The Lover

by A. B. Yehoshua

  “About her little feet.”

  “Is something the matter with them?”

  “No, nothing in particular, I just wonder, incidentally, if you’ve ever seen them. The sweet girlish curve, the legs of a pampered child, she isn’t quite … as she seems.”

  If someone was to lay his hand on my shoulder, taking me aside in a friendly way, with affection, with a whisper, with arrogance even, with curiosity, but still talking to me with genuine affection, looking me straight in the eye.

  “But of course … how could I have known, forgive me. Her feet, you said? But how could anyone know … except for you of course … forgive me … she wears … forgive me … such heavy shoes with flat heels … I mean … I don’t know much about these things but I’m surprised … my wife mentioned it … that dress … something a bit shabby about it … I don’t think she does herself justice … when she was young she was so charming, not pretty but quite attractive and now she’s ageing so quickly, that is, not ageing, far from it, but she’s deteriorating a bit, perhaps because of that tragic business with the boy. I understand, but people mustn’t be allowed to age like that, we all have a responsibility, we must look after one another, warn one another, we still have a long life ahead of us …

  “I know … I’m sorry.”

  “Oh, Adam, forgive me. But I spoke as a friend. We’ve known each other for such a long time, right? You understand?”

  “That’s quite all right, go on.”

  If only someone was to approach me, casually, when it’s nearly midnight, even a little drunk, when they’re all getting up and moving about the house, because a young couple has to go and relieve their baby-sitter, and the rest are wondering whether to stay a little longer or to leave, starting to wander about the house, going into other rooms, weighing themselves in the bathroom, pacing about on the balcony, and the hosts run around after the guests, urging the undecided to stay, running to the kitchen and fetching hot rich soup and slices of bread, the leftovers from the Sabbath-eve supper, or what they’ve prepared for the Sabbath lunch, gathering the guests together, handing the plates around, pouring out the strong reddish soup, putting on a record of Greek songs, then the drowsy conversations begin, and if anyone comes to me it’s only to discuss car prices or to hear my opinion of a new model that’s just arrived on the market, or to consult me about how tyres should be crossed, they stand there holding plates and cups and listening with respect, on such subjects I’m the supreme authority.

  Some of my friends were also my customers, though I never encouraged them to come to me, even in the days when the garage was small and I had to fight for customers. I wasn’t interested in them, but they were interested in me.

  In the early days there weren’t many of them who could afford cars. Teachers in primary schools, minor officials, students, former kibbutzniks, just weren’t in a position to possess their own cars. But after a few years the majority of our friends began buying cars, second-hand ones of course, which they used to bring to me for inspection, consulting me before buying. I had to be careful not to foster illusions, above all not to take any responsibility. Otherwise they’d have been at my door constantly, imposing the most awful obligations on me. I was forced to take a detached view of their cars.

  Naturally I did some jobs for them.

  For the headmaster, Mr. Shwartzy, I did an entire overhaul. For some old school friends I changed the shock absorbers and tuned the engines. For a charming couple that we met at a party, a middle-aged university lecturer and his young artist wife, I cleaned the temperature control and replaced the clutch. For the school secretary and her husband I rebuilt their car after an accident and fitted a new generator. For the gym instructor, a bachelor of thirty-five, I relined the generator and charged the battery.

  I expect they all felt they’d got a bargain out of me, and in fact they hadn’t really got a bargain at all, their only advantage in coming to me was that I didn’t do unnecessary work and I didn’t keep their cars in the garage for longer than was necessary.

  There were a few who came back to me, especially when they needed a quick job, but the garage grew larger, I was often absent for long periods and the foreman wasn’t prepared to give them preferential treatment. Erlich made a point of not giving discounts to anyone and they themselves got to understand their cars better, changed them for newer ones, found cheaper or more convenient garages.

  There was one friend of ours, a woman whose husband had deserted her. At one time she was always turning up at the garage. She was scared out of her wits, she was always hearing strange noises from the eugine, she was afraid there was going to be an explosion. She used to stand aside waiting until I was free to go out with her for a drive, to hear and to feel the vibrations and the mysterious noises. I used to drive with her to the main road by the sea, breathing in the smell of cheap perfume, stealing a glance at the short fat legs beside me, while she sat there looking at me with longing and talking about her husband and weeping, all this to the accompaniment of my technical comments. She was really hooked on me. Finally I decided to get rid of her and I sent Hamid to deal with her. He went out to test the car, drove once around the block, came back and said scornfully, “There’s nothing wrong, lady, everything’s quite all right.” After that she left me alone.

  So among our friends I really was only a friend. They had no ulterior motive for inviting us to their homes. I used to arrive, sit down and say nothing. In some houses they already knew about my passion for nuts and they used to put a big plate in front of me, as if I were a dog, and I’d sit there in silence all evening, nibbling slowly. I had a special method of cracking the shells quietly in my hands. After the boy was killed they were wary of us. For a long time they didn’t dare invite us but eventually they made cautious advances and we responded. But my silences became deeper. Asya on the contrary talked more and more, she was especially active in political discussions, getting into arguments, always coming up with little-known facts, going into detail. Her knowledge never ceased to amaze me. Was it just the professional ability of a history and geography teacher, or a quality inherited from her rather? She knew, for example, the population of Vietnam, the exact location of the Mekong River, the names of all the ministers of France, the principal clauses of the Geneva Convention, when the troubles began in Ireland and how the Protestants came to be there, the date of the persecution of the Huguenots in France, and who the Huguenots were, and she knew that there were Dutch units in the Wehrmacht. In fact it wasn’t always clear exactly what she was trying to say, but she was always putting others right, or clarifying some point. Not that anyone was prepared to change his mind because of the information that she poured out in such a constant stream, but I saw that the men were a little nervous around her, as she sat there in the middle, a cigarette between her fingers, not touching the food but only drinking coffee and more coffee, at an hour when all the others were prevented from drinking coffee by fear of insomnia.

  And I listened to her and also to the other women, who, weary of these arguments, whispered about their own concerns. One of them had a lover and everybody knew about it, it was a source of great interest although the details weren’t clear. Only her husband knew nothing, sitting there proudly in a corner, a contentious bastard, every time a view was expressed he said the opposite.

  But Asya, how to describe her, I’m still trying to describe her, in the early hours of the morning, when we’re still among our friends, time for us to go but we’ve not yet found the right moment. And I watch her, thinking only of her, noticing the bitter, combative tone in her voice, the strange self-confidence. Just occasionally, when someone forcibly contradicts her argument, is she at a loss for a moment, putting her fist to her mouth in her old childish sucking movement, the thumb quivers for a moment at her lips, and then she realizes what she’s doing, and hurriedly returns her hand to her lap.

  Sabbath eves at friends’ houses, old friends, pointless, meaningless conversations, but the bond remain
s and it’s genuine and deep. I watch my wife all the time, studying her sideways, with a stranger’s eyes, thinking about her, her mind, her body. Is it still possible to fall in love with her, some stranger who would see her just as she is, in these clothes, in the grey dress with the faded embroidery, someone who would fall in love with her for my sake too?

  DAFI

  One day at supper he said suddenly, right out of the blue, “I’m going to shave this beard off tomorrow, I’m sick of it.” He looked at Mommy.

  She shrugged her shoulders. “It’s up to you.”

  But I leaped in at once. “Don’t you dare, it suits you so well.”

  He smiled. “What are you shouting about?”

  “Don’t shave it off,” I pleaded with him.

  “What are you getting so excited about? What does it matter …”

  But how could I explain to him why his beard was important to me, how could I tell him that without it he’d be feeble, he’d lose all his vigour, he’d just be a simple mechanic, a dull garage boss.

  I mumbled something about his nose that would look too long, about his ears that would stick out, about his short neck, I ran and fetched a piece of paper and drew a picture to show him how ugly he’d look without a beard.

  They were both amused, smiling at me, not understanding my agitation. But how could I explain that for me the beard was a symbol, a flag …

  “Eat your supper.”

  “Do you promise then?”

  “I shall shave it off and grow another.”

  “You won’t grow another one, I know.”

  I couldn’t eat any more. They gathered up the plates, silent again. Why didn’t Mommy say something? Daddy sat down in front of the TV with his paper. Was it really that important? Mommy was washing the dishes but I paced around uneasily. After a while I went to him.

  “Well, what have you decided?”

  “What?”

  “About your beard.”

  “My beard? What about my beard?”

  He’d forgotten, or maybe he was just teasing me and he never intended to shave it off.

  “You must be mad. Haven’t you got anything else to worry about?”

  “Then tell me.”

  “You’ve never known me without a beard.”

  “I don’t want to either.”

  He laughed.

  “So what have you decided?”

  “Well, let’s wait and see.”

  ADAM

  What was my beard? A flag or a symbol, a way of telling the world that it can’t classify me that simply, or pigeonhole me, that I too have dreams, a different horizon, eccentricities, mysteries perhaps. Anyway, a complex man.

  And in recent years the beard has grown long and wild.

  There were certain distinct advantages in it. In the garage it helped me to keep my distance. People would hesitate a little before approaching me. Also, I was told, the beard made a great impression on the Arabs, they were very respectful towards it.

  At first people think I’m religious –

  And in fact that’s how it started. After the boy was killed an unknown relative of mine appeared at our house, not a young man, he came to supervise the religious formalities. He insisted that we sit shiva at home for a week, not leaving the house, I was forbidden to shave for thirty days, and every day for a year he arrived at the house at dawn to take me to the synagogue to pray. Asya thought he was crazy, couldn’t understand why I let myself be swayed by him, but the death of a child puts you into such a state of depression, bewilderment and fear that it’s comforting to have someone around who knows exactly what to do. In a month the beard grew very quickly, it already had a shape to it, and as I had to get up early in the morning for the journey to the synagogue, it was a relief not having to shave.

  Then Dafi was born and she was fascinated by the beard, all the time running her little hand through it. Perhaps one of the first words she learned to say as a baby was “beard”.

  At work I was careful not to put my head inside a running engine in case my beard got caught in one of the moving parts.

  They were forced to take bits of the engine out to show them to me.

  Sometimes I thought, I’ve had enough, time to shave it off, but at the last moment I’d think better of it, Dafi used to plead with me not to shave it off. Sometimes I went to the barber shop to have it cut and trimmed, but before long it was unruly again. White hairs began to appear in it, the golden colour faded and turned brown, there were several different shades in it. The barber once offered to dye it but of course I refused. I didn’t touch it a lot, I wasn’t in the habit of smoothing it down unnecessarily as bearded men tend to do, but sometimes I used to catch myself chewing it between my teeth.

  Sometimes I even forgot about it, and at night in bed, when I folded the newspaper and tried to sleep, I’d catch sight of my face in the big mirror and think for a moment that a stranger was staring at me.

  DAFI

  In the silence of the room, in the afternoon, the three of us each reading a different chapter of the history book, to brief the other two on the contents, preparing for the exam tomorrow, and Osnat’s kid brother lying on the floor in a T-shirt and underpants, quietly spreading cake on the carpet. Through the wall I hear a sort of moan, whispers and the creaking of a bed. “My love, oh, my love, oh my darling.” So clear. My heart stops, I feel like I’m going to faint. And Osnat looks up from her book, blushing bright red, starts shuffling papers to cover the sound of the whispering, terribly embarrassed, cuffing the child, who starts to howl, and jumping up from her seat, not daring to look at me or at Tali, who’s still staring at her book, reading or daydreaming, there’s no way of telling if she too has heard the sound of Osnat’s parents making afternoon love in the next room. It seems this is their favourite time, this isn’t the first occasion, apparently it was in the afternoon one day many years ago that Osnat was conceived.

  And now I can’t help it, I just have to smile, Osnat looks at me angrily and then, slowly, she begins to smile too. What’s she got to be embarrassed about anyway?

  Because she sure has really nice parents. A cheerful, noisy loud-mouthed mom, a larger version of Osnat, tall and thin with glasses, always sitting down to gossip with us in her American accent, helping us with our English homework, she knows everything that goes on in the school and the names of all the children in the class. They’ve got a lovely house with a little garden, inside it’s always chaotic, but it’s a nice place to be, they always invite Tali and me to stay for supper. They’re used to children. Besides Osnat there’s an older brother in the army, a younger sister and the little boy, who was born a year and a half ago, causing a lot of excitement in the class because we were all invited to the circumcision. Perhaps Osnat’s the only one who isn’t charmed by him, though he’s a sweet kid, awfully fat, with a round tummy and still no hair, reminds you of Osnat’s dad, who looks a lot older than her mom, he’s a professor at the Technion, plump and bald but full of life, madly in love with his ugly wife. He comes home from the Technion in the afternoon, opens the door and heads straight for the kitchen, kissing his wife quite shamelessly, in front of us, they stand there hugging for so long you’d think they hadn’t seen each other for ten years. Then he bursts into Osnat’s room, starts cracking jokes and taking an interest in her work, he’s really sweet.

  And after a while her mom comes in, bringing in the baby and a plate of cookies, our reward for looking after him while they go to “rest”. And Osnat starts to protest, we’ve got our homework to do and an exam to prepare for, then her mom winks at us and says “Dafi and Tali will look after him then, O.K.?” And she hurries away to their bedroom on the other side of the wall. They don’t sleep, we hear them whispering, laughing, the deep voice of Osnat’s dad – “Oh, oh, oh” – and then silence, and suddenly it hits me, like a sharp stab in the heart, I hear her moaning softly “Oh, my love, my darling …”

  And Osnat hits the baby and her mom calls out “Osnat, what’s
the matter with Gidi? Let us have a little peace.” I pick the baby up, trying to calm him, kissing him, he claws at my face with his grubby hands, pulling my hair, yelling triumphantly “Tafi, Tafi.”

  After a while they finish resting and they go to take a shower. Her mom comes in to fetch the baby wearing a long flowery dressing gown, smelling nice and with her hair wet, and her dad comes in too, in short trousers and a vest, carrying a big tray loaded with different flavours of ice cream. And they’re both relaxed and happy, smiling brightly, sitting with us and licking the ice cream, wanting us to share in their happiness, playing with the baby, kissing him hard, with what’s left of their passion. And Osnat shows him her maths homework and he solves a problem or two for us, making us laugh with his funny explanations.

  They’ve just been making love, I think to myself, watching them from the side, unable to forget that deep powerful groan, something comes over me, a sort of sweet pain, I don’t know why, How could she call this fat little man “my love, my love, my darling”?

  Why should I care anyway –

  “Are you staying for supper?” says Osnat’s mom. Tali’s always eager to stay, but I jump up from my seat. “I can’t stay, must go home, they’re waiting for me.” It’s a lie, I pick up my books and run home, Of course nobody’s waiting for me. Mommy’s not at home. Daddy’s sitting in a chair in his working clothes, reading the paper. When do they make love? When does he get kissed? Who says to him “my darling”?

  I go into the living room, look at him. A heavy, serious man, leafing through a newspaper wearily, without interest, I go to him, kiss him lightly on the cheek, feeling the thickness of his big beard. He’s surprised, he smiles, touches my head lightly.

  “Has something happened?”

  ADAM

  But why not describe her detail by detail, clearly, precisely, why do I hesitate to consider everything? But what do I really want, I’m changing too, it’s impossible to preserve eternal youth, nor is that what you’re looking for. In the garage the workers stick pictures of nude girls on the walls. I say nothing, it’s not my business and if it helps them to work, fine. But Erlich’s annoyed by it, he interferes and imposes his own censorship, declares what’s permitted and what isn’t, going and taking down a picture that he thinks is too daring, protesting in his angry, pedantic voice, “Please, nothing tasteless, nothing pornographic, only what’s aesthetic,” and the workers laugh, sneer at him, start to argue, try to snatch the picture out of his hand, a gale of laughter sweeps the garage, work stops, the boys stand and stare, open-mouthed. I go to see what all the fuss is about, not interfering of course, the workers smile at me and gradually they drift back to their work. I look at the pictures, the smooth young bodies, endless variations on the same theme. There are some pictures that have been hanging here for perhaps ten or fifteen years, girls who have changed in the meantime into dull, middle-aged women, growing old, perhaps even dying and becoming dust and ashes and here they are on the grimy walls of the garage in their eternal youth and Erlich stands beside me blushing, is he angry or is he smiling, looking at the torn picture in his hand, the dirty old man, he still gets turned on, he winks at me – “The bastards, they want to turn the garage into a whorehouse.”