I know, she says, raising her glass to him and drinking his health, and he’s taken aback, really? How do you know? And she says, I saw you once on TV or in a newspaper, it took me some time to remember, you’re the lawyer of the Bedouin, and for some reason she chuckles, and he nods his head, surprised and flattered. This unexpected recognition induces him to speculate: maybe the neighbour identified him, and the widow too, while he was pretending he was from the faculty of sciences. How absurd he is, he could yet be arrested for impersonation, but that isn’t the main point; giving himself his identity back, he feels like a man walking the streets naked and eventually clothes are found for him and he puts them on, or perhaps it’s the opposite, he’s like someone wearing clothes that aren’t his and getting stripped stark naked, one way or the other he’s lost the freedom of anonymity but gained some recognition which inspires him with confidence. He’s no longer a foundling picking up scraps of information, but a lawyer of renown who fights for the weak, even if his achievements have been fewer in recent years, and from this standpoint he looks at the woman facing him, her extinguished eyes and purple teeth and her head swaying a little, and he stands up and holds out both hands to her, come on, Talia, he says, you need to sleep.
To his surprise she obeys at once, holding his arm and rising to her feet, and he guides her before him to the adjacent room with its closed door, as if escorting a little girl who has been walking in her sleep, and meanwhile he’s thinking she herself has never had a child to escort like this and now she’s left it too late, and indeed when he lays her down on the broad bed, delicately unfastening the buttons of her blouse and pulling off her trousers, the body that is revealed to him in stages is slim and smooth and shows no signs of a pregnancy, her stomach is flat as if a living creature has never resided in its inner recesses and her breasts are small and solid as if they have never filled with milk, and she lets him undress her, obediently holding out an arm or lifting a thigh, arching her back, and while peeling off her clothes he wonders about her and about him, thinking that if her consciousness were to clear and she saw him leaning over her like this she would raise such pandemonium he would definitely be taken out of here an arrested felon, exploiting the grief and intoxication of a stranger to spy on her body, the last of the peepers, but it isn’t vision that’s the crucial thing so much as smell, since he finds himself kneeling on the carpet at the foot of the bed and sniffing her body, not the lower abdomen which is still encased in lacy white underwear, but the neck and arms and legs and feet, until she lets out a sigh and opens her eyes and he straightens up at once and spreads a blanket over her, a fatherly gesture. Sleep, Talia, he whispers, I’ll bring you a glass of water, but when he returns she’s already fast asleep, and he puts the glass down on the cabinet and leaves the room, his body in a whirl and her smell in his nostrils, the smell of bitter grapes, the smell of grief and disappointment, the smell of a man’s woman without her man, after thirty days is there anything left of his smell, the smell of his love, of his sickness and death? Although his heart is beating tensely and his head is heavy and swaying he doesn’t go yet but meticulously returns the tray of cheeses to the fridge, also the grapes and cherries, peering in meanwhile to see what else she has there, what she’s eating, but the fridge is empty, the entire contents she put out on the table; there’s not even any milk in there – more like a squat than a residence.
Moving quietly he transfers the dishes to the sink and can’t resist sniffing them, then leaving them on the draining board, examining with fascination the new wooden cabinets and the still sparkling kitchen utensils, and while standing at the sink he notices another door opposite the bedroom and hurries over there, finding himself in a study evidently designed for both of them, as two chairs stand before the gigantic desk overlooking the garden, and there are two computers and an abundance of books on the shelves, and of all the rooms this is the one where the monkish scholar feels most like a trespasser and he hurries out on tiptoe to the front door, it’s time to go, he tells himself, your time is up, but it’s then he sees the keys in the keyhole, and he stands by the door wondering how he can leave when the hostess is in no fit state to lock up after him.
He really should go home, his wife has already left him another urgent text message, but how can he leave her here like this in her bed, in a deep sleep and exposed in an open house, where anyone could get in through the garden, which has only a thin bamboo hedge protecting it, and from there to the unlocked apartment and from there to the bed, and he agonises over what to do; he could lock the door from the outside and then at least she’d be safe, but how’s she going to get out unless she has a spare set of keys, and the windows are barred and netted – two contradictory options and both unacceptable, one involving too much freedom and the other the denial of freedom.
Of course he’d be happy to stay here and doze on her sofa, but he’s afraid of her waking up and being scared, or misinterpreting his presence, and he goes out into the garden as it seems this is the only realistic option he has, to defend her from outside as if he’s the watchdog of this house, like Casanova of the enigmatic smile, and that was also the way he sniffed at her, eager and desperate, satisfied with little, and he looks for a place to lie down, the garden isn’t completed yet and there isn’t even a deckchair to sprawl in, nor a bench nor a hammock, but his fatigue is so deep that he collapses in the porch and rests his head on the coarse doormat, bearing the word WELCOME in big green letters, and this reminds him to text a message to his wife, don’t worry, I’ll be home in the morning. All the arrivals are welcome, the people leaving are welcome too. Even more abject than his low-lifers who sleep in tents, without a blanket or a roof over his head, a dog without a kennel, and yet in spite of all this his mind is at ease, and when he drifts into sleep it seems to him that beyond the bamboo hedge he can hear the footsteps of Shlomit taking Yotam to the nursery; where’s Daddy, he hears the clear and ringing voice, where’s my Daddy?
Chapter Nine
From a distance she recognises her sister-in-law pacing along heavily, with a child in a pram, a dark tent-style dress covering her body, and she avoids her, slipping into a cool alleyway which the sun hasn’t yet succeeded in dominating, and there she stands, leaning on a bamboo hedge and putting her shopping bags down, panting as if she’s been rescued from danger. Why does she feel so threatened by a woman she has known since they were both children, or is it for precisely this reason; it seems to her she embodies more than anything else the very scale of the change. If this is indeed the bashful and thin-limbed girl who used to caress her brother’s arm so delicately, hanging her admiring eyes on him; after all any change is possible, including the change that befell Nitzan, and her as well, if it’s possible that the transmigration of souls takes place during life and not after death. Her body is cumbersome, her face coarse and her voice grating, and for some reason she turned against Dina too, as if she were to blame for her brother’s deficiencies, and even the birth of her miracle baby did nothing to temper her wrath, and it seems she’s claiming the little boy as her exclusive property, isolating him so he won’t connect with any other person but her, as she tried to do with Avner and almost succeeded; he was indeed separated from his sister but he didn’t cleave to her, and perhaps the separation came about because they never bonded as siblings.
They were the children of the same parents, their bone and flesh, but how insignificant was this fact for them, growing up with their contemporaries and not with their family, and it was only after they left the kibbutz that they were presented for the first time with the opportunity to infuse some meaning into this blood relationship, when they found themselves living for the first time in one apartment, in two adjacent rooms. She chose the smaller one for the landscape views it afforded, and he the larger, overlooking the car park, and like a pair of migrants they were offered the chance to bond together, and she remembers suddenly how insomnia, the family curse, used to unite them in the kitchen at night, how she used to boi
l milk for the pair of them in a small saucepan, and how her heart was opened up to him in the middle of the night, to this handsome, slightly eccentric youth, who was awarded the love that belonged to her but also paid too high a price for it, and at times she was even happy for him, she forgave him for the theft.
Behind the backs of their sleeping parents they succeeded in becoming acquainted for a few hours, the mother’s son and the father’s daughter, and it seems to her now that those nights they tasted for the first time the relaxation of true fraternity, a welcome respite from loneliness, and she would return to her bed calm and reconciled, her heart overflowing like the milk spilling from the pan; it was spilled again and again because they were deep in conversation and they didn’t notice it, but the fragile covenant that was beginning to be sealed between them Shlomit soon shattered with her constant visits, demanding his attention with bashful insistence, and Dina would lie awake at night hearing the friction of their limbs and their whispers, convinced that she herself was doomed to eternal loneliness, and she was especially shocked by her brother’s behaviour, giving up so easily, as if he had nothing to lose, not only on her, his only sister, but on himself as well.
When to her relief she sees her sister-in-law walking away, she notices a colourful poster on the electricity pylon facing her, a new day-care nursery opening in the neighbourhood, luxurious and spacious, she glances round to be sure no one’s looking, she tears off a piece of the notice giving the phone number and alongside it the logo of a baby’s dummy, and on her way home this morning, carrying heavy bags of fruit and vegetables, she finds herself lingering by every notice she passes, and reading it intently: apartments for sale, music lessons, yoga and self-defence, and by the time she arrives at home she has stuffed away in her briefcase three advertisements offering the services of dedicated carers for babies and two advertisements presenting day-care nurseries of quality, filling her with emotional satisfaction, as if the very action of tearing off a scrap of paper establishes an incontrovertible fact, a first stimulus of the process in the practical world.
And of course she knows this is the tiniest of steps, the most marginal of activities, again and again she reads the stories of her new friends and colleagues who are unaware of her existence and yet are giving her more help than any of her relatives, and more and more she’s understanding how much is required of her if she’s to come closer to her goal, and the sheer scale of the obstacles and dangers, but now with the adverts in her pocket, giving her child some kind of validity, she dares to act, and she’s barely arrived home and she’s already on the phone checking out the location of the new crèche, how many children and how many carers, recording the details avidly and straightaway she contacts another and compares the data – one is closer and in the other there are fewer children, which should she choose? And when all the information has been assembled she drops the phone and covers her face with her hands, you’re crazy, you’re crazy, and she goes from room to room to check the house is empty and there’s no one here to witness her insanity, and so perhaps she’ll dare to contact one of the agencies recommended to her by her new friends on the net, and she hears her voice, anxious and impassioned, we want to adopt a little boy, what needs to be done?
But the clearer the picture becomes, the scores of documents needed, testimonials to health of body and mind, solvency and honesty, information regarding the prospective adopters and the stability of their relationship, places of work and ownership of property, photographs of the house and its occupants, financial checks and assurances of the patience and determination required to face the risks and complications, those before and those after, while all her papers are filling up with exhausted scribbles, to be hidden away hastily among the books on the shelf, she realises how firmly her hands are tied so long as Gideon isn’t on her side, how dependent she is on him; without his consent she can do nothing and even with his support their prospects of success would be slim. There are many abandoned children but the way to them is long and arduous, strewn with obstacles as in the fairy stories she vaguely remembers about princes and princesses kept apart by hopeless tasks, condemned to fight dragons and monsters and defy natural forces in their quest to return to their kingdoms or fulfil their destinies.
In this country their age will preclude them from obtaining an infant, and abroad there are few states willing to hand children over to their unstable part of the world, and there’s an infinite number of foreign bureaucracies piling up endless difficulties supposedly in the interests of the child, and she has to hurry, as the obstacles become ever more formidable, but how can she hurry when her hands are tied between difficulties outside and difficulties inside, and again she immerses herself in stories overflowing with sincerity, innocence, warm-heartedness, look at this woman for example, calling herself Dew Drop and telling us that her husband had reservations and was opposed to adoption, but how happy he is now with his daughter and how happy they are together; or alternatively here’s Amazona, who went through the whole process by herself and that’s the way she’s going to bring up the little boy too, and she finds herself envying her: how wonderful it would be now if she had no partner, as then she could go ahead, arrange meetings, impress and be impressed, clarify and elucidate and most important of all, she could hope, because it seems to her without this hope her life isn’t life.
You’re not normal, Dina, you’ve gone right off the rails lately, Naomi scolds her when they’re sitting after work in the café near the college. Adopting a little boy? I can’t believe this is what you want to do! You know how hard it is? My friends adopted a girl of three some years ago, and you can’t imagine what they’ve had to put up with, poor things, and you’d only get an older child anyway, because of Gideon’s age, and by the way, is Gideon backing you in this insanity?
Not really, she admits, the truth is, not at all, at the moment I’m on my own in this but I’m thinking of looking abroad, that way there’s a chance of getting a child of around two, and Naomi slams her cup down on the table in consternation, abroad? Do you know how expensive that is? Where will you get the money from? And how will you know they’re not conning you? All those agencies are corrupt, they’ll give you a chronically sick child and tell you nothing about the genetic history, you want to spend the rest of your life in and out of hospitals? You couldn’t stand that, Dina, believe me, it’s putting a healthy head in a sick bed.
I’m not sure the head is that healthy, she grins, asking the waitress for another glass of water, as once again she feels a ferocious flame rising from her gut, and her face is covered in sweat, haven’t your hot flushes started yet? I feel like a dragon breathing fire, and Naomi smiles complacently, not really, because I had my brood at a later age and it seems my clock has been turned back, and Dina sighs, what a fool I’ve been, why didn’t I realise I needed to produce another child, I can’t get a hold on this, what could I possibly have done that was better?
That’s enough, Dina, don’t get worked up about it, what has been has been, Naomi waves her hand as if to ward off an irritating fly, the question is, what do you do now? What about egg donation? It’s much simpler than adoption and cheaper too. Lots of women do this and at least you know who the father is, but Dina shakes her head, that isn’t right for me, she says, what’s right for me is to bring up a child who’s already in the world and needs a home, I prefer to adopt.
You reckon you prefer to adopt because you’re living in a fantasy, Naomi persists, you have a romantic vision of a sweet blond baby boy who’ll be glad you’ve rescued him, but in reality you’ll be bringing up a difficult and problematical child who’s going to be testing your limits all the time and making your life a misery, and he’ll always be different and never belong to you, and that’s hoping for the best and assuming he’s healthy.
How can you be so sure? That isn’t what I’m reading in the blogs, she protests in a broken voice, people tell me such lovely stories about their kids, and even if there are difficulties they tackle them
with love, and Naomi bites hungrily into her sandwich that’s just arrived, obviously, what do you expect them to say? I made a bad mistake with this child, they cheated me? Of course they love their children and strive to see the best in them, but don’t forget these are people who don’t have children of their own, they have no yardstick for comparisons. In your case it’s a shot in the dark, you have no idea what surprises are liable to pop up.
And biological children don’t surprise us? Dina grumbles, anyone would think you know everything about your children. If you’d told me a year ago that Nitzan was going to change the way she has, I’d have said you were raving, and Naomi asks, what’s really going on with her? How is she reacting to this insanity? and Dina sighs, very badly, she has no empathy at all, she’s threatening to leave home if it happens.
You see, her friend utters a snort of triumph, so there’s nothing to discuss, if you have no support at home and only opposition you have to give it up, don’t be angry with them, they’re saving you from making a terrible mistake. You’ll get over it, you’ll see, it’s just menopause madness, calm down and everything will be fine. If you feel like it, volunteer for part-time work at the nursery, and that will be the end of the story. She brushes the crumbs from her hands, yet again, I’ve eaten too much and you haven’t eaten anything, she complains, I’m not sitting with you in cafés any more, yalla, sweetie, get out of this, you have no choice, you’ll get over it and you’ll thank God you’ve had a lucky escape.
The Remains of Love Page 25
