by Meir Shalev
He does not sit with Professor Mendelsohn at the table, although on occasion he will pour the two of them a little fuicd as a digestif, and he will stand next to him and say Salut!, after which he will clean the kitchen and assist Professor Mendelsohn on his walk outdoors.
Meshulam himself also visits. Three times a week, sometimes more. Even though he has his own key he knocks at the door, gently (“Maybe Professor Mendelsohn is sleeping just now?”) but loud enough (“Maybe a lady friend is visiting just now?”), and only then does he unlock the door and enter silently If Yordad is sleeping, he makes his little “tour of the house”: he oils hinges, tests the straps that lift the jalousies (“We’re going to have to tighten this little lady”), checks the faucets and outlets (“We’re going to have to replace this guy”). And sometimes he ascends to the large apartment upstairs, where we once lived, to see if everything is in order at the renters’ place (“So they won’t drive Professor Mendelsohn nuts if there are problems up there”).
And if Professor Mendelsohn is awake, Meshulam prepares coffee for them both, sometimes pours them each a shot—“Raya loved brandy,” they both recall then—and chats with him. Meshulam can talk with anyone about any topic; he makes up for his ignorance with intelligence and curiosity
I told Yordad I was jealous of this masculine friendship. And after a brief FOR and AGAINST I added, “You know what? I can’t help thinking that if Gershon were alive he could have been my friend like Meshulam is yours.”
“Gershon died a long time ago,” Yordad said dryly “I would recommend, Yairi, that you find another friend.”
“It’s not so easy,” I said. “At my age people don’t make new friends.” I told him that wooing a man was far more difficult than wooing a woman because with women “you can send your body on ahead of you, lay your life on the line. With men you have to start with your brains and your heart.”
A cloud of dissatisfaction passed over Yordad’s face. He gave this terrifying possibility several seconds of consideration, then said, “Yes, Yairi, that is truly an interesting predisposition.” And suddenly he added, “I have heard you are building a house for yourself, Yairi.”
“I’m not building, I’m renovating,” I told him.
“But you have a beautiful home in Tel Aviv ”
“The house in Tel Aviv is Liora’s. She chose it, she bought it, she designed it. Now I am renovating a home for myself.”
“A home of my own,” Yordad said, correcting me. He gazed at me and I panicked: Was he interpreting me or quoting you? Was he aware that you had given me money to buy this house? If so, who had told him? Meshulam? You? And if he knew about it, who else did? My brother? My wife?
“Take me there, Yairi. I’m interested in seeing it.”
“With pleasure.”
“Let’s make a date,” he said as he pulled a different black notepad from the drawer in the table next to his bed.
“You need a datebook to make plans with me?”
“I am not the idler you and Benjamin think I am,” Yordad grumbled. “I have meetings, I still write articles, and every morning I go on the Internet, and there is mail waiting for me from medical journals. I also look for myself there. It turns out I’m still alive. People quote me.”
I praised him for his speedy adjustment to using computers and e-mail and word processing.
“It wouldn’t hurt you either to move ahead, learn something new,” he told me. “All those who stay behind and worship what used to be forget that in that wonderful past half of all children died of disease before the age of five. And what’s there to be afraid of with something that makes life so much easier? I download music, Yairi, I go to concerts of Beethoven and Mozart, I attend conferences —”
“What about other composers?”
“There are no other composers. At my age you already know what is good and what is less so.”
“Mother loved opera,” I said.
“She did not love opera, she loved one opera. Only one: Dido and Aeneas. And from that, only one aria, the one successful aria in an opera that is otherwise simply a nuisance.”
He began reciting it with solemn proficiency
Thy hand, Belinda, darkness shades me,
On thy bosom let me rest,
More I would, but Death invades me;
Death is now a welcome guest.
When I am laid in earth, may my wrongs create
No trouble in thy breast;
Remember me, but ah! forget my fate.
“Come, Yairi,” Yordad said when he had finished, “let’s make a date for our trip.”
I took out my datebook, too.
“You see,” Yordad said after rejecting the first three dates I suggested, “I am busier than you.”
We found a time that was convenient for him, and I suggested we combine our trip to the house with a little journey “I’ll bring some food, we’ll sit somewhere pleasant with shade, you’ll breathe a little fresh air, and your eyes will be revived by the view”
On the way home I bought a compact disc: Beethoven, not a complete work but a collection of selected bits. That way he would enjoy himself on the way and I would not suffer. I also bought a folding chair in case he accepted my suggestion about parking somewhere along the way and having a bite to eat. And a pillow: perhaps Yordad would get tired and want to doze a bit.
3
ON THE APPOINTED DAY I rose and left Tel Aviv early in the morning. When I arrived at Yordad’s, I found Meshulam there as well.
“Seven in the morning,” I said in wonder. “What, do you sleep here, too?”
“We old guys get up early anyhow, so I come visit. If we don’t help one another, who will?”
Professor Mendelsohn made a grand appearance. His thick hair crowned the heights of his head like a silver diadem. Age had not lessened his stature by even an inch; nor had it added an ounce to his weight or diminished the natural elegance and ease of his body
“Good morning, Yairi.” He beamed in my direction. “I am ready You undoubtedly thought you would have to wait.”
“Look at him! As fresh as a palm branch during the Sukkoth holiday “Oysgeputst! Notify the police: Professor Mendelsohn is stepping out of the house, put all the girls behind key and lock!”
He was right. Yordad was dressed in long khaki trousers, perfectly creased, and a soft, pale blue shirt underneath a sand-colored cashmere jacket, with comfortable brown suede shoes.
“Cruisewear!” Meshulam proclaimed. “All he needs is a cravat and he’s Prince Monaco!”
He gave a supporting arm to Professor Mendelsohn, who trembled as he descended the four steps. Then Meshulam hastened to bring him his straw hat and walking stick, and when Yordad refused to take them Meshulam handed them to me, to put in Behemoth. In spite of the desire burning in him and apparent in his every movement, he was smart enough not to raise the idea of joining us.
“Did you know that, Meshulam?” Yordad asked. “Yairi is building himself a house, so that he will have a home of his own.”
“A very good idea,” Meshulam said, feigning innocence. “A small, old house, a few flowers, big trees in the garden. And most important, a view Iraleh, how is it that you haven’t told me? I can help you with the renovations.”
He laid a wooden crate next to Behemoth. “This car is comfortable but high. Put your foot here, Yaacov”
Yordad climbed up and seated himself with a soft groan and said, “This car really is comfortable,” then fastened his safety belt and settled in. Meshulam circled the car and came to my side. “Don’t you tell him I’m involved!” he whispered, then immediately raised his voice. “And take this crate with you, so Professor Mendelsohn can get in and out of the car.”
Only then, when Meshulam called him “Professor Mendelsohn,” did I realize that earlier he had used his first name. But Behemoth had already begun moving and Meshulam called out, “Drive carefully, Iraleh. Do you hear me? You’ve got an important passenger with you!”
; I decided to leave the city by way of the Jerusalem forest and the village of Beit Zayit in order to enjoy the view Yordad opened the window, sniffed the pine trees with pleasure, rejoiced at the sight of a gazelle skipping along the terraces beneath the Yad Vashem Holocaust Center.
He was in high spirits. “We used to enjoy hiking around here, your mother and I. We would gather mushrooms. Here, this is the path we would take to reach the elephant boulder. We would walk back in the direction of the bakery and buy a fresh challah bread from the workers.”
“We walked this way with her, too,” I said, provoking him, “in order to look from far away and remember Tel Aviv.”
But Yordad merely smiled. “Yes,” he said absentmindedly “She loved Tel Aviv very much. She loved gladioluses, a little brandy to drink, parsley, and Tel Aviv, of course.”
I decided to take advantage of the pleasant atmosphere and dispatched a question into the space inside Behemoth, an intimate space of father and son. “Maybe you remember what side her dimple was on?”
“Whose dimple, Yairi?”
“Mother’s. That’s who we were just talking about, right?”
Yordad is old, and an old man needs to recognize and exploit advantages when they cross his path.
“She had two,” he said. “Two grübchen. You know what grübchen are, Yairi? Dimples, in German.”
Was he pretending? Was he rewriting our history? Had he really and truly forgotten?
“Last time,” I reminded him, “you said she didn’t have any dimples at all. Another time you said she didn’t have dimples in her cheeks but she had one in her chin.”
“That could be,” he answered, then attacked straightaway “But if I have already told you all that, why do you two keep asking?”
“What do you mean by ‘you two’? Does Benjamin ask you as well?”
“The two of you. You never stop pestering me.”
“That’s because we can’t agree on whether the dimple was on her left cheek or her right.”
He fell silent. Just when I was about to lose my patience he spoke up. “It wasn’t her left cheek or her right one. She had two dimples at the bottom of her back. Here,” he said, thrusting a long, white hand, surprising in its speed and precision, between my right hip and the car seat. His thumb and index finger jabbed both sides of my spine like the teeth of a snake.
“Two. One here,” he said, nearly pressing through to my flesh, “and one here, on the other side.”
The touch of his hand where the elderly American Palmachnik and the tractor operator with the sickle had touched me silenced and paralyzed me. Yordad, as if wishing to wound me further, said, “I loved kissing those dimples. Sometimes I picture them in my dreams. She was not an easy person, Yairi. Not now, either, when she is no longer here.” He fell silent again.
After a few minutes he continued. “We did a lot of bad things to one another. And we fought a lot of battles against each other. But first of all leaving me, then dying in order to beat me? That’s too much. For both of us.”
We were both silent for a long while, until suddenly Yordad said, in your voice, “I can’t anymore.” I was horrified, but he smiled at me as if pleased with himself. He fell asleep, and even then, sleeping sitting up, he looked respectable and elegant. Several minutes after waking up he said, “I’ve grown a little tired from our journey, Yairi. Let’s go back.”
I protested. “But you wanted to see my home. We’ll be there in just forty minutes.”
“I’ll see it another time. Now I want to go lie down and sleep.”
“I’ll find us a pretty spot with shade. I brought wine and food, and I have a blanket and a pillow You can lie down and rest and then we’ll continue.”
Another time, Yairi. Now please take me back.”
Chapter Seventeen
1
AND WHEN HAD DEATH caught sight of him? When he slipped away from him that first time he ran for the shed? Now, as he drags himself toward it, bleeding into the dust? Or perhaps it was as the Girl had said about the apparition of the pigeon before one who awaits its return: it occurred at the moment the Baby had disappeared from her vision as he rounded the path in the zoo.
Another explosion in the distance and a blow that cracked open the wall of the shed. The Baby crawled into the shed through the breach, groaning and shaking from weakness and pain. He lay still, the roar of battle now a dull, remote din, as though a blanket had been thrown over his head. Draw strength. Don’t die yet. Open your eyes. Look around.
Rubble, scattered garden tools, the small dovecote shattered on the floor. It’s better that way, thought the Baby; who knows if I would have managed to get to my feet and reach it if it had still been hanging from a nail on the wall. The large male Jerusalem pigeon, half its body crushed, was twitching its last, while the small pigeon from Kiryat Anavim lay next to him. There was no sign on her body of having been hit, but it was clear she was dead. Dr. Laufer had taught Miriam the pigeon handler, and Miriam had taught him, that pigeons are liable to die from fear. “They are like us,” she had told him. “They fight, they cheat on each other, they eat with friends, they long for home, and they have heart attacks.” The Girl’s pigeon was unharmed; in shock, frightened by the tumult, the gunfire, the shouting, and the proximity of the dead and dying pigeons, but quiet and whole nonetheless.
The Baby reached his hand toward the broken remains of the dovecote and withdrew the pigeon handler’s equipment, rolled into a scroll. He untied its laces and unraveled it; everything was in place. The pigeon handler likes tidiness, keeps things clean. Here are the goose quills and the empty message holders, the glass tube, the cup, the message pads. Here are the silk strings and the small, razor-edged pigeon handler’s scraping knife. Lying on his side, he arranged everything he would need; then he sliced through the strap of the tommy gun he had lifted from the dead platoon commander and let it fall to the ground. It was a good thing he had taken care to whet the knife on a regular basis; it was so sharp that he needed make no effort.
He unzipped his battle dress, slid the blade between his blood-soaked trousers and his skin, and cut the cloth away carefully, working his way to the groin and then left, over his shattered thigh. He peeled the shredded trousers as far downward and to the side as he was able, lowering his gaze to his loins. He sighed in relief: his penis was safe and sound, spotted with blood but unharmed, and in its own way managed to return the Baby’s gaze, friendly and abashed. It was short and thick like its owner, crouching now quite nearby two large holes where the bullets had exited his body Small and timid, his penis was a tunnel-dwelling creature fearful of the light and the cold and the loss of blood.
Thus the four of them remained: the wounded Baby his healthy organ, the pigeon, and Death, waiting at the side. The pigeon and the penis did not move or stir; Death sent a chilly, pleasant hand to touch him just as the Baby’s own hand was touching himself, though neither hand made do merely with wandering, or caresses. Each pressed, lightly: Was the fruit ripe yet? Had the hour arrived?
Not yet; the Baby pushed Death away, then lay sprawled on his back and resumed caressing his organ. There was not enough blood in his body for an erection, but the penis felt the urgent need of his owner as well as his touch, so different from usual, and understood that this was no ordinary form of relief, the kind young men grant themselves with a generous hand; rather, it was something important. He was as young and inexperienced as his master; like him he knew he would die a virgin, like him he grieved, for this is an organ that is capable of rejoicing, so why would it not be able to feel sadness?
The Baby’s fingers reached his lips in an attempt to smear them with saliva, for lubrication, and a pleasant feeling, and speeding up the process. But his mouth was as dry as clay and did not produce even a drop. He spilled a bit of water from his canteen into his hand and continued with the task, his fingers simulating the Girl’s own fingers as they took the feel of the velvet ring, the tulip bulb, the lizard’s belly, but his body signal
ed to him that time was short and his death whispered to him that the task was great and he would be well advised to cease these pleasant ministrations and return to the plain and ordinary way of men, and his penis, whether from compassion or understanding of the urgency of the matter, managed to stiffen a bit.
The Baby feared that Death would lose patience, and that in this awful race his soul would beat his seed in departing his body He hoped that curiosity would compel Death to wait until this deed had been completed, and he hurried himself along by conjuring images and feelings that would help him on his way: the Girl’s fingers, her pleasant caresses in the place he called “there” and she called “here”—“If he wore a bow tie,” she had said, laughing, “it would be right here.”
He pictured her body straightening up and her legs parting as she stood over him, her beautiful, puffed genitals floating above his eyes in the dimness of the pigeon loft. He pictured himself, too, rising to his knees and taking hold of her thighs to kiss between them, causing her— and him—to tremble. Her scent returned to his lips and blew new life into his flesh and pooled under his nostrils and lingered in his nose.
And when he felt the miracle occurring, the seed rising in his pipes, not gushing forth but creeping along wishing to ooze out, he leaned on his side, moaning in pain, aimed for the glass cup, and ejaculated. The semen did not spurt, but a small quantity did trickle slowly along. And when this small, white loss joined the larger red loss of blood, the Baby’s muscles drained of strength, the heat abandoned his stomach chamber, memory expired in his brain. The laughter he would emit when this moment of release took place between the Girl’s breasts had now become a spasmodic smile.
Another squeeze, another drop, the Baby rested. His ejaculation had sharpened his nerves and heightened his pain. But he was happy: the pain would delay Death and grant him a few more minutes. He tilted the cup to the glass tube and helped the flow along with his finger, encouraging his seed to pass more quickly “Hurry up,” he said. “My hands are growing cold, a tremor is lying in wait.” He corked the tube and lay flat out on his back. Do not lose consciousness. Do not die yet. There is still work to be done.
