My Rabbit, Nitzan coos at him, digging her fingers into his fur, you little fool, did you get shut in the wardrobe? That’s exactly where you liked to sleep when you were a kitten, she reminds him, isn’t that right, Mum, he used to sleep in this wardrobe? And Dina confirms this gratefully, as if acknowledging a shared memory is bringing them closer again, and she too caresses the white fur. Her fingers touch her daughter’s fingers and she recoils as if foreseeing her recoil, but to her surprise her daughter takes her hand, her throat too emitting feline gurgles sounding like the beginning of a laugh that Dina is already responding to gladly, hoping that she’s about to say, how could you believe me, Mummy, of course there was someone with me, and she stretches out her other hand to hug her daughter, whose back is heaving with that strange chuckle, growing in volume and growing in clarity.
What’s up, my darling, she draws her closer, why are you crying? Tell me, I’ll help you. Again she’s carried away by the legendary might of motherhood, which aspires to solve every problem, to eliminate every pain through the power of love and devotion, sacrifice and conjecture, and the girl is gathered into her embrace, a fragile egg in the nest of her arms, her breathing abrupt, body shaking, Mummy, she says, panting the staccato syllables, I don’t know what to do.
About what? Dina asks, tell me and I’ll help you, but the creak of the apartment door silences their voices, and already he’s there on the threshold of the bedroom, with the erect stance that’s typical of short men, the camera swinging on his chest, what’s happening here, girls? His voice is distant and faintly critical, as usual drawing a distinction between him and them. And they stare at him as if caught misbehaving, keeping from him a whingeing female secret that’s of no interest to him anyway.
I’m already OK, she says hurriedly while the girl disentangles herself from her arms. I fainted apparently, she says. Yes, so I was told, do you want me to take you for a check-up? His feet are planted in the doorway and he doesn’t approach her, as if he’s looking at her through the lens of his camera. No, what’s the point, she says, having difficulty repressing her anger, even when his intentions are good he’s a nuisance, she’s only just taken the girl in her arms and here she is slipping away, and at the same time she senses his anger at being summoned home prematurely and to no purpose, seeing that her condition isn’t serious enough to justify this sacrifice. His presence makes her uneasy, like the presence of a stranger, his arrogant expression, his solid body. How handsome he is still, even more so than before; middle age suits his small, almost childlike facial features, his greying hair sets off his tan, and behind the spectacles his brown eyes are curious, almost challenging.
Once she loved looking at him, his beauty was hers too, but in recent years they have been separated by some silent movement like the shifting of continents, and now as she sits on the floor and looks up at him the pain between her ribs intensifies and she wants to pull him to her, wants him to sit beside her on the floor so he’ll pay attention to her distress, your reserve is making me ashamed of feeling anything at all, and as she’s still staring at him in silence rapid footsteps are heard in the hallway and the sound of the front door closing.
Nitzan has gone! she cries and leaps up as if intent on stopping her, but again the dizziness swirls around her, the beating of the wings of black birds pushing her down on the bed. Gideon, call her, she’s going! And he looks at her as if she’s out of her mind. What’s the matter with you? She isn’t an escaped prisoner and you’re not her jailer. So what if she’s gone, she’ll be back, but Dina shakes her head, you don’t understand, she’s gone without telling me something important, at long last she wanted to confide in me, she’s in distress and I don’t know why.
You’re not supposed to know, he grins, she isn’t a kid in the nursery who tells you everything that happens to her, she has a life of her own, and that’s lucky for her and for you too, and she protests, you’re not listening to me, Gideon, something strange was going on here, she lied to me and then regretted it, or she didn’t lie, I really don’t know if she was here with someone or not. Again she tries to stand up, holding on to the wardrobe, her hand on the mirror, confronting the solid profile of a pale woman, with dishevelled hair, and when she goes from there the damp imprints of her long fingers are left behind. Although her head is still spinning and her knees quaking, she makes her way with purposeful tread to her daughter’s room.
Mysterious and provocative, the bed with its disordered sheets confronts her, and she stares at it with wide-open eyes, trying to recreate the scene that she saw, if she really saw it, how they lay embracing, skin to skin, cell to cell, clinging to each other like twins in their mother’s womb. Did she lie to her? Of course she lied, it’s inconceivable that she could have seen them only in her mind’s eye and the readiness of her daughter to lie to her, to make her doubt her ability to distinguish between imagination and reality, it’s so cruel, and she can’t attribute such cruelty to her daughter without feeling acute and truly unbearable sadness, and she falls upon the girl’s bed, sniffing it like an animal, firm in her resolve to prove that she told her the truth.
The smell of a bonfire rises from the thin blanket that was tossed aside; she looks for signs on the sheet, on the pillow, what will the inanimate objects tell her, what can be learned from one crease or another, from the strand of blond hair that you seize upon suddenly, needing to check the length, since the colour of their hair was identical. A desert wind blows out the belly of the curtain above the bed and she’s suddenly scared, is someone hiding there, is that where the truth is concealed? You’re sick, he whispers to her and grins, you always were, but now it’s impossible to hide it any more, compressed air is breathing syllables of dust and despair over her, you’re sick, you’re sick, and only then does she notice her husband standing behind her in the doorway; did he hear the words too, or was he perhaps the one who spoke them? How detached his expression is, lips stretched into a contemptuous leer, what are you looking for there, virginal blood?
Without answering she lays her head on the pillow and covers herself with the blanket, that’s the way Nitzan lies here, the violet chiffon curtain behind her, before her eyes the door and beyond it the house with its bright and bare walls, almost without pictures, because Gideon prefers the shadows that the trees cast on the walls, its sparse furniture, only what’s really needed; the house is simple and clean, almost ascetic, almost stylish. This is how Nitzan lies here night after night, what does she see, what does she hear, does she know how much prodigious effort went into creating light beside her, as in northern countries, where the populace fill their houses with candles; this is what she’s been doing for sixteen years, lighting little candles for her daughter, watching the flame like a hawk, making sure it doesn’t blow out in the wind. I’m cold, Gideon, she hears herself whispering, and at once corrects it, I’m hot, why did she say cold when she meant hot, and why did she call on Gideon? Well, there’s no point in trying again, but here he is approaching her, sitting down beside the bed, listen, he says, without looking at her, you need to take care of yourself, it isn’t an easy age, I’ve been reading about it; there are women who have difficulty coping with the menopause and you have difficulty coping with everything, but to her surprise there’s no criticism in his voice, only complicity, and she straightens up slowly, his words drawing her closer to him with gentle strings. You’ve been reading about this? She’s amazed, almost grateful, and he says, this is no laughing matter, Dini, this is a serious business, not long ago I heard of a woman who killed herself on account of menopausal depression, a woman leading a perfectly orderly life, married with three children, you need to look after yourself, perhaps that’s what Nitzan was trying to tell you, you should be caring for yourself now and not for her.
Because of that she lied to me? she asks, resting her cheek on his knee, she said there was no one here in bed with her, but I know there was, look. She holds out a sweaty fist to him saying, this is his hair – but her hand is emp
ty, the evidence falling away from her piece by piece, and Gideon grins, his hands immobile at his sides, not caressing her hair. So what if she lied? Why are you making such a big deal out of it, everyone tells lies, don’t you tell lies sometimes? And she says, who, me? Not really, not to people close to me. Her face flushes when she remembers the lies she had told just this morning to that student of hers in the maternity ward – what a strange, unnecessary encounter that had been – and she rubs her cheek against the stiff material of the jeans. You’re taking this very lightly, as if you tell lies all the time.
Not all the time, only when there’s no choice, he says, but she feels his thigh muscles tensing and her heart thumps, where were you, really? And he says, I was doing a photo shoot in the Negev, and she looks up at him, so how did you get here so quickly? I drove fast, Nitzan scared me, when you drive fast, you get there quickly, but she’s staring at him in sudden doubt. Again her face is covered in sweat, hot vapours flood her chest, the interior of the skull, any moment now they will bore a hole in her cranium and black smoke will rise from there like the genie from the bottle. Days upon days he has been wandering the roads without her, sometimes accompanied by other photographers, journalists, some of them female, are you lying to me too? And he gazes back at her with the enigmatic look that she saw in the eyes of Nitzan. Of course, all the time, he chuckles, and the smile deepens the distortion of his features, giving them an expression of eternal mockery, and she pulls him to her although this isn’t what she wants; but what she does want, she only wishes she knew. To eradicate the pain is her desire, to excise it from her body and flee from it, to run light and ethereal in empty streets, to restore to herself distant knowledge that has been lost, certainty that has dissolved, curtailed hopes.
Without opposition and without passion he stretches out on his back and she drapes her limbs over him, this is the way I saw them, she whispers, she lay on top of him, they were really connected, her head on his chest, and this was strange because they were half clothed and half naked, and they looked like twins, not like a couple, and he sighs, it makes no difference, Dini, you weren’t supposed to see this, you weren’t supposed to interpret this, and again she wonders if he’s only pretending not to understand her, as once they used to understand each other well, but all this is unimportant now, because she has a more urgent question for him, and not for him exactly but for his body, lying under her stiff and motionless. Oh, Gideon, she sighs, how foolish it is to ask questions of the body, because it’s a liar too, like her body which desires not him but distant knowledge that has been lost, certainty that has dissolved; it’s certainly not this deceptive intermingling that appeals to her now, nor the calm and confident manner in which he has been taking possession of her body for close on twenty years, nor his cheery sigh of ecstasy, because it’s at precisely that time, when he’s responding to her, that she’s assailed by sadness, how hollow are these familiar motions when then there’s no new life at the end of them; even if this life isn’t destined to materialise there would still be the possibility, glowing with a precious light. If only we could have another child, she whispers in his ear, why didn’t we do that when we still could, what a waste, we had treasure and we let it rot.
Anyone would think you were sterile, he complains, still panting, you’re a mother, what difference does it make, the number of children you have? In Europe one child is quite enough, it’s only here that everyone overdoes things, as if more means better, and she protests, I’m not talking to you about ideology but about desire, I so much want to bring up another child. Their bodies are still fused but again that abyss is gaping between them, they have surely left it too late, and there’s no point in reviving the old argument, which led to wherever it led, and no point in laying blame. She wasn’t determined enough, his opposition was stronger than her aspiration and now it’s too late, and their bodies, still together and soon to be separated, are no longer capable of creating life, just moans of transitory pleasure; although apparently everything remains as it was, in fact an awesome change has taken place between them in recent years, and they’re still negotiating the terms. Their one-off coupling has lost its vitality, for ever and for always, but this doesn’t prevent other life combinations, of him with another woman, for example, someone to whom he might appeal, and his advantage over her, even if he doesn’t exploit it, enrages her again and she asks, who were you with when I called you?
A new correspondent from the paper, you don’t know her, he replies and straightens up, moving her off him, and she asks, how old? And he says, I have no idea, thirty maybe, and suddenly her jealousy of this woman flares up, not for travelling today with her husband to the Negev, if that is really where he went, and not for being fifteen years younger than her, but because she is capable of realising the one thing that she longs for herself, and as she lies here alone, hearing her husband turning on the tap in the shower, and the powerful jet of water that is washing her body from his body, she wants to extricate herself from the bed and join him, standing by his side under the hot stream, the way they used to do things years ago, and melting away the pain, but an icy chill grabs the tips of her fingers, spreading up from her toes, and she pulls the blanket over her; suddenly her teeth are chattering and her body is heavy and cold.
With an effort she opens her eyes and tries to move her stiff limbs, seeing him standing facing her with wet hair, buttoning his denim shirt. You’re awfully pale, he says, maybe you’re sick, there’s a nasty virus going round, causing nausea and giddiness, and she doesn’t respond. She really wants him to go, how strange that his presence intensifies her isolation, but he hesitates, when are you teaching today? he asks, maybe you should cancel, and then he remembers, so what’s happening with your mother? And she stirs herself, embarrassed, how could she forget so absolutely?
Chapter Four
Again he tries to ram the spoon into her mouth, forcing her to drink the sweet lake water, and again she’s sprawled among the reeds, surrounded by yellow water-lilies. The sun melts her limbs and they dissolve into the muddy, loamy soil, and he goes down on his knees and dips the spoon in the water of the lake, and then pours the liquid into her gullet. Drink, Hemda, drink, we have to drain the lake, spoonful by spoonful, until the water is all gone.
But I don’t want to drain the lake, Daddy, I love the lake, she protests, trying to keep her lips sealed, and he rebukes her at once. What has love to do with it? We need this land to grow wheat and barley on it, apples and avocado. There are obligations and there are loves, he says, and obligations take precedence, so drink up, Hemda, and she groans, but I’m only little, how can I drink a whole lake? and he says, gradually, there’s no need to hurry, we have all our lives ahead of us.
So all my life I’m going to be lying here like this, while you give me water to drink with a spoon? She’s horrified, is that what I’m going to do with my life? And he replies, pensively, perhaps not all your life, just until it’s dried up. The faster you drink the faster it will dry up and you can start to live. What a hopeless task, but in fact no more hopeless than other tasks that he imposed on her, crossing rickety bridges, driving a tractor and digging ditches. The way he stood behind the tractor with arms outstretched when she was afraid to go any further because of the gorge lying in wait for her at the side of the track. I’m not moving from here, he announced, if you put it in reverse, you’ll run me over! And she drove on, her hands shaking on the wheel, her mouth gaping with fear, and now too she opens her mouth wide to do his bidding, swallowing the water of the lake which is sweeter than the way she remembers it. She was always a little disappointed with the taste. The words fresh water had such a promising sound, but in fact there was only brackish water in the lake at that time, not fresh at all, and she planned to steal bags of sugar from the dining hall and sweeten the water with it, but she didn’t have the nerve, and it seems someone else has done this for her in the meantime, because now the taste is heavier and more concentrated than she remembers, and her fat
her says, well done, Hemda, well done, have another little drink. Why does his voice suddenly sound feminine, feminine and hoarse like her mother’s voice?
Mum’s here too! she exults, opening her eyes wide to see her, but closing them again at once, lest the rare and precious vision dissolve, having to compete with another vision, that of her daughter-in-law Shlomit sitting beside her, a cup of tepid tea in one hand, and a spoon in the other, and she wants to return to the tall reeds, the white flowers adorning their heads like locks of hair, that’s where she belongs, not in this place whatever it may be, she has no idea – that’s where she belongs. How short are the days of childhood, and yet there’s no end to them; only with her death will her childhood be sealed.
What a shame, she sighs, discovering that her parents care more for her than her children do, more than her husband; they are alive and vivacious, dispensing fear and love, exploiting every chink in her consciousness to bring her back under their control, and confronted by them her Elik is falling away, and she forces herself to remember him now. The smells of the hospital lead her unawares to the last years of his life, how bitter he was, his jealousy more ferocious than ever, because it seemed it was only then he found the logic, her health as opposed to his sickness, her lengthening life as opposed to his imminent death.
The Remains of Love Page 9
