The Lover

by A. B. Yehoshua

  It was essential not to take him too seriously, essential to joke with him even about his deafness, to expect him to help with the chores, to take out the rubbish or dry the dishes. We were already planning another child. When he was five years old we moved to another house. To his sorrow he was forced to part from the old nurse, he was so at home there. He found it hard to get used to the kindergarten. There were tears in the mornings. But it seemed that things were working out. The Passover seder before his death we celebrated in our new home. Asya’s parents came and various other elderly relations of hers and he sang his part without a single mistake, rolling out the tune in a strong, jaunty voice. We clapped our hands and applauded him. The gloomy, taciturn old grandfather looked at him with great interest, with astonishment, then wiped away a tear and smiled.

  Sometimes he used to take out the hearing aid when he wanted to read a book or when he was building something, a tractor or a crane. We used to call him and he wouldn’t hear, buried deep in his own silence. I envied him this ability to break off contact with the world, to enjoy his own personal silence in his own way. There can be no doubt that the handicap speeded up his development. He also knew how to exploit the advantages of his situation. Sometimes he complained of pains in his ears because of loud noises from the hearing aid. We consulted the doctors and they saw this as a good sign, some of the nerves were showing signs of life, but the doctors were able to predict his condition only for the next few years. There was no way of knowing if the noise really disturbed him or if he just enjoyed having silence around him. I agreed to make him a little cut-off switch, to wear under his shirt, beside his heart, so he could now and then switch off the hearing aid without removing it. Of course this was intended only for use in the house.

  In the meantime we bought him a little bicycle to ride on the pavement outside the house. We found him new friends in the neighbourhood. He settled down well with them, but sometimes when they got on his nerves he simply switched off the hearing aid. One of the children even came to me once to complain that “Yigal makes himself deaf on purpose when he doesn’t want to give something or join in a game.”

  I mentioned it to him, though I was pleased with this evidence of independence.

  Why not?

  On that Sabbath afternoon, a week before the beginning of the school term, he went to visit a friend of his who lived just four blocks away from us, on the same street. His friend wasn’t at home so he decided to come back, and it seems that he switched off his hearing aid on the way, though I can’t be sure. Suddenly he saw his friend on the other side of the road playing with some children. They beckoned to him to join them, and so he crossed the road, still in total silence. The car coming down the hill, not all that fast (the skid marks were checked), sounded its horn, confident that he’d have time to stop, but Yigal went on crossing the road, in his silence, not running, but at a slow walk directly into the path of the car.

  It all happened for him very slowly and in total silence.

  The children woke me from my sleep, a dozen little fists hammering at the door. I ran out into the street barefoot and half naked. The ambulance was already there. The children shouted wildly, “Wait, wait, here’s his daddy.” He was still breathing, his eyes were full of blood, the hearing aid was broken, he could no longer hear me.

  The two of us are realistic, rational people, we tried to behave reasonably, not to lay blame, not to make accusations. I thought she might say something about the cut-off switch that I’d made for him, but it didn’t occur to her. I hinted at it, and she didn’t understand what I was talking about.

  The strange thing is that for a long time, for two or three months after the disaster, we were hardly ever alone. Her parents came immediately from Tel Aviv and at our request they stayed on with us. The father was himself very ill and had to be cared for. Elderly aunts came to help, to cook, to clean the house. It was all taken out of our hands, as if we’d both gone back in time and were children again. I slept in the study, Asya apparently on the sofa in the living room, and all the time there were people moving about the house. Practical matters took on great importance, they absorbed the grief, diverted it. Concern with her lather’s medicines, special diets, above all with the constant stream of guests passing through the house who came not to visit us but Asya’s father.

  I remember it well, the last days of summer, mild and clear, the house full of silent people, most of them old. All the time the door opening and someone arriving on a visit of condolence. All his friends, former officers in the secret service, labour leaders, all those who had shunned him after his disgrace, those with whom he had most of all lost touch, decided now to come and be reconciled with the dismissed former leader whose grandson had been killed in a road accident and who was himself slowly dying. They arrived diffidently, nervous about seeing him, and he received them in groups of two or three, sitting in a big armchair on the shaded balcony, in the light of the approaching sunset, all white, a light woollen blanket covering his knees. His face calm, his eyes uplifted, staring out to sea, hearing words of self-justification, of loyalty, words of consolation, even secret information. And to one side, at a distance, sat the old ladies, drinking tea and whispering in Russian. The days of mourning were for him the days of great reconciliation with his enemies.

  I walked about the house like a stranger. Afraid even to go into the kitchen. Coming home from work and after a while they call me to eat a meal cooked by one of the old ladies. Erlich, my father’s former business partner, arrived on a visit of condolence and offered to help out in the garage. He began to work with me on the accounts and he gave me some good ideas. After a while I suggested that he return to the garage as an employee and to my surprise he agreed. I used to sit with him after work, waiting until dark, going home late in the evening and finding the house full of people and Asya sitting in a corner, and they bringing her a meal, and scolding her for something.

  After months her parents left, though we implored them to stay. Her father was now in a critical state.

  Only then did we realize how empty the house was. The nursery was bare. We went back to sleeping in our bedroom, though in fact I slept alone, she continued in her insomnia, her night wandering. I had no thought of touching her, but it was a little strange that she didn’t want to sleep in her own bed. A week went by, two weeks, she was growing very thin, her face was pale, but she went out to work, organizing herself as usual, only continuing to doze in armchairs, fully clothed. Perhaps now is the time to part, I thought, perhaps the time has come to leave her, but my longings for a son were painful, I wanted another son, even another deaf son, I didn’t care, I wanted to start again from the beginning, to bring him back. But there was to be no touching her, none at all. She said, “I don’t have the strength to start again.”

  I was unshaven and untidy, she looked pale and neglected, we were in no fit state for love. I gripped her forcibly, without desire. She resisted: “What is it that you want?” Then I fell on my knees, kissed her feet, trying to arouse my desire for I had no desire.

  DAFI

  Sabbath eve. No movement in the air. They’ve gone out to visit friends. When they’re at home you hardly notice them, but when they go out you know that they aren’t there. I walk around the house, alone. It’s very unusual for me to be alone on a Sabbath eve. But there’s no chance of getting together with Osnat, because they’re having a big party at her house. Her brother has suddenly got leave from the army. I phoned her at nine o’clock to arrange something but she said, “We’re in the middle of a meal, my brother’s home and he’s got a lot of stories to tell and I’ll phone you later,” and she hung up, and she hasn’t rung yet. Tali’s gone with her mom to visit her Grandma in Tel Aviv. Every two months her mom takes her to see her Grandma, to show her how well Tali’s growing up and how well she’s being looked after, and perhaps she’ll increase the maintenance that she pays in place of her son, Tali’s dad, who ran away. I’ve got so used to spending all my time with
those two that when they aren’t there I’m completely lost. I shouldn’t have quit the Scouts so soon, they’re always good for dead evenings like this.

  Ten o’clock. I phone Osnat. They’re on the last course. A real feast. She sounds impatient, doesn’t think she’ll be able to come over tonight. I hinted that I could go around to her house but she pretended not to understand, guarding her brother so jealously, not wanting anyone else to have a share in him.

  Such heat. From the balconies of nearby houses come voices and laughter. The students who are renting the house opposite have turned the lights out, they’re dancing now to some sexy melody. There’s one couple hugging and kissing out on the balcony. I walk around the stifling house from room to room, turning out the lights, maybe that’ll make it a bit cooler. Stopping at the kitchen door so as not to see the pile of dishes in the sink. After supper there was an argument over the washing up. Daddy decided to interfere, insisted that I do the washing up, he snatched the sponge out of Mommy’s hand, even though for her it’s a two-minute job. In the end I promised to rinse them and I shall rinse them, but not yet, the night is long, the job requires a bit of inspiration. It’s so awful having to work on my own, if only I had a little brother or sister that I could talk to when I’m working, someone who could help me, drying the dishes beside me. These silences, this stillness, it’s all so depressing. To think that I could have had a brother too, he’d be nineteen now, in the army too. And they just let him get killed in the street. A boy of five, you can tell from the old photograph how sweet, very solemn, they couldn’t get a smile out of him, as if he knew he didn’t have long to live.

  When I was ten they told me about him for the first time, and they said he’d died of an illness. It was only a year ago that Daddy told me about him for the first time, that he was killed in a road accident, he even showed me exactly where it happened. How is it that they kept no trace of him in the house, how have they managed to forget him all these years? Lately I’ve been more and more interested in him, my life could have been so different. I grieve for this brother. I talk to him in my imagination, sometimes he’s a youth of nineteen, sometimes he’s just five years old. Sometimes I help him to undress, make his supper and wash him, and sometimes he comes into my room, a tall smiling youth, to talk to me.

  Ten-thirty. Not a breath of air, everything’s white-hot. The sky’s standing still, the moon and stars are covered with a milky mist. I move slowly from chair to chair. I’d take a shower and go to bed and set the alarm for seven o’clock in the morning and get up early to wash the dishes, but Daddy’ll go crazy if he sees the sink full. Why should he care who washes them? I glance at the newspaper. Life is all so intense, and around me are the music, the voices and the laughter. And I’m alone here, where am I in the middle of all this?

  I get up and go hurriedly to the kitchen. How can such a small family use so many dishes? First I move aside the two saucepans and the burned frying pan. They aren’t my responsibility. On the rest of the dishes, without touching them, I pour out a lot of washing-up liquid, turn on the tap, a gentle stream of water, must soften them up first. What kind of a job is this for Sabbath eve? I go out of the kitchen, putting out the light, sitting down at the big table, listening to the water running in the kitchen, perhaps the dishes will wash themselves. Sitting and watching the flames of the two Sabbath candles. I’m the one who’s insisted on them lighting Sabbath candles this last year, they wouldn’t have thought of it by themselves, neither of them believes in God.

  The heat gets stronger, I strip off my clothes, in my underwear, in the dark, I sit watching the flames, hypnotized. I could sit for hours watching them being consumed, wondering which one will burn longest. The siren of an ambulance in the distance. Long thin insects with delicate wings walking on the walls, on the table. I start to doze, the light dances in my closed eyes. The lapping of water at my feet wakes me. Water? Where’d all this water come from? Oh God, the floor’s flooded. The tap.

  You didn’t want to wash the dishes and now you’ll have to wash the floor as well. It’s nearly midnight. They’re not home yet. I run to fetch rags, start to mop up, cleaning, bending down and scrubbing. Chasing the water as it runs under the cupboard, wetting a little old suitcase that’s hidden behind it. I clean, mop and scrub, streaming with sweat. Going to the kitchen and washing the damn dishes, scraping the saucepans and the frying pan as well, polishing them. Working like a demon, washing, drying, putting things away in the cupboard. At last I go and take a shower, putting on a dressing gown and sitting down to look inside that old suitcase that I never noticed before. Some moth-eaten old children’s clothes, mine or his? Who can tell? They can’t have thrown everything away. I put them back in the case, put the case back where I found it, dead tired but waiting up for them. What’s happened to them? Outside the voices are fainter. The music stops. A cool breeze passes through the house, the air stirs.

  I only remember that suddenly they were beside me. I didn’t hear them open the door or come in. Daddy lifts me up, supports me, leads me to my bed. Through my sleep I hear Mommy say, “She’s gone mad, she’s washed the whole house.” And Daddy laughs suddenly: “Poor Dafi, she took me seriously.”

  ADAM

  So really, is that the way to describe her? Starting with her smooth little feet, so wonderfully preserved, the fleshy, smooth and silky curve, the feet of a pampered child, not belonging at all to this gloomy woman with wrinkles in her face, who seems to insist on growing old before her time.

  If only someone was to touch me, quietly, out of genuine friendship, good will, interest, let’s say on a Sabbath eve at one of those social gatherings at a friend’s house, teachers from Asya’s school or friends from our school days, former neighbours with whom we’ve kept in touch. At one of those gatherings that we get invited to every few weeks, where most of the faces are familiar and after a while the conversation breaks down and the one who’s dominated the proceedings falls rather silent and starts to eat his cake, or gets up to go to the bathroom, and the great discussion of political problems, of the meanness of contractors or a visit to Europe is broken off and the minor conversations begin, echoes of whispers, the women discussing obscure feminine disorders, the men getting up, to stretch their legs, going out to the main balcony, someone even switches on the television at low volume, and I’m still marooned in my chair, picking at the shells in an empty dish of nuts, silent as always, already thinking of moving homeward, if only someone, a good friend, a childhood friend, was to turn to me, put a hand on my shoulder, touch me gently, with a good-natured smile, seeking a genuine connection, and whisper for example, “Adam, you’re always so quiet, what are you thinking about all the time?”

  I’d tell him the truth at once. Why not? I don’t mind.

  “You’ll be surprised, but I think about her, I can’t think about anyone else.”

  “About whom?”

  “About my wife …”

  “About your wife? Very good … why not? Sometimes it seems that your thoughts are far away and all the time you’re thinking about her.”

  “I’m busy with her constantly …”

  “Has something happened?”

  “No, nothing’s happened.”

  “Because you seem so good together, I mean a steady sort of couple without bickering or strains. We were a bit surprised at the time when she married you … she’s such an intellectual type, sitting over her books all the time, and we thought it was strange that you, out of all her friends … you understand? No offence … you understand?”

  “I understand, I understand, go on.”

  If only one of our friends, and we don’t have many, one of the three or four that we see regularly, who’ve been close to us for years, was to touch me once with friendship, with sincerity, even with all the noise, even in a small room, there’s always an opportunity for a little private, personal conversation.

  “We lost track of you in the middle of the school course, you went away to work, the ye
ars went by and suddenly – the two of you. It was a surprise.”

  “For me too.”

  “Ha ha, and we were sure that all the time you were secretly in love.”

  “I …”

  “Yes, you. We remember that affair of hers. But now the bond between you seems so natural, when we talk about you it’s always with good will, believe me, it’s always good to see you among us, even when you sit there without saying anything. No, don’t think it’s annoying, the opposite, really, I don’t know how to say it, Adam …”

  “Thanks very much. Thanks very much. I understand.”

  “So what do you think about all the time?”

  “About her, I’ve already told you.”

  “No, I mean what are you thinking about her, if you don’t mind my asking.”

  “Not at all. I think about her feet.”

  “Pardon? I didn’t hear you. All this noise … about what?”