—Are you sure?
—Well, then, Mother, if you think you can skip it, how about doing it properly, so that we can sit here in peace and quiet? Let’s draw the curtains to keep the light in, and let me lock the door for once ... Where’s the key?
—Please, just this once. I beg you, Mother, let’s shut out the world to keep it from knowing we’re here, so that no one comes and bothers us. We’ll put some water up to boil ... and turn the heater on ... but where’s that key?
—Later. I said I’d take one later ... I’m bursting too much to tell you my story to take time to shower now ... Why must you always make such a fuss about showering?
—So my dress is a little sweaty ... it’s no tragedy...
—Fine.
—No, Mother, it’s the same.
—Maybe a little nausea now and then.
—No, it’s the same.
—Is that what you’re still hoping?
—But why? I’ve already told you, Mother, I knew right away it was real. I’m absolutely certain. I can feel it encoded inside me...
—This thing ... the embryo, the baby ... whatever you want to call it...
—You can do the arithmetic yourself. My last time was on the nineteenth of November. I’m exactly two weeks overdue ... there’s nothing else it can be...
—But what do I need some doctor poking around inside me for? What more can he tell me? And anyway, I already saw a doctor in Jerusalem...
—An internist.
—I’ll get to that.
—Soon, Mother. Why can’t you be more patient?
—He did ... just a minute...
—No. Just a quick checkup.
—Just a minute...
—Don’t kid yourself. It’s not psychological. It’s absolutely real ... and I am pregnant. You’ve been so brainwashed by all those courses you’ve taken that you think everything is psychological...
—Right now I’m not doing anything. I already told you that. There’s plenty of time to decide.
—First of all, for Efi to come back from the army.
—In ten days. It’s not just his decision, though.
—There’s time ... there’s time...
—It’s not up to me whether he wants to be a father or not, Mother ... as far as I’m concerned, I can have the child without him, if that’s what I feel like doing...
—Because the defense ministry, I already told you, helps out in such cases, even if there’s no legal father. You’ll be surprised to hear that they’re very liberal...
—Well, they are about this kind of thing. Maybe they also have guilt feelings ... who knows...
—Irees told me. Irees knows. She checked it all out.
—She knows everything, Mother. She’s become an expert on our legal rights. She keeps going back to talk to more officials, and each time she comes up with some new right. There are all kinds of rights for war orphans that you and I never even heard about...
—I know it annoys you terribly, but what can I do about it? It wasn’t me who raised the subject.
—Revolting? That’s going a bit far. What’s so revolting about it?
—But so far I haven’t asked anyone for anything and I haven’t gotten anything. What are you so worked up about?
—But I’ve already told you. It’s all in my story. You simply aren’t letting me tell it.
—No. Yes. It’s as if you were afraid of it and didn’t want to hear it. That’s why you’ve kept putting me off since I phoned that morning a month ago to tell you that I’d gone to bed with him ... that I’d gone to bed with somebody ... I mean that I’d finally done it. It’s as if something had snapped in your trust in me. You seem, oh, I don’t know, confused like, up in the air, as if you’d finally lost the reins to your pet colt...
—Yes, the reins. You always held me by these subtle reins...
—Subtle. Invisible.
—It doesn’t matter.
—Of course.
—Don’t get angry again. I really didn’t come here to anger you.
—Fine. Let’s suppose that what alarmed you, Mother, was not what happened but the hurry I was in to tell you about it the next morning. What was wrong with that? What was even so wrong about paging you from the orchards to break the news? Ever since then, Mother, it just kills me to see how threatened you are by all kinds of things that you used to like hearing about. I’ve even begun wondering if it’s fair to burden you with them and to tell you everything I’ve been thinking and doing without keeping anything back, as if we still had to obey that lady, that ridiculous psychologist sent by the army when father was killed, who said that you had to get me to talk, that you had to make me get it all out. How did she put it? To keep the pus of repressed thoughts from festering, ha ha. Ever since then, Mother, I swear, I have this fear of pus in my brain. That’s why I keep blabbing away and you have to hear it all ... because if you don’t, who will...
—Efi? We’ll have to wait and see ... who knows? What really do I know about him ... and now, after this trip to Jerusalem, I seem to know even less...
—But I did mention him to you. Didn’t I mention him to you?
—How could I not have told you that two weeks after the semester began two of his classes were suddenly canceled? And I certainly mentioned him at the beginning of the semester when you asked me about my teachers and I told you how I liked him the minute he stepped into the classroom. He stood there looking hardly any older than we were, all flustered and curly-haired, and it was almost touching how hard he worked to convince us that we really needed his course in Hebrew expression, because some of the students were up in arms and even insulted at having to take it, as if we were some kind of disadvantaged children ... so that when they told us that two of his classes had been canceled, I decided to go to the office and see if he was sick, because I thought that if he was I might visit him, and they told me that his grandmother had died in Jerusalem and that he had gone there to be with his father for the week of mourning. That’s when ... but how could I not have told you...
—Well, to make a long story short, I wrote down his father’s address and went that same day to Jerusalem to pay a condolence call or whatever you call it in the name of our class, although “our class” is not exactly a feeling you have at the university. You can imagine how startled he was to open the door and see this four-week-old student of his whose name he hardly remembered coming all the way from Tel Aviv to express her sympathy for his grandmother, Once he got over his bewilderment, though, he got the point right away, which was that my condolence call wasn’t exactly a condolence call but a little signal I was putting out. And since he wasn’t used to being pampered with signals from women...
—Because he’s not especially good-looking or anything ... just a plain-looking guy who’s nice inside ... and he was so thrilled by the rope I had thrown him that he decided—after I had sat for a while, feeling like a fool, next to his father, who really did look pretty mournful, not like all those middle-aged people who become so much lighter and livelier the minute their parents die—to return with me that evening to Tel Aviv. As soon as we were on the bus we began to talk, and after he had asked me all about myself and my plans and the kibbutz and the Negev and seen how open I was, he began to open up too and tell me about himself. At first he told me about his dead grandmother, whom he really had loved, and then about being worried about his father. It seemed nice to me that he was, because his father had been very attached to his mother, I mean to Efi’s grandmother. He had lived with her since he was a child and had been saved by her during the war...
—Just imagine, they lived in Greece then. On that island, you know, Crete...
—Really?
—Of course I know about that trip you took with Father ... it was before I was born...
—No, Efi’s parents were separated long ago, after his bar-mitzvah. He and his mother moved to Tel Aviv and she married again. He has a younger stepsister, but they’ve all been living in
London for the past few years and it looks like they’re on their way to settling there for good. He lives by himself ... he told me all this on the bus ride, although mostly he talked about having to serve soon in Lebanon. I could feel how frightened that made him, and how angry he was at the university for not helping to get him a deferral...
—No, he’s just a plain reservist, a corporal at most. He’s a medic ... And that, Mother, is how we began getting close on that bus ride from Jerusalem to Tel Aviv. I found myself liking him more and more, and I could feel myself falling in love again, but this time so much more sensibly. By the time we reached Tel Aviv I knew that if I didn’t find some way of hanging onto him then and there all the effort I had put into going to Jerusalem that day would be wasted, because we would lose touch the whole month he was in the army, after which the semester had just one more month, and it was only a one-semester course, and he didn’t have any more grandmothers left to die for another condolence call. And so, although it wasn’t that late at night, I asked him to see me home, I mean to Grandmother’s apartment. Maybe it was the difference between the two grandmothers—one who had just died at the age of sixty-eight and one who had just flown off to France at the age of seventy-four like a young lady—that made him curious to come upstairs. At most I thought we might neck a little, but suddenly we grabbed hold of each other, and he was so gentle and yielding, even if he did undress in this awful hurry, and it was all so natural and hardly hurt a bit that I asked myself, Mother, what was I waiting for all this time? What was I so afraid of? Unless maybe there was just something special about him, although to tell you the truth, you’ll see what I mean if you ever meet him, he’s not at all handsome or anything, just this slim, curly-headed type with glasses and nothing spectacular about him. But anyway, that’s why in the morning, as soon as he left, I ran to the telephone to tell you...
—Why?
—I just wanted to make you feel good, Mother. What did you think?
—Yes, Mother, it was just to make you feel good. Even if I knew you would have to walk two kilometers from the orchard to the phone and back, I thought it was worth it, because I could feel how anxious you were beginning to get about my staying a virgin...
—I thought...
—But what do you mean, you never knew? Don’t act so innocent, Mother!
—You would have known the minute it happened. Haven’t I told you that I always tell you everything?
—Yes, everything So far.
—No. There were four more times before he went to Lebanon. Five altogether.
—He didn’t take any precautions. He must have thought that I was taking them. And I already told you that I got the dates confused, and besides, I thought that if you douched right away with hot water...
—Naturally. Don’t you always know exactly what’s going on in my subconscious?
—Yes, in Grandmother’s apartment. It was the most obvious place, and if you must know everything, it was even in her room, that is, hold on tight, in her big double bed...
—But what’s wrong with that?
—Deceitful? Toward who?
—Not at all ... I’m sure Grandmother would be thrilled...
—Something drew us there ... right into her bed...
—No, not especially. I just thought it might interest you.
—Oh, I don’t know ... maybe psychologically ... you must have some interpretation of it...
—But if I don’t mind telling you everything, why should you mind hearing it?
—Are you out of your mind? Who else could I tell? Only you, Mother, there’s no one else. You’re the only person in the whole world...
—But in what way...
—What doesn’t matter?
—I want you to tell me. What doesn’t matter?
—Coffee for me. But what doesn’t matter? Tell me!
—No. I don’t think I was making a fool of myself.
—No.
—No.
—Are you back to that again? Why must you keep rushing me off to the shower? I’ll take one later. It’s as if you kept trying to head me off...
—From telling you my story.
—But what are you afraid of? I didn’t do anything bad in Jerusalem, Mother. I only did good.
—Because that’s where my story begins. The rest is ancient history by now. Efi left for Lebanon two weeks ago, and I didn’t hear from him again until the beginning of this week...
—No. I couldn’t have told him before he left.
—Because I wasn’t sure myself yet.
—Of course. But late Sunday night he suddenly called from some mobile phone unit they had brought to this checkpost he’s manning near Beirut, and before I could make up my mind if and how to tell him, he asked me to get in touch with his father, because he couldn’t get through to Jerusalem to tell him he wasn’t coming to the unveiling, which the army wouldn’t give him leave for. Of course, I promised him to do it, and I even felt good that he was asking me so casually, as if I were the person he was closest to. But when I started dialing Jerusalem, it was the strangest thing, one minute there was no answer and the next the phone rang busy, although I kept trying all evening. The next day, which was Monday, I had a full schedule at the university and could only try dialing three or four times, and then Monday night Efi called again to ask if I had gotten hold of his father and how was he. I told him the phone seemed out of order, and then, Mother, he started up in this imploring tone, but really anxious like, begging me not to give up until I contacted his father, because he was very worried about him...
—No, I didn’t tell him anything. How could I? I could see how tense he was about his father, and there he was in Lebanon, standing out in the wind and the rain without even his glasses, because he told me he had broken them and wasn’t able to read ... which is why I thought, why hassle him even more, what kind of a time is this to scare him with the news that he’s about to become a father himself? For the time being I owed him that much quiet ... and so that same night, which was Monday, I began dialing Jerusalem again, but really thoroughly, nonstop. I kept it up until midnight, only so did Jerusalem. Either it was busy or else there was no answer, and the same thing happened the next morning, which was Tuesday, when I got out of bed especially early and started in on the phone immediately. In the end I called the telephone company to ask if the line was out of order, and they told me that no one had reported it and that to the best of their knowledge it was not, but they suggested I try information to see if the number had been changed, because sometimes, it seems, numbers get changed without notice. Well, I called information, and the number hadn’t been changed. And then, Mother, don’t ask me why, I felt that I just had to get through to that father, whom I actually remembered quite well from my brief visit the month before, unshaven and in his socks on the living room couch, this stocky, pleasant, Mediterranean-type man sitting next to two little old Sephardic ladies who had come to pay their respects and looked straight out of some Greek or Italian movie, and I went on dialing him from the university between classes, I even left my last morning class in the middle and dialed and dialed, because like I say, by now it was a matter of principle...
—No, Efi didn’t leave me a clue where else to look for him. I knew vaguely that he worked in the court system as a judge or a prosecutor, but I had no idea where or for what court, and when on a whim I tried calling the Supreme Court, the switchboard operator had never heard of him. All morning long I went on dialing like an uncontrollable madwoman—it was as if Efi’s sperm inside me was transmitting its anxiety around the clock. I couldn’t stop thinking of that apartment in Jerusalem with its three rooms connected by a long hallway like an old railroad flat. I kept imagining the telephone ringing away there, drilling down the hallway from room to room, and by two o’clock I was so beside myself that I decided to cut English and go to Jerusalem to see what was happening. After all, what is it to Jerusalem from the coast these days, barely an hour in each direction. And so I
went home to return my books and change clothes, and it was a lucky thing that I took this heavy sweater with me at the last minute, because even in Tel Aviv I could feel a cold wave coming on. And Mother, I really did mean to call and tell you I was going, so that you wouldn’t worry if I got back late at night, but I knew the kibbutz office was closed and that no one but the cats would be by the dining-hall telephone at that time of the afternoon, and so I didn’t bother trying. I was halfway out the door when something told me to take my toothbrush and a spare pair of panties, and so I put them in my bag and started out for Jerusalem...
—I don’t know ... I just did ... I mean...
—Yes, yes, I know you’ve been taught that no one “just” does anything. Don’t get carried away, though. I’ve kept a spare pair of panties in my bag for the last two weeks just in case I got my period, although that still doesn’t explain the toothbrush. What did that mean? Well, I’ll leave that to you, you’ve learned all about psychological symbols in those courses of yours. Just don’t tell me that subconsciously I meant to stay in Jerusalem, because in that case I should have taken along some pajamas too, and I didn’t ... unless my subconscious is dumber than I think ... or maybe it has a subconscious of its own and that’s what made it screw up...
—Don’t take me so seriously.
—No, but it’s starting to annoy me, because you’re turning it into a religion.
—All right, all right, never mind ... it’s not important. The point is, Mother, that I upped and went to Jerusalem that Tuesday, and that while I left Tel Aviv in broad daylight, it was pitch black when I arrived. It was foggy and raining with this thin, sleety sort of rain, and I was so confused by the darkness that I got off the bus a stop too soon and ended up in this neighborhood called Talbiah. Not that I regretted it, because it was like being in some city in Europe. I was in this big plaza surrounded by beautiful stone houses that looked absolutely splendid and magical in the light of the street lamps with their arcades and columned porticoes and courtyards full of cypress trees ... it was just fantastic...
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