whom he has signed a contract to purchase a new home in the restored Jewish Quarter in the Old City. Perhaps because I did not manage to look surprised, Michel teased me by calling me “Vashti.” He has also rejoined the National Religious Party, and simultaneously decided to take out a subscription to the newspaper Haarets.

  Every morning he sets out for his new business, the nature of which is not clear to me, and he returns late in the evening. Instead of his invariable sports slacks and checked jacket, he has bought himself a pale blue lightweight summer suit in Dacron, which makes him look to me like a sharp secondhand car salesman in an American movie. No longer do we sit outside on the veranda to watch the twilight on Saturday evenings. No longer do the three of us engage in pillow fights before bedtime. Religious land dealers come to call after the Melave Malka and the formal conclusion of the Sabbath. Leaning over to serve them coffee I catch a whiff of cholent and gefilte fish. Self-satisfied types who feel obliged as a matter of politeness to praise my looks to him and to me the biscuits I bought at the supermarket. Making a fuss of Yifat with crude grimaces, puzzling her with the twittering they produce in her honor. Michel orders her to sing or recite for them and she obeys. Afterward he hints to me that we have both done our job. And then he confers with them for a long time on the veranda.

  I put Yifat to bed. Shout at her for nothing. I shut myself away in the kitchen and try to concentrate on a book, but every now and again a gust of greasy laughter intrudes on me. Michel chuckles too, but in a strained way, like a waiter who has gone up in the world. When we are left alone he devotes himself once more to my education, trying to teach me about building plots, grants, Jordanian property laws, loans, working capital, bonuses, financial securities, gross incomes, the cost of infrastructure investments. The self-confidence of a sleepwalker has descended upon him; he has no doubt at all that you are going to bequeath to him (or make over to him in your lifetime) all your money and property. Or to me. Or to Boaz. At any event he sees your money as virtually at his disposal already. “And as it is written, those engaged in fulfilling a pious mission can come to no harm.” As for you, he believes that “it has been decreed from on high” that you will try to atone for your sins through his agency, by means of a “significant” donation to the rebuilding of the Land. He doesn’t mind which of us you choose to give the money to; “We, with God’s help, shall use it for Torah, commandments and good deeds, and as we continue to invest it in the redemption of the Land so shall it prosper and multiply.” Last week he boasted to me about a glass of tea he had drunk in the Parliament canteen with a deputy minister and a director general.

  Furthermore, he has made up his mind to have driving lessons. And to buy a car soon, so that he can be, as he put it, “my cabbie.” And meanwhile his oddlings, the Russian and American youngsters with the strange gleam in their eyes, who used to sneak in in gym shoes to whisper with him in the yard, come less often than they used to. Maybe he meets them somewhere else. A complacent arrogance informs his new gait. He no longer plays the fool or mimics frogs and goats. Instead he has adopted a humorous mannerism from his brother the politician: interspersing his speech with Yiddish words that he deliberately distorts. He has even changed his brand of after-shave; the new smell wafts around the flat even when Michel isn’t here. Last week he was privileged to be invited to take part in some sort of mystery tour in the vicinity of Ramallah, in which your Moshe Dayan was also involved. Michel came back bursting with self-importance and secrecy, and as full of enthusiasm as a schoolboy. He would not stop worshiping the “ideological astuteness” of Dayan, who “looks as if he stepped straight out of the Book of Judges.” He deplored the crying waste of the fact that at the moment his new hero has no government position. He boasted about how Dayan had suddenly fired a tricky question at him and how he had answered without the slightest hesitation, as he put it, “on the spot, straight from the hip,” that “through stratagems thou shalt acquire a land.” And earned a smile from Dayan and the comment “sharp fellow.”

  “Michel,” I said, “what’s happening to you? Are you going out of your mind?” He clasped my shoulder in an uncharacteristic “one of the boys” sort of way, smiled, and replied tenderly, “Out of my mind? No, not at all. Out of my shame and poverty! Let’s say, Madame Sommo, that one of these days you’ll be living here like the Queen of Sheba. Your food, your raiment, and your marital dues I shall not diminish, even if you do not recognize the source of the allusion. It won’t be long before my brother himself comes to us to ask favors, and he shall not find our bounty deficient. As it is written, ‘the meek shall inherit the earth.’”

  I could not resist shooting just a little dart at him: I asked what had become of his Europa cigarettes all of a sudden, why had he taken to smoking Dunhill? Michel was not put out. For an instant he looked at me, amused, and at once shrugged his shoulders, chuckled “Women!” and went to the kitchen to make us a meal of hamburgers and fried potatoes. And suddenly I hated him.

  So, you have won again. With a single move you have demolished our little cottage, smashed our Chinese vase, and dragged out of the depths of Michel a grotesque little Alec in a cheap popular edition. Meanwhile, like a circus juggler, you simultaneously sent Zakheim to hell with
a kick of your heel at the same time as your breath was plucking Boaz from our enfeebled grasp and wafting him all the way to Zikhron, where you planted him with extreme precision right on the square that you had designated for him on your campaign map. And all this you did without even bothering to emerge from your thick cloud. Like a deadly satellite. All by remote control. Just by pressing a button.

  These last lines I have just written with a smile. Do not hope this time for another suicide attempt, like those that brought you eventually to a dry snigger and the “stomach-pump drill.” This time I shall introduce a little variety. I shall reward surprise with surprise.

  Here I shall stop. I’ll leave you in the dark. Go stand at your window. Hug your shoulders. Or lie awake on the couch in your office between the two metal file cabinets and wait beyond despair for a grace that you do not believe in. But I do believe.

  Ilana

  ***

  Notes by Professor A.A. Gideon written on little cards.

  176. Whereas his sense of time is utterly two-dimensional: Past and Future. In his tormented mind, the previous, the original, glory, that was destroyed by the forces of defilement, and the promised glory, which will be reestablished with “the renewal of the days of old,” after the Great Purge, are constantly reflected one in the other. The goal of his struggle is this: to be liberated from the grip of the Present. To raze it to its very foundations.

  177. The denial of the Present is a cloak for the denial of the self: The Present is perceived as nightmare, as exile, as “eclipse,” because the self—the focus of the sense of the Present—is experienced as unbearable depression.

  178. And in fact his sense of time is not two-dimensional but one-dimensional: the paradise that was is the paradise that will be.

  178a. The Present is therefore an unclean episode, a blot on the canvas of eternity; it must be erased (with blood and fire) from existence and even from memory, so as to do away with any barrier between the radiance of the Past and that of the Future, and to make possible the messianic merging of these two radiances. The distinction must be drawn between sacred and profane, and the profane (the Present, the self) must be entirely removed. Only thus will the circle be completed, the broken ring repaired.

  178b. The time before birth and the time after death are identical. It involves: Abolition of the self. Abolition of the whole of reality. Abolition of life. “Exaltation.”

  179. The realization of the ideal: The noble Past and the glittering Future converge and crush between them the impure Present. A sort of awesome, eternal timelessness descends upon the universe; its essence is above life, outside life, diametrically opposed to it. “This world is an antechamber before the world to come.” “My kingdom is not of this world.”

  180. The ancient Hebrew language expresses this in its deep structure: it has no present tense. Instead it has only a participial form. “And Abraham sitting in the entrance to the tent.” That is to say, not “Once upon a time Abraham sat,” or “Abraham used to sit,” or “At the time of writing these words Abraham is sitting,” nor at the time of reading them, but like the stage directions of a play: “Every time the curtain goes up, we see Abraham sitting in the entrance to his tent.” For all eternity. He sat, he sits, he will sit forever and ever in the entrance to that tent.

  181. But, paradoxically, the desire to destroy the Present in the name of the Past and the Future embraces its own contradiction: the eradication of all tenses. Freezing. Eternal Now. When the days of old are renewed and the Kingdom of Heaven is established, everything will stop moving. The universe will stop dead. Movement will cease and the horizon too will move farther away. A perpetual present tense will hold sway. History, like the poets, is banished from Plato’s ideal Republic. And Jesus’ and Luther’s and Marx’s and Mao’s and all the rest of them. And the wolf shall dwell with the lamb—not in a temporary truce but once and for all: the same wolf, the same lamb. Without a rustle or a breeze. The annihilation of death resembles death in every respect. The mystical Hebrew expression “the end of days” means just that: the end of days. Literally.

  182. And yet another paradox: The elimination of the base Present in favor of a noble Present in which Past and Future meet also signifies the end of the struggle. The age of eternal peace and happiness. In which there is no need for fighters, for martyrs leading the way, for saviors and messiahs. In the kingdom of redemption there is therefore no place for a redeemer. The victory of revolution is its destruction, like the fire of the enigmatic Heraclitus. The liberated City of God is not in need of liberators.

  183. The solution: to die on its threshold.

  184. And so, with foam-flecked lips, he fights against the whole world of the Present in the name of Past and Future which he is sworn to turn to Pastless Futureless Present. An inherent contradiction. And so he is doomed to exist in a constant climate of terror, persecution, and suspicion. Lest the Present has outwitted him. Lest he has fallen into a snare or delusion. Lest the agents of the Present have succeeded in infiltrating, or penetrating in disguise, the heart of the camp of salvation. His punishment: the perpetual dread of shades of treachery on all sides. Elusive shades of treachery even within the cellars of his own soul. “The Devil slips in everywhere.”

  ***

  To Rahel Morag

  Kibbutz Beit Avraham

  Mobile Post, Lower Galilee

  4.8.76

  Dear Rahel,

  I ought to listen to what you say, and change. Break with the past. Become a loving spouse and housewife. Iron and cook and clean and sew. Take pleasure in my husband’s achievements and see in them my own happiness. Start making curtains for the new flat that we’re moving to in the winter. Be content from now on with his warm smell, the smell of black bread and cheese and pickled olives. The smell of talcum powder and pee in the child’s room at night. And the smells of frying in the kitchen. This gambling with “everything I have” is pointless. One mustn’t play with fire. No knight on horseback will come to take me away. And if he does I won’t go. If I did I’d only wrong them all once more and bring suffering on myself. Thank you for reminding me of my duty now and again. Forgive me for all the insults I’ve hurled at you without cause. You were right because you were born being right. From now on I’ll be as good as gold. I’ll put on my dressing gown and clean the windows and mosquito nets. I’ll know my place. I’ll prepare bowls of nuts for Michel and his guests. I’ll see to it there’s always enough coffee. I’ll go with him myself to choose a nice suit for him instead of the blue one. I’ll keep track of the housekeeping money. I’ll put on my brown dress and go with him to social events he is invited to. I won’t embarrass him. When he wants to speak, I’ll shut up. When he gives me a hint that I should speak, I’ll always talk sense, and charm all his acquaintances. Maybe I’ll join his party. I’ll start to think seriously about buying a carpet. Soon we’ll have the telephone: he’s already been moved up the waiting list, thanks to his friend Janine’s brother. There’ll be a washing machine too. And then a color TV. I’ll go to Kfar Shmaryahu with him to stay with his business partners. I’ll write down telephone messages for him on a little pad. I’ll protect him from being disturbed. I’ll shelter him tactfully from people asking favors. I’ll go through the newspapers for him and mark items that could be interesting or useful for him. Every evening I’ll wait for him to come home, serve him a good meal, run him a hot bath, and then I’ll sit down to listen to the story of his day’s successes. I’ll report to him in general terms about the news of the kid and the house. I’ll take care of the water and electricity bills myself. Each evening I’ll put a freshly starched and pressed white shirt at the head of his bed for the next day. Every night I’ll service him. Apart from nights when he has to sleep away from home for his work. Then I’ll stay in by myself and study the history of art by correspondence. Or take up painting in watercolors. Or varnish the chairs. I’ll reach such expertise in Oriental cooking that I may even get to be in his mother’s class. I’ll re
lieve him of the burden of worrying about Yifat, so that he can devote himself to his projects. His wife like a fruitful vine around his house. Her price is above rubies. The king’s daughter all-glorious within. The years will slip by, and Michel will go from strength to strength. He will prosper in all his doings. I will hear his name on the radio. I’ll stick pictures of him in an album. Every day I’ll dust his souvenirs. I’ll take it on myself to remember the celebrations and birthdays of all the tribe. Buy wedding presents. Send letters of condolence. Represent him at circumcisions. Check the inventory of the linen and make sure he always has clean socks. So life will flow in peaceable, respectable channels. Yifat will grow up in a warm and devoted home and in a truly stable atmosphere. Not like Boaz. When the time comes, we’ll marry her to the son of a deputy minister or a company chairman. And I will be left alone. When I get up every morning I will find the house empty, because Michel will long since have gone out. I’ll have coffee and tranquilizers, give instructions to the daily help, and go into town to spend the morning looking through the shops. When I get back I’ll take a Valium or two and try to sleep till evening. I’ll leaf through books of pictures. I’ll dust the knickknacks. And every evening I’ll stand waiting at the window; perhaps he will come. Or at least send an assistant to fetch a clean jacket and announce that he won’t be long. I’ll make some sandwiches for his driver. I’ll delicately evade troublesome questions on the telephone. Keep away from busy-bodies and cameras. In idle moments I will sit and knit a sweater for a grandchild. I’ll water the pot plants and polish the silver. Perhaps I’ll take a course in Jewish thought, so that on Saturday nights I can surprise his guests and him with apposite quotations. Until they move on from small talk to serious conversation. And then I’ll sneak away on tiptoe to the kitchen and sit there till they leave, choosing recipes from kosher cookbooks. Perhaps I’ll finally join some politicians’ wives’ committee for deprived children. I’ll learn to get involved. I won’t be a burden. And I’ll discreetly regulate the quantity of salt in his food in accordance with the doctor’s instructions. As for myself, I’ll go on a strict diet, so as not to embarrass him with an excess of aging flesh. I’ll exercise. I’ll take vitamins and tranquilizers. I’ll dye my hair when it goes grey. Or take to wearing a head scarf. For his sake I’ll have a face-lift. But what shall I do about my bosom when it starts to sag? What shall I do about my legs when they swell and get covered with a network of varicose veins and burst blood vessels? What shall I do, Rahel? You’re clever and knowledgeable and you must have some advice for your little sister, who promises to behave nicely and not to play with fire. Take care of yourself.