Silence –
Oh hell, what does he want? I notice they’ve sprinkled a sort of disgusting yellowish powder on the cuts on his cheek.
And then quietly, in that soft sickly voice of his, he starts lecturing me about my crime. A public insult to a young teacher who ought to be respected all the more … saying to him “Why weren’t you killed?” A disgrace … in a land where people are being killed all the time … an unnecessary, unprovoked attack … the teaching committee is shocked (what teaching committee?) … quite out of the question for me to remain in this group … especially seeing that my achievements so far have been so poor … no alternative but to transfer me to another school … a technical school … cooking or needlework … there’s no need for everybody to be a professor in this land …
After a sermon lasting a quarter of an hour the old devil comes to the point at last – since there are only a few days left before the end of the school year, and this business has gone on quite long enough … and there’s a suspicion that all this has come about as a result of there being close relatives in the school … and the injured party is seeking damages … therefore an immediate, even a symbolic, expulsion is essential, otherwise the whole business will lose its point … it will look as if I’m simply leaving…
He mumbles towards the end, a bit embarrassed, still not daring to look at me in the face.
Throwing me out just a few days before the end of the year –
“Of course, there will be a report,” he adds.
To hell with the report. Tears rise in my throat but I hold them back … I mustn’t cry, mustn’t cry.
“When must I leave the school?” I ask quietly.
He still doesn’t look at me straight.
“Now.”
“Now?”
“Yes, from this moment.”
An icy chill in my heart. I stare at him with all my strength. Goodbye, Solveig. But no pleading, mustn’t demean myself. I pick up the satchel, walk up to his desk, deciding to change the subject.
“Did my father arrive to rescue you in the end?”
This time he’s taken aback, he blushes, recoiling.
“Yes, your father is a wonderful man … a quiet man … he helped me a lot …”
“And your car was pretty well smashed up?”
“What?”
“Anyone killed?”
“What? What are you saying? Enough!”
He’s almost shouting.
“Then you can have this …”
And I hurl the satchel down on his desk and hurry out of the room, seeing the secretary sitting there, all attention, and in a corner, somehow I didn’t notice him before, little fat Baby Face blushing bright red. I run to the gate and away from the school, the bell ringing behind me. I don’t want to see anybody. I stop a taxi and say to the driver, a fat man with a funny yellow beret on his head, “Drive to the university, or rather, above the university.”
And he’s a bit dumb, a new immigrant from Russia, he doesn’t know the way, I have to explain it to him. We go up and up, to the top of the mountain, driving along little forest tracks. I stop the car, get out, walk among the pines, crying a bit. The driver stares at me. In a moment he’ll start crying too. I go back to him, give him fifty pounds and ask him to return here at four.
“Yes, madam,” he says.
Madam –
I stay in the woods for a long time. Lying down on the dry ground and getting up again, walking about and going back to the little road. My eyes already dry, relaxed, just beginning to feel hungry, forgetting the headmaster, the school, Peer Gynt, Daddy and Mommy, and just thinking about food. At a quarter to four the taxi arrives. Unbelievable. The fat, bald driver stands waiting, quietly cleaning the front windscreen. He sees me running to him through the trees, laughs, smiles at me.
At four-thirty I’m already home. The satchel lies there beside the front door. Mommy’s very tense.
“Where have you been?”
“Just walking about …”
“How are you feeling?”
“I’ve been expelled from school.”
“I know … they told me. Where have you been?”
“Just walking, I cried a bit … but it’s over now … I’ve calmed down.”
“Tali and Osnat were here.”
“What did you tell them?”
“That they should leave you alone today.”
“Good. You did the right thing.”
“Have you had anything to eat?”
“No … nothing … I’m awfully hungry.”
“Then come and sit down.”
“Where’s Daddy?”
“In Jerusalem.”
“What’s he doing there?”
“He went straight there … it seems he’s getting close to him…”
“Close to whom?”
“Him …”
Ah … that’s why she’s so tense. The light in her eyes. An ageing woman. I feel empty and depressed.
I sit down to eat, she cooks french fries and meatballs, these are the things she cooks best. I eat and eat, a sort of lunch and supper combined. She walks about nervously. Every time the phone rings she rushes to it. But it’s always friends of mine, expressing sympathy, and Mommy answers for me, I don’t mind.
“Dafi’s not at home, she’ll be back later, phone tomorrow. I’ll give her the message.” My secretary. And I go on eating and eating, chocolate pudding and fruit cake, with Mommy all the time reporting the phone calls to me, surprised herself at this show of solidarity from the children in the class.
At nine o’clock I run a hot bath, lie down in the bubbly water and sing to myself. Going to bed, finding the satchel already in my bedroom, it’s been following me around all day, without me touching it. I open it, take out Peer Gynt, open the book at the place where I was interrupted and quietly go on reading to myself:
May God bless your path wherever you go
And blessed you shall be if you pass through this land
If you come to my house I shall welcome you here
And if not, we shall meet above.
And I put out the light –
Mommy’s still pacing, wandering around the house, after a while she goes to bed, but she can’t sleep, I’m an expert on insomnia, she tosses about in her bed, gets up to go to the bathroom, comes back, the light goes on and off. At eleven o’clock the phone suddenly rings, but it isn’t Daddy. Sounds like it’s Na’im. They’re talking about the old lady, Mommy’s asking him not to leave her, since it’s possible Gabriel’s been found, he should stay put till Daddy gets back from Jerusalem.
I’m already hearing this through a dream. Asleep and not asleep, but I don’t get out of bed. A whole night passes in sleep and short wakings and then sleep again.
Early in the morning the phone rings again … Mommy’s talking, a few minutes later she’s standing by my bed, already dressed, talking to me. She’s going to Jerusalem, I must phone the headmaster and tell him she won’t be coming to school today. I nod my head and go back to sleep. Waking up at eight. The house is empty. I get up, pull down all the blinds, take the phone off the hook. No school, no parents, no nothing … I go back to bed and sleep again. Sleep has come back to me. Good morning.
ADAM
This slow movement. It seems to me I’m hearing soft music. I just begin walking slowly to get him away from there and he trails along behind me, his hat slung back, talking and telling his story, and I’m still afraid he may suddenly pick up his heels and run. I keep close to him, touching his shoulder lightly and leading him away. Full daylight already, in the streets people hurrying to pray. More than anything I’m careful not to scare him. Three children trail along behind us, disappointed, anxious about the morning trip that’s been interrupted, but it’s as if he’s forgotten them, carried away by the current of his words, and already we’re outside the religious quarter, walking through the New City, in old Mamilla Street, beside the ancient Muslim cemetery, and the children are a
fraid to leave their quarter, they stop and call out to him and he waves his hand to shake them off – “Later, not now” – and he walks on with me.
And now I start telling him about my search for him, about the army authorities who knew nothing about him, still not saying a word about the grandmother who came to life, not mentioning Asya by name. Telling him only about my wanderings at night in search of him. And he listens to these stories with great enjoyment, smiling to himself, his eyes bright, laying a hand on my shoulder as he follows me along.
We pass by the King David Hotel, carry on through the gardens of the YMCA, going down a little side street to the Hotel Moriah, and through the big windows I see the tables being laid for breakfast. A faint smell of coffee and toast. We stand beside the main entrance, by a glass revolving door. I say to him:
“But your grandmother has recovered in the meantime … she has come home …”
He clutches at the wall, almost collapsing, bursts out laughing.
“And I was in such a hurry to get back … that silly legacy…”
Through the door comes the sound of soft music, light morning music. I touch his arm.
“Come inside, let’s have something to drink.”
“They won’t let us in.”
And the doorman really does stop us – two odd-looking creatures, not fit for such a smart hotel, a religious Jew dressed in black with side curls and a beard, wearing sneakers, and a heavily built labourer in dirty overalls. I take out a hundred-pound note and give it to the doorman. “We only want a light breakfast.” He takes the note eagerly, leads us in by a side entrance, calls the head waiter, who comes hurrying towards us, hastily takes another bill that I offer him and without a word leads us to an ornate little room with soft carpets and closes the door on us.
This breakfast costs me three hundred pounds but I stopped thinking about money long ago. He claims that he isn’t hungry and I don’t press him to eat. Sitting beside me, chewing his side curls and watching me gobbling up the fresh little rolls, gulping down cup after cup of coffee. Absently he puts out his hand and starts picking up the crumbs from the table cloth, playing with them.
“What is this fist?” I ask.
“The seventeenth of Tammuz, the destruction of the Wall.”
“But they built it again.” I point through the curtain at the grey wall of the Old City.
He doesn’t even look, just smiles uneasily.
“Not that wall …”
“And is that why you’re not eating?”
He smiles, that weak enchanting smile of his, shrugs his shoulders, mumbles something about not being hungry. And suddenly he starts taking an interest in Asya, at last, I was thinking he’d forgotten her. Asking how she’s been getting on during the time he’s been missing, and cautiously I tell him about her work, about her longings, he listens, his eyes closed.
“But how did you find me?”
I put down on the table the crumpled piece of blue metal, it’s been handled so much it’s going soft. I tell him about the accident.
He remembers the accident. He smiles. That old man nearly killed him –
On the other side of the fence, behind his back, to my surprise I see the three little orthodox children peeping through the bushes, waving their hands, calling out, throwing gravel at the windowpane. I get up quickly, go to the main entrance, find the doorman, give him fifty pounds and tell him about the little nuisances. From the lobby I phone home. It’s six o’clock. The ringing’s hardly begun and Asya picks up the receiver. I tell her what’s happened, she decides to come at once. I go back to the little room and find him munching the half roll that I left. At once I order another breakfast. On the other side of the fence, the doorman collars one of the boys, snatches his hat, takes care of him cruelly.
He gulps down his coffee, eats two soft-boiled eggs.
“And I thought you’d given me up …”
And suddenly I realize, he’s clinging to me just as much as I am to him, he’s afraid I may take him back there. I rush out to the desk, order a room, again handing out money, needlessly, to the waiters and the doorman. I go back to the little room to fetch him. He’s already devoured the lot, as if he’s been fasting for days, he’s licked out the butter dish and the little pots of jam, there are yellow egg stains on his beard. I lead him out, passing through the lobby that’s crowded with American tourists who stare at us curiously, following us with their smiles. The head waiter shows us into a room on the third floor. Gabriel flings himself down in one of the armchairs, sighing with relief.
“I’m escaping again … like before, in the desert …”
Through the window an impressive view of the Old City. The furniture is upholstered in a pleasant shade of grey, the carpets are grey, the curtains grey. He takes off his black frock, removes his shoes, starts walking about in his socks, goes into the bathroom, washes his hands, dries them on a scented paper towel, he turns on the radio and music swamps us.
“What a wonderful room.”
I ask him if I should fetch the possessions that he left behind at the yeshiva. He shrugs his shoulders, there’s nothing of any value.
“But the car …”
Oh, he’d almost forgotten it. He hands me the keys, better not to go himself, he couldn’t stand their disappointment and sorrow.
He strips off his shirt, picks up a magazine and starts leafing through it, looking at the pictures.
I lock the door on him, go downstairs in a hurry and return to the quarter, getting a bit lost on the way but finally arriving in the courtyard of the yeshiva.
The children rush at me.
“Mister, where have you taken him?”
But I don’t answer, I get into the car and try to start the engine. The battery’s very weak, the engine coughs loudly.
The children call to some students who surround the car at once.
“Where are you going, mister? Where do you want to take the car?”
At last I succeed in starting the engine, I must have been a bit flustered. I don’t say anything, but my silence only adds to the anger around me. They take hold of the car and won’t let it move. I’d have thought that as they were fasting they’d have no strength, but the hunger only increases their vigour. The car won’t budge, although I put it into gear and press the pedal hard.
An old man comes out to see what’s happening. They tell him something in Yiddish.
“Where is he?” he asks me.
“He’s a free man,” I reply. “He doesn’t owe anybody anything.”
The old man smiles.
“What is a free man?”
To hell with it, I say nothing.
Meanwhile three students get into the car and sit in the back. A crowd gathers around us. I switch off the engine, get out, to hell with the car, why fight over it, I put the keys away in my pocket, let them tear the bloody thing apart.
The old man still stands there watching me.
“Tell me, sir, what do you mean, a free man?”
I say nothing. Tired and worn out. Almost on the brink of tears. A man of forty-six. What’s happening to me?
“Do you, sir, consider yourself a free man?”
Theological arguments now –
I open the door of the car and find the registration certificate, show him that it’s signed in the old lady’s name, explain that I must take the car back to its owner.
One of the students takes the licence, glances at it, whispers something in the old man’s ear.
“So the gentleman wishes to take the automobile, let him take it, only let him not say that there is one free man in the world.”
I stare at him, nodding my head as if hypnotized, take the licence and get into the car. The students idly leave the back seat, the way is open. I drive away from the quarter, arrive at the hotel, leaving the car in the parking lot. I enter the hotel, standing at the desk I see Asya, distraught, the reception clerk knows nothing.
When she sees me alone she goes pale.
>
“Where is he?”
I take her by the arm. She trembles, light to my touch. We climb the stairs to the room, she leans on me. I take out the key and open the door, curious to see if he’s still here or if he’s already flown away through the window.
NA’IM–DAFI
I know there’s nobody in the house but I ring the doorbell anyway wait ring again wait ring for the last time and there’s no answer. Ring for the very last time and still no answer, knock a few times, no answer. I put the key in the lock, one last ring and I open the door. The house is dark, all the blinds closed like they’ve all gone out and they’re not coming back for a long time. I’ll write him a note and go. First let’s just go to her room, have a look at it, lie down for a while on the beloved bed, and go …
There’s a ring at the door. Who can it be? Another ring. I don’t feel like getting up. If it’s the postman he can use the letter box. Another ring. He’s persistent. Now he’s knocking. Maybe I ought to get up. Suddenly it sounds like somebody trying to put a key in the lock … A short ring and the door opens. Who is it? Somebody walking into the house. Light footsteps. A thief in the morning? Now he’s coming straight into my room. Oh, help …
But there is somebody here … Dafi lying in bed in a dark room. Her head on the pillow, her blond hair all over the place. She’s alone in the house. Too late to run away.
“It’s only me …” I mumble. “I didn’t think there was anyone at home. Are you sick?”
But it’s only Na’im. So what? Daddy’s given him a key to the house. He’s surprised to find me here. The sweet little Palestinian Problem blushes, says hurriedly, stammering:
“It’s only me … I didn’t think there was anyone at home. Are you sick?”
“No, I’m not sick … just lying down … did Daddy send you to fetch something?”
“Yes … no … not exactly. I’m looking for him … hasn’t he come back from Jerusalem yet?”
“No … why?”
“I wanted to tell him something.”
“Tell me.”
“No, I’m not sick …” She goes all red, wrapping herself up tight in the blanket, maybe she’s naked underneath. “Just lying down … did Daddy send you to fetch something?”
The Lover Page 41
