He spread his legs and sprawled onto the floor.
Crawled a few centimeters to the rattling sound of the links of his collar.
Licked Grandpa’s shoe.
And another one.
“I am grateful for your visit.”
His voice disclosed his emotional state when he cordially invited him in.
He carried on his licking.
“Sit!”
I commanded.
He stopped licking.
And obeyed.
“Heel!”
He sprawled and went back to licking.
“Free!”
I ordered.
Mom and I tried to drag him by pulling the doormat.
He bared his teeth and growled in warning.
“His blocking your way with his body,” she said and laughed.
“Are you, ladies, also waiting for a special invitation?” Grandpa wondered.
“You’ve really driven us crazy today,” I whispered in his ear as I passed by him.
A spark of youthful mischief lit up his eyes.
And as quickly faded.
With Mom supporting his arm, Grandpa shuffled into the guest room.
Champion didn’t bat an eye.
He didn’t even peep inside, into the apartment he hadn’t been to in years.
Nor did he make eye contact.
“Now you are my guests.
And I will treat you to whatever your hearts desire.
What do you desire?”
He set the tone.
He offered me whipped chocolate milk, who no one makes like he used to.
He offered Mom Turkish coffee, “With a touch of cardamom, a-la-Dad, and kaymak, clotted cream, he translated from Turkish, the spécialité de la maison,” he flaunted the amalgam of languages.
Mom’s offer to accompany him—he rejected.
My offer to keep him company—he accepted.
And barely dragged his feet as we walked together.
I had been in his kitchen countless times. And I was always deterred by the neglect, the abandonment, the infirmity, the decay, the damp, the viscous loneliness.
Arm in arm, we entered the era of Grandma Michaela, when the space was the beating heart of a loving and lively family, and which was preserved just as it had been:
With the same old burner of cracked grayish enamel;
The same oil-stained counter, damaged and unstable;
Same oven and the same washing machine in the utility balcony;
Same rattling, sweating refrigerator;
Same closets and same airing cupboard with its heavy doors and loose hinges, and with the same injured red plastic knobs, which no longer bore evidence of their once round shape; same rectangular formica table with the meringue-like pattern, attached to the wall; same three wooden chairs with their frayed and cracked upholstery, which had once been red, pushed against it.
From the dust-riddled lace curtains to the greasy pastel-colored floral oilcloths, furled on the ill-planed shelves—everything had the blood-curdling touch of distant years, during which Grandma Michaela had managed her household, years which I knew so little about.
Champion eagerly gulped down the water I served him.
I returned to the kitchen.
Opened the fridge.
And my heart sank: among the moldy dairy products and rotting fruit and vegetables, changing their states of matter, fresh products poked out here and there.
I tossed out a curdled yogurt.
Cheese growing furry mold.
The corpses of putrid fruit and vegetables.
At his request, I closed the door to the kitchen.
As though seeking refuge, Grandpa held onto the counter as if seizing the horns of the altar.
To the spine-tingling grating of rusty hinges, with a trembling hand he took out of the oven a cinnamon cake and sweet pastries, whose appearance attested to their freshness:
“As long as we have cakes.” He moved on to everyday matters.
With a shaking hand he filled a cup.
And the water spilled from his tremors.
And he measured once again.
And the coffee grinds spilled as well.
And he once again counted teaspoons.
And the stove burner wouldn’t obey him, either:
It refused to turn on.
Eventually he let me light it.
Even though the door was closed, he lowered his voice:
“Unlike Bialik, our national poet, who wrote:
‘I didn’t stumble on light left abandoned…’
I can testify to the contrary:
‘I did stumble on light left abandoned…’
All of you—Mom, Dad, you and Champion—were model hosts.”
He waited.
And once I gave him my word that everything would remain the way it was between us, he didn’t withhold: “In the winter of my life, all I wish is not to be a burden on anyone. And certainly not on my daughter.”
He cleared his throat.
And mumbled:
“Thou hast enticed me… and I was enticed,
Thou hast overcome me, and hast prevailed…”
As if encouraging himself.
In hindsight I am in awe of how easily he skipped over two thousand and six hundred years, and tried to draw strength from the words of the persecuted prophet, when he complained that I was making him say more than he intended to…
He focused on the coffee, which almost spilled over.
And continued to stare at it even after I turned off the flame.
The hand he leaned on trembled.
And he began losing his balance.
I helped him sit.
And he continued to hold his tongue.
“Shh…
Shhhh… “
He held his finger against his lips.
“Shh…
Shhh…
Shhhh…”
He silenced himself.
When I once again gave him my word, as though against his better judgement, he reluctantly carried on:
“It is not easy at any age to keep one’s head above water. And the older you become the more effort it takes: every now and then there are aches. And it takes longer to oil one’s legs in the morning and put them into gear, or half gear,” he chuckled. “And sometimes your head is slightly dizzy. Every now and then your memory betrays you as well.” But as long as the engine is more or less in order, he does not see the point in excessive commotion. And even when it starts to be slightly off, it doesn’t necessarily mean one should start rushing from doctor to doctor like a drugged mouse. “One should worry when the time comes…”
At his age, he was “steadfast” about “making the best and the most” out of what he still hoped, that evening, life may throw his way. And he was determined not to be “a burden on anyone.” And certainly not on his daughter, who had just recently started living:
For her, “The path still stretches on long and wide.”
And he made me swear that when I grew older I would read the writings of that poet with the perceptive eye and the bewitching talent, who wrote about the stretching road.
“What is there for me to I say?!
As the Talmud goes:
‘Woe to me if I do it,
Woe to me if I do not.’”
He groaned.
Champion, the gatekeeper, hardly flinched when we slowly made our way back to the living room. Nor did he move when I pushed the groaning tea cart, in the center of which stood the metal coffee pot with its long handle.
Grandpa sipped his coffee in silence.
Sunk deeper into the armchair.
And dozed off.
At Mom’s request, Dad came to pick up me and Champion on his way home from work, and almost carried Grandpa to bed in his arms.
That night Mom slept at his house.
Early in the morning she called to break the bad news:
“Grand…pa… we…nt… to… slee
p…
And… didn’t… wake… up…”
She sobbed:
“His… heart…
Sto…pped…”
“A merciful death.
A righteous man’s death,” Dad mumbled.
* * *
Now, when the “adequate mental space” has been found, the voices and the silences play within me, and weave the fibers of my soul warp and weft. And I see the silences stretching from Grandpa to Mom, and from Mom to me.
More attuned and attentive than ever before, I wait until the echo of the last chord fades.
Silence.
Complete stillness.
There is not a trace of a single cell of an echo foreign to the texture.
I stretch.
Open my eyes.
And it isn’t the light in the floor lamp that’s growing pale.
Nor is it the beam of the spotlight that’s dimming.
It is the twilight of the dawn that’s breaking.
I put down my baton.
And walk off the stage.
A Dog’s Luck Page 13
