He sat and sipped his coffee slowly, gazing idly at a dark-skinned boy of about ten who was circulating among the tables. Noticing a half-eaten pita, the boy stopped, looked around, snatched it from its plate, and swallowed it quickly before putting on a pair of horn-rimmed glasses and heading for the nearby library.
Rashid is here, Rivlin thought. He jumped up and followed the boy, who was stopped by a guard at the entrance to the library. “It’s all right, he’s with me,” Rivlin said. He put a hand on Rasheed’s neck and pushed him through the library door.
He was not mistaken. The boy recognized the Jewish professor who had eaten his mother’s bean soup and like a hunting dog led him up and down the floors of the library and in and out of the narrow stacks. In the end they found Rashid, squatting on his haunches while looking on the bottom shelf for a book listed on a scrap of paper.
“Lakeyt kaman el-yahudi hada,”§ the boy called to his uncle, as though he had indeed been sent to fetch Rivlin.
Rashid did not seem at all surprised by Rivlin’s appearance. Perhaps he had known that sooner or later the Jewish passenger would again need his Arab driver. Still squatting, he handed the Orientalist the catalog number.
“Can you find this?”
“What is it?”
“A play, The Dybbuk. Have you heard of it?”
“The Dybbuk?” Rivlin burst into laughter. “Samaher sent you to bring her The Dybbuk?”
This time, however, Rashid hadn’t come to the university for his cousin, but only on her advice. He was in the library in connection with the coming song and poetry festival in Ramallah. It was going to be a happening, with no politics or debates. A big new cultural center, named for the prominent Palestinian educator Khalil es-Sakakini, had recently opened in the West Bank city north of Jerusalem. Well-known poets like Mahmoud Darwish, who came from Amman to give readings, had already appeared there. There would be singers from Gaza and Hebron, and Jewish vocalists too. Perhaps even the Lebanese nun, for the Abuna had gone to her Lebanese convent to ask her to cheer the Christians of Palestine again. She would sing, not prayers, but folk songs, and perhaps even have one of her fainting fits.
“If she promises to faint,” Rivlin said enthusiastically, “I’ll come.”
“Of course you will. You’ll bring your wife. Why shouldn’t she hear all the wonderful music? You can bring your friends too, the more the merrier. Everyone is welcome. It’s for all believers in coexistence. No politics. No debates. No history. No who’s right and who’s wrong. Just songs and poems in Arabic and Hebrew. They even asked us to put something on the program that would be traditionally Jewish. Samaher thought we should surprise everyone with The Dybbuk, because—so she says—it’s the Hamlet of the Jews.”
The Orientalist guffawed, making the somber Arab boy stare at him.
“And Samaher? Where has she disappeared to?”
“She hasn’t disappeared anywhere. She’s sad. In the village they think it’s because of the grade she never got.”
“She never got it because she never finished her work. She keeps dragging it out, as usual. Let her do it once and for all. It isn’t that difficult. But it can’t just be oral summaries, because then I have no way of knowing what’s in the texts. I need to see at least one entire story, translated from beginning to end. I promise to give her a grade then.”
“I’ll tell her,” Rashid said.
He reached out to pat the boy, who seemed to be trying to follow the Hebrew. It would be his second language—if he were ever allowed back into Israel.
33.
TANNED AND EXUBERANT, Tsakhi and Ofer returned from their diving adventure on Saturday. They showered, changed into fresh clothes, and hurried off to the Arab market to buy lamb, vegetables, and spices for a French gastronomic experience. Rivlin had no chance to be alone with his younger son or to ask him whether, between dives, he had managed to learn anything from his brother. Tsakhi, though friendly, did not seem interested in talking to his father even when he took time out from his job as assistant chef. And when dinnertime arrived, it turned out that there were guests. Ofer had invited four old friends. The older generation, it had been decided, would eat first and then go to the movies, leaving the younger one to dine by itself.
And so Rivlin sat facing Hagit over a handsomely set table, expertly waited on by their two sons. Ofer, wielding a long knife, carved the fragrant French roast into long, thin slices swimming in sauce.
“You remind me of that elegant Arab waiter in the hotel in Jerusalem,” Rivlin said innocently. “What was his name? Fu’ad?”
The carving knife trembled momentarily in their divorced son’s hand, which quickly regained its grip.
“What about him?”
“I was just reminded of him. I think of him as the perfect waiter. I was surprised to see at the bereavement how well he still bears himself.”
“Where did you see him?”
“In that big room on the first floor.”
“The library.”
“I suppose so. He was made to stand, all in black, behind a table with a condolence book.”
“A condolence book?” Ofer’s voice filled with bitter mockery. “You’ve got to be kidding.”
“I also thought it was a bit much. But I imagine they did it for all the Christians who came to pay their respects.”
“I hope you weren’t foolish enough to write anything.”
“What’s foolish? I had no choice.”
“Why not?”
“I just didn’t. I suppose that Arab waiter made me feel it was expected of me.”
“What did you write?”
“I don’t remember. I just did.”
“There you go with your ‘justs’ again!” Hagit’s eyes were not sympathetic. “You always remember every word you write.”
“Every word? Really! That’s a bit of an exaggeration. But what does it matter what I wrote? It was just something off the top of my head. A few words about his generosity. You can’t deny him that. His light . . .”
Ofer bristled. “What light?”
“It was just something I wrote. For God’s sake, let me be! What does it matter?”
He carefully cut a slice of the meat on his plate, dipped it in the sauce, and put it in his mouth. It had the perfumed tang of an exotic game animal.
“The roast is wonderful,” Hagit said. “So delicate.”
“Yes,” Rivlin agreed. “It doesn’t taste exactly like lamb, but it’s delicious. Something special.”
But Ofer wasn’t looking for compliments. “How did Fu’ad recognize you?” he asked.
“Why shouldn’t he? It’s only been five years.” Rivlin continued to chew while he talked. “You needn’t be so hostile to them. They speak of you affectionately. By the way, Tehila called to say that Galya has left two cartons of your old things in the hotel basement. She’s cleaning out her apartment before giving birth.”
“Giving birth?” Ofer turned white. He laid a hand on his cheek, as if hiding something.
“She’s going to have a baby.”
No one spoke.
“Who told you?”
“It was my impression from Tehila.” Rivlin spread blameless hands. “I could be wrong.”
Hagit’s furious expression, and his younger son’s pained, sad look, told him he had made a mistake.
“What did you tell her?” Ofer asked, in a rough, interrogating voice.
“What could I tell her? I said I’d come to Jerusalem and take the cartons. That was before I knew you were coming.”
“Don’t take anything! Stay away from there. Do me a favor, Abba. Leave the hotel and the family alone.”
“I’ll be glad to. But don’t you want to know what’s in those cartons?”
“It can’t be anything important.”
“Because I thought that if your flight is Monday morning and I’m still on vacation, we could drive to Jerusalem to have a look. Maybe you’ll find something . . .”
“That�
��s silly,” Hagit said. “It’s a waste of time. There’s nothing there.”
But Ofer, staring angrily as his father carved another, thicker slice of lamb, muttered something no one could make out.
And so it was that, a few hours before his flight, under a torrid morning sky, they drove past the airport on their way to Jerusalem. Rivlin, at a fever pitch, almost regretted the whole thing. He leaned forward in his loosely fastened seatbelt, intently following the curves of the road as if he and not his son were driving. Ofer, on his way to a place in which, even if it was not Paradise, he had been happier than he was now, said nothing behind the steering wheel.
It was only in Talpiyot, in the clear desert light, silently crossing the large garden with its shrubs and flowers that were swooning in the heat, that Rivlin felt, like a lightning bolt, the full force of the spurned husband’s excitement. A strange smile played over Ofer’s tense, wide-eyed face. Certain he could find the cartons by himself, he had told no one he was coming, preferring to avoid an encounter with the woman whose love entrapped him. That could only send him back to Paris branded by more of the old pain.
He appeared to know what he was doing. The morning bustle at the hotel was over. The keys hanging behind the reception desk indicated that the guests had already set out on their pilgrim mission of frequenting the lanes of Jerusalem’s Old City or the ruins of Masada. A single receptionist, a sleepy young Arab, made no comment as the nervous father and son walked past him. Rivlin prayed that they would not run into the proprietress. If she ever opens her mouth and tells Ofer how I played detective here, he thought, all the love in the world will never save me.
The kitchen was deserted. The guests’ tours fed them lunch, and supper was still a long way off. Rivlin watched with amazement as Ofer led him unerringly past the big stoves and sleek worktables. It was as if he had been here yesterday. By the little door to the basement stairs he paused and asked doubtfully:
“Are you sure you want to come down with me? Wouldn’t you rather wait in the lobby?”
“I’d better not,” said Rivlin, his heart in his mouth. “If anyone sees me, it will mean a whole long conversation, and we want to be on time for your flight.”
Ofer looked at his father as if seeing him for the first time and headed down the dark stairs, flicking on the lights one after another as though his fingers remembered where each switch was. They walked along the corridor, passed the closets and the bicycle, sidestepped the bucket of plaster and the old tire, and came to the space with the baby carriage, crib, and old monster of a boiler. As though he knew where to look for them, Ofer went straight to two small cartons in a corner. Disgustedly, hoping for nothing, he began going through them, pulling out a bare canteen, a crumpled army fatigue shirt with sergeant’s stripes, a blackened copper bowl, and some old notebooks, and stopping only when he reached an old pajama top at the bottom.
“She’s crazy,” he muttered, offended. “What did she save all these rags for?”
“She didn’t think she was saving them,” Rivlin said. “She simply went through life like your mother, without noticing how many unnecessary things she was surrounded by.”
Ofer stuffed everything irritably back into the carton, except for a single book, which he laid by the baby carriage. He was bent over the second carton, which looked no more promising than the first, when Fu’ad’s bass voice boomed through the basement:
“Heyk, ya jama’a, bidun ma t’salem? Zay el-haramiyya?”*
“Shu ni’mal?”† Rivlin put his hands behind his ears in the gesture of Muslim prayer. “We have no time to be polite. Ofer’s flight takes off in three hours.”
“Still landing and taking off, eh?” Fu’ad laughed. “How will it all end? You Jews can’t sit still. It will drive you crazy.”
He gave Ofer a warm hug.
“The years have gone by, and you’ve grown into your own man. But it wasn’t nice of you to forget all your friends here. If it weren’t for your father’s coming now and then to remind us of you, we would have forgotten you completely.”
Before Rivlin could change the subject, Ofer turned to him with open anger, a new, menacing note in his voice:
“So you were here more than once?”
“Didn’t I tell you?” He tried getting out of it with a sheepish smile.
“No. When? Why?”
“Because your father was stuck in Jerusalem with no place to sleep,” the maitre d’ explained, telling the story. “He thought he would find a room here. How was he to know we’re more full up than ever since Mr. Hendel’s death? Just imagine: your own father, whom we respect and honor, had to sleep down here in the basement! Or at least he slept here half the night, because in the middle of it the poor man woke up and ran away in a fright. Isn’t that so, Professor? Kif fakart fujatan ’an haza ardiyya. . . . ‡
He clapped the Orientalist on the back and gave Ofer, who stared at his father incredulously, a conspiratorial laugh.
“You agreed to sleep here?”
“What could I do? I thought . . .”
“You thought what?” His elder son’s voice was now a stifled cry. “What were you trying to do?”
Rivlin affected an astonished smile. “What do you mean, trying to do?”
But Ofer had already turned more gently to Fu’ad. “Is this room still in use?” he asked wonderingly.
“Why shouldn’t it be?”
“And you still don’t have the key?”
Hiding a smile, the Arab went to the baby carriage, moved the dusty toy animals, lifted the mattress, took a key, and opened the door to the accountant’s room, whose shelves creaked beneath the weight of their old files.
Ofer froze in the doorway as though caught in a dream or a fantasy. His eyes were riveted to a new, large quilt that lay on the bed like a layer of frozen white foam.
Rivlin’s heart skipped a beat at the sight of the quilt, foamy bright in the dark room. He wondered what made Fu’ad sound so exultant when he said:
“One way or another, it’s still there, Ofer, eh?”
And with that he locked the door. “You mustn’t miss your flight,” he murmured.
Ofer took the book he had put by the baby carriage and started up the stairs. “You can throw out those two cartons,” he called scornfully over his shoulder to Fu’ad. “Or give them to someone in your village. Come on,” he said to his father. “We’ll be late.”
But in the empty parking lot, by their car baking in the sun, he halted and said to Rivlin:
“I have nothing more to say to you. Just shut up and don’t answer me. Not one word. I don’t want any explanations or rationalizations. I’ve had enough. Let’s go to the goddamn airport and say good-bye.”
“But what have I done to you, Ofer? What’s wrong?”
“You haven’t done anything. You’re simply an impossible man. A sneaking, bossy traitor who wants to spy on my soul. Well, you can’t. You’re not spying on anything.”
“But what have I done?”
“You know perfectly well what you’ve done and what you’re doing. Ever since her fucking father’s bereavement, you’ve kept coming back here to paw at my past. It’s sickening, and it’s pointless. God! Am I glad I’m leaving and won’t have to see you anymore!”
“How can you say such a thing?”
“I can say what I like!” The stifled cry burst from him, echoing through the garden. “What gives you the right to trespass on anyone’s life?”
Rivlin felt on fire. The sunlight wounded his eyes. His son’s sudden anger frightened him.
“But I only wanted to help you to move on. To share your pain and find a way for you to . . .”
“You’re not finding a way for me to do anything. You can’t.”
“But why can’t I? Only because I know nothing. If you’d tell me why they drove you from here . . .”
“But I won’t! Do you hear me?” He was shouting now. “I won’t tell you anything. You’d better accept that. Either you stop your vi
le habit of poking around basements or you’re not my father anymore. I swear to God, I’ll have nothing more to do with you!”
“But why?” Rivlin implored, desperately trying to keep calm. “Who are you protecting? Yourself—or her too? Why keep secrets after so many years? There’s a statute of limitations on secrets too. Ask your mother. She’ll tell you.”
Ofer’s face was contorted. “I’m not asking anyone. I’ll decide when enough time has passed. Not you! Do you hear me? Not you! I don’t want to talk about it any more. Period. And you’ll either accept that or lose one son.”
Yet just when it seemed that his anguish would end in tears or violence, he looked away and out over the large garden with its gravel paths and gazebo, silent in the noonday heat. When he turned back and spoke to his father, who was watching him motionlessly, it was in a different, quiet tone. “Because if I tell you what happened,” he said, “I’ll lose my only chance of coming back here.”
“Coming back here?” Rivlin clutched at the car door for support. “Are you telling me that you’re still hoping . . . to get together again . . . now, when she’s about to have a child?”
“That’s none of your business.”
“Ofer, my darling, I’ll swear to you never to come back here. I’ll swear never to say a word to anyone. I won’t even think about it anymore. This is the last time. I beg you, don’t leave me more tormented than I’ve been. Just say one sentence, because I have to be sure I understand. Do you really believe she’ll take you back?” Ofer said nothing.
“I beg you. Just say yes or no. Answer your father. Because maybe I misunderstood you.”
“You understood me very well,” his son murmured with a sudden tenderness, as though lapsing into an inner reverie. “Amazingly enough, I do believe it.”
“If that’s so,” Rivlin said in horror, “it’s because you’ve decided to chain yourself forever. You’re destroying yourself and your future . . .”
“That’s my right.” He made a fist as though to strike his father. “It’s my right just as it’s anyone’s right to live by real or imagined love. But listen here, I’m warning you. If there’s one more word out of you—one word! about anything!—I’m not getting into this car. I’ll get to the airport by myself, and that’s the last you’ll see of me.”
The Liberated Bride Page 43
