The Remains of Love

by Zeruya Shalev

  How he loves to stand in the doorway when she hasn’t noticed him, to look at her as if her image is projected on a screen and impossible to touch, and hence his attempts at closeness are not so different from the efforts of his younger son to touch the colourful images that he sees, but the truth is he doesn’t want to touch her, touching is such a crude and simple thing. She moves through her little domain stiffly, and when she turns her back the broad line of her bra appears, constricting her back, and beneath it the gathered folds of her flesh, but she doesn’t know, and her not-knowing touches his heart when he is party to a private secret hidden even from her.

  Until a year ago he had two interns in his office, and it seemed to him sometimes, especially when he was on his way in, that this was what coming home should be like, so much more pleasant than returning to Shloamit and the boys. Wasn’t this his true home, wasn’t this his real family, single-parent father to two grown-up, talented girls? He enjoyed supervising them, and even when they made mistakes he wasn’t too censorious, and the fact that they were replaced every year or so didn’t impair the sense of family but even deepened it, since even in a family it really makes no difference which of them are the practical souls; it’s a question of what functions they are required to fulfil.

  Lately his work has contracted, and so he has been forced to make do with one intern, becoming a single parent father to a single daughter, and at the beginning he was reminded now and then of his first-born son Tomer and his long years as an only child, and it was only after Yotam was born that he understood how tiresome they were, but it seems the two of them are accustomed to this restricted frame, and he really doesn’t need an extra intern, and he’s happy with her enthusiasm, her seriousness and her maturity, and it’s only her choice of nickname that irritates him sometimes, Anati, it has such a childish ring to it, and yet she’s so wise and so quick on the uptake, what does she need with any extra letters.

  Attorney’s office, good morning, she answers the phone, no, he hasn’t arrived yet, his mother’s in hospital, I expect he’ll be here before midday, have they blocked your application again? I’ll tell him to contact you at once. Her face lights up on hearing of the fresh injustice and she hurries to record all the details in her notebook, and when he sees how well the office is functioning without him he feels a pang of acute sorrow, yes, in the same way the world will function without him one of these days, full of injustices, desperate phone conversations, blouses buttoned up to the neck, mothers and sons, nothing will be diminished. Likewise the world will function without the man he met this morning, if you could call this a meeting, as he didn’t notice him at all, just gazed at his wife with his last vestiges of strength, as if trying to imprint her features in his memory, so now he will also try to memorise the sight of those delicate lips despatching words into the receiver, and those animated fingers avidly recording the contentious details. Outside the window their ugly ailanthus tree is flourishing, the tree that he learned to love, an urban survivor that can hold on anywhere. There’s no such thing as an ugly tree, Anati said when he apologised on behalf of the tree, his regular joke, and suddenly he wakes up with a start, as if he’s overslept and held up an urgent assignment, and he says to her without preamble, Anati, I need your help. It seems to him that if he involves her in this strange project the strangeness will be cancelled out, that if she and not he contacts the vehicle agency and asks who has bought a gold-coloured Citroën in the last year, this unavoidable mission will become a natural part of his world, and she looks up at him and says Avni, how is your mother? as if trying to re-arrange his entry here. Suleiman is looking for you, she adds, he’s on his way here now, and barely has she spoken his name when he appears, as if he too has been hanging back and watching them, expecting an official announcement.

  Many years have passed since they met almost by chance, as Suleiman was trimming the ivy at the entrance to their building, and when Avner acknowledged him he was tentatively asked if he was the lawyer who lived here; the neighbours had told him a lawyer lived upstairs and Avner, who had only just completed his studies and was already regretting his choice of career, confirmed this in a faint voice and at once found himself listening and volunteering to help in a small issue, a biblical-style dispute taking place at the end of the second millennium, the case of three shepherds whose flock had been confiscated on the grounds that they were operating in a closed military sector, and the huge indemnity that had been imposed on them for the return of their livestock. It was his first case and it dragged on for nearly two years, a minor case which became a big one and went all the way to the Supreme Court, in which he was able to prove that the order for closure of the area had not been properly presented, and not only did he succeed in getting their money back with interest, he also ensured that their right of residence would be recognised in law, and since then members of the Bedouin clan, Suleiman included, had tended to credit him with higher powers. But now Avner sees disappointment and scepticism in his face as he says, did you see that the application has been rejected? They’ve served us with a demolition order on the school, and at once he pats his stomach and adds, you’ve put on weight, Horowitz.

  Don’t worry, that was to be expected, he says hurriedly, so we’ll lodge an appeal, apply for an interim injunction to delay the demolition, would you like some coffee? And Suleiman says, no, I must be moving, I have no time. Despite his immaculate attire, his striped shirt and light linen trousers, despite his shaved cheeks and the pen gleaming in his breast pocket, he exudes involuntarily the smell of the clan, the pungent smell of fire and dust. Another appeal? How many are we allowed? he complains bitterly, it’s about time a solution was found, and Avner sighs, believe me I’m doing everything I can, how did you manage to get here?

  I came here for medical tests, and I’m running late, maybe I’ll come back afterwards, he says and already he’s going, lithe and athletic, and Avner sits at his desk exhausted, staring at the files that surround him, files full of documents, documents full of words, so many words on this impasse that’s a matter of life and death for them, so many words about structures illegally demolished and rebuilt without licences, when building with licences is impossible, files crammed with documents about wretched utility buildings erected in the desert, ramshackle prefabs, appeals upon appeals, this frightened country of his fighting every symbol of permanence, attributing menacing significance to every toilet seat, is it possible to make war on fear without creating fear? Is defence possible without attack? If there was an opportunity it’s been lost, but more and more it seems to him there never was.

  These crammed files give him an overview of the deceptive geography of this land, a double, triple geography, Hebron both far and near, Gaza both far and near, files in place of people of flesh and blood, since most of his clients are barred from access to his office, and with a sigh he rubs his neck, which is still painful, how many appeals? For long years he has fought against the stronger parties: the state, the army, security services, he has fought over territory and compensation, over flocks of sheep and mud huts, over hovels and toilet seats, because that’s where the dignity of mankind is found in the line of fire: the dignity of sixteen-year-old Khaled, who worked for a stonemasonry contractor until a crane dropped a tombstone on his back, and since then he’s been paralysed, and because he was working there illegally the contractor refuses to have anything to do with him, and the family dare not complain because in the meantime he’s employing his younger brother, and who’s going to fight to get him some compensation; and who will care about Halla, due to be deported to Jordan in contravention of the basic right of the individual to marriage and family, and about the three children who were playing with an unexploded mortar shell and were fatally injured, and who will defend the interests of Suleiman’s oppressed community, the free spirits of the desert, the Bedouin who were once proud nomads and are now shovelling shit on the urban fringes? Few are prepared to represent the powerless, and the most brilliant brains
put themselves at the disposal of the most powerful; how tempting it could be to represent the government, the banks, the wealthy of the land, but when you put on the gown and perform in the Supreme Court, you feel strong in the very act of speaking up for the poor and the downtrodden against mighty forces and even getting the better of them from time to time, and you’re no longer powerless, even though in recent years your successes have been fewer, and he remembers the disappointment on Suleiman’s face; is it he who has grown weaker, or is the state getting stronger, meaning that it’s weakened and for this reason is defending itself all the more vigorously, and he shifts his gaze from the files to the tree that is flourishing confidently as if winter will never return. Anati, I need your help, it’s really urgent, he repeats, because it seems to him suddenly that if he succeeds in locating the car and thereby the couple who travelled in it, perhaps he may also succeed in delaying the demolition order in the High Court.

  The tiles are still cold from the winter that has only just left, and when they meet her incandescent back they emit a soft hissing sound; it seems to her she is wreathed in vapours when she opens her eyes and finds beside her on the floor the delectable body of her daughter, leaning over her; a sweet smell of summer fruits wafts from her hair, and her arms in their wrapping of thin silky skin enfold her neck, and her touch is unbearably delightful. Mummy, Mummy, she whispers in her ear, and Dina tenses up, afraid to move so much as a fingertip lest the charm fade and her dream end abruptly. A pitiable whimper rises from her throat, the whimper of a dog meeting his master after a long separation, since such a heavy weight of longing assails her that she doesn’t know what to do with it, absolute bliss and facing it its destruction, like two sides of the same coin.

  High above their heads hangs their first picture, and she remembers how she loved it when Nitzan sneaked into their bed on Sabbath mornings, and sometimes she would gaze at the picture and say earnestly, I want to be a baby again, I want to be this baby who’s just been born, and Dina was alarmed; has the girl been reading her thoughts, after all that’s what she wants too – though it’s shameful to admit it, she wants to bear Nitzan again, bring her up again.

  But why? she would ask her, feigning innocence, and Nitzan would reply, because it’s easier when you’re small, and she in her customary manner hurried to reassure her, my darling, it’s a lot more fun being grown-up, think how interesting your life is now, how many things you can do now that you couldn’t do before, and Nitzan used to insist, but I didn’t have the problems then that I have now, that was what she called the distress she suffered when confronted by disloyal friends, by nasty conspiracies; she used to tell her all about them in detail and Dina listened and encouraged, how she enjoyed these intimate conversations with her serious, grown-up daughter, and suddenly here in her arms is a painful reminder of what she used to have and has lost, the supreme pleasure of close proximity, skin to skin, cell to cell, as the ground is close to the tree planted in it, its roots entwining in the depths while it grows and flourishes.

  Mummy, don’t cry, the girl breathes into her ear, you fell over but everything’s all right, Dad said you’d be all right, and in the meantime I wasn’t to call an ambulance, how are you feeling? And Dina shakes her head, how hard it is to distinguish between reality and fantasy when they use the same language. Surely these are words of reality: Dad, ambulance, everything all right, and at the same time how dreamy is the inner sensation, just as it is when she’s playing her imagination games, immersed in memories of a past that never was. What’s needed is a special language for fantasies, as there are parts of the body designed exclusively for love; all this mixing up always seems to her mistaken, an amalgam of secretions and pleasures, and she smiles at her daughter with closed lips. Nitzan is so sensitive to smells, the lightest puff of vaporous breath is liable to repel her.

  But why be immersed in a past that never was? The one that they had, the two of them, was fine and satisfactory, side by side they flourished, she lacked for nothing, she had all she needed in the love of her only daughter before she turned her back on her, and although she’s well aware of all the theories about the need for separation, and knows this is a process through which the girl must pass on the way to constructing her identity, and there is no denying her love, it is firm and enduring even if it’s hiding behind a barbed wire fence – in spite of all this she can’t help grieving for her, and now with Nitzan kissing her cheeks and pleading, Mummy, say something, so I’ll know you’re all right, she smiles dumbly, what can she say, for years things haven’t been as all right as this, so happy in other words, as at this moment, on the floor at the foot of the bed, and at the same time it’s clear to her that if she only admits it her happiness will be taken from her within a few minutes and then it won’t be all right any more, absolutely not. She hugs her daughter and it seems to her that the ceiling above their heads is rolling back like a stone placed over the mouth of a well, and the sky appears, not the caustic sky of the beginning of summer, but with winter clouds soft as a blanket covering them, and snowflakes gathering around them with a soft sigh. So wondrous is this moment that she must hide it as she used to hide her few treasures in the children’s house, hide it even from her daughter, her own flesh and bone; how despicable it is to be worrying the girl like this, pretending she hasn’t recovered in order to enjoy more of her favours.

  Mummy, she hears the slightly childish voice, wake up, say something to me, I don’t know what to do before Dad arrives, and she opens a cautious eye and peers at her daughter; her hair covers her face when she bends over her, her skin is light, almost transparent, and her eyes soft behind the thin glasses that emphasise her vulnerability, and her distress is so obvious that she’s forced to comfort her, don’t worry, Nitzi, she whispers, I’m all right, I felt giddy for a moment but it’s passed now.

  I’ve brought you some water, the girl beams, come on, drink it, I’m so glad you’re getting better, I was really worried, and as she’s making an attempt to sit up and sipping the water, she hears a rustling sound from the next room and all at once the vision returns to her, sweet and horrific, of how they lay entwined on the narrow bed, skin to skin, cell to cell, and she asks cautiously, is he still here? And when the girl hesitates she goes on to ask, what’s his name? Where did you meet? And at once she regrets it, why waste a precious opportunity on superfluous questions, after all she knows who he is, his name is Noam, and they met at Shiri’s place, but the girl who is sitting facing her cross-legged looks at her with a strange expression and asks, who?

  Nitzi, she emits an embarrassing hiccup, there was someone with you in the room just now, wasn’t there? I came into the room and saw you asleep, and Nitzan shakes her head, no, there wasn’t anyone, and Dina turns her gaze from the girl to the ceiling, where the bulb has died in a lampshade slightly charred at the edges, like the pupil of an open eye that doesn’t see anything, to the window that is closed for some reason, building up the heat like a stove, to the wardrobe with its sliding doors open and inside it clothes arranged in meticulous order, Gideon’s handiwork. Helplessness, as demeaning as madness, takes hold of her, familiar in its substance but not in its intensity, yes, you can cast doubt on the vanities of speech, after all our experiences are as clay in the hand of the potter, the fruit of our imagination or the fruit of the imagination of the creator of the world, what really is the difference? She saw what she saw, with the eyes of the flesh or the eyes of the spirit: they lay embracing on the narrow bed, limbs intertwined, and already she’s prepared to leave the question unresolved, to accept the girl’s version as a way of preserving their intimacy, and she grins, so it seems I was dreaming, I dreamed I saw you in your bed, embracing a handsome young man who looked remarkably like you, but the girl stares at her with an enigmatic look that alarms her; what’s happening here, is the barrier between reality and imagination disintegrating, or worse, is it her daughter who’s disintegrating; if indeed she did lie to her, then it’s more than a lie, it’s almos
t sadism, and she peers at her daughter fearfully, as if she’s just detected in her the first symptoms of a terrible disease, degeneration of the heart muscles. She sits facing her with legs crossed, her back leaning against the frame of the bed, her face sealed, on her body an old pyjama top that she put on in a hurry, inside-out, again she’s wrapped up in herself, and Dina lets out a sigh; where has it gone, the simple closeness of touch and speech, and will it ever return? She sits down beside the girl, facing the wardrobe, is there really nothing left from all those years?

  At a loss she sneaks a glance at the mirror on the door of the wardrobe, which contains her daughter, the high arch of the feet, the thin ankles, all of her still girlish, airy, alongside her friends, heavy as women, and all of her hard to decipher, as if she’s returned to the mute days of babyhood, when it was necessary to guess her needs and her troubles according to signs, and now she’s looking for signs again, but it seems Nitzan is misleading her deliberately, and as they sit in silence side by side opposite the open mirror-doors, and the room swelters in the debilitating heat of early summer, and between them a question is suspended, it seems to Dina that her daughter has been replaced by a mysterious visitor, the exterior remaining as it was but the interior changed utterly, like a building with its façade preserved and behind it renovations in progress, and when the door of the wardrobe suddenly starts to sway, to move from side to side, she’s already prepared to concede that the earth is shaking too, and she’s losing her grip, except that in this case the quake is accompanied by a throaty yowl, and emerging from there is the cat known as Rabbit, squeezing through the narrow aperture, gurgling loudly and bringing a smile to their lips.