Open Heart

by A. B. Yehoshua

  “Without my having to worry about it.” I echoed her words in excitement, not actually understanding what she meant. “But what made him talk about me at all?” She straightened her pillow behind her head and smiled. “Perhaps because right at the beginning, when Hishin suggested you, he said, ‘This is the ideal man for you,’ and Lazar, who was influenced by Hishin, began to believe it, especially after you confronted us at the airport and forced us to interrupt our flight and insisted on going to a hotel and giving Einat that blood transfusion, which even after all the clarifications we never really understood. But Lazar always said, Never mind, let it be arbitrary, let it even be completely mysterious. I know and feel that it saved her life.” I had already heard Einat speak about her father’s positive attitude toward the blood transfusion I had given her, but the explicit word “mysterious,” uttered now in the darkness in the name of the dead director, filled me with happiness, in spite of the contempt it might have implied. And I felt a pressing desire to hear this word repeated in Lazar’s name, until I was unable to contain myself any longer and I stepped forward, and without warning, in a trance of exhaustion, I lifted the blankets to join myself to the warm source of the mystery. At the first touch I knew that the two pills I had given her to take before she went to sleep had done their work; her body temperature was normal. If I really had another soul inside me, I thought feverishly, it needed its turn too, and I began passionately embracing and kissing Dori once again. She was startled and began to struggle, but even in the depths of my fatigue I was stronger than she was. And again she pleaded with me not to be silent, to speak of my love, as if making love in silence, and in the stillness of the night, was the worst kind of betrayal. I repeated the words I had said at the beginning of the evening and felt her ripe, mature body relaxing between my hands.

  In the end she fell into a deep sleep, and I lay behind her back with my arms around her stomach, in the same position in which I had seen the Lazars sleeping in the hotel room overlooking the Ganges. I thought about Michaela, asking myself if she had stayed awake up to now to accompany me in her thoughts or if she had given up and gone to sleep. In either case, there was no need for me to hurry home. Even though I knew that I must not lose control over my conscious mind in this most intimate place, lying where the dead director lay, I could not overcome the deep impulse to go on holding her sleeping body in my arms, if not to sleep, then at least to dream a little, perhaps the very same dream I had dreamed in the big old propeller-driven plane flying from Gaya to Calcutta. But I couldn’t remember the dream, only the interior of the plane, with the many Indians crowded into it. Then I tried to remember the movie I had seen with Michaela at the beginning of the evening, but it had evaporated from my mind. Thus I had no option but to surrender to the sleep overpowering me. But not for long. About three hours later, at five o’clock in the morning, I woke up in the same position in which I had fallen alseep, wide awake, as if this short sleep had satisfied me completely. I carefully disentangled my arms, slid off the bed, got dressed, and left the room, closing the door behind me. I felt light and spiritual, relieved of the inner weight that had been oppressing me for so long. In the living room windows the first lines of light were visible, and I wandered around the silent rooms, trying to identify the source of the anxiety threatening the woman I now had to leave alone. At seven I had to be at the hospital for my shift, and before then I had to go home to shave and change my clothes. But I didn’t want to go home to Michaela like this, sticky and rumpled from the long night, and I was also afraid that I might have caught Dori’s virus, if it was a virus, in the course of our lovemaking. I went to the bathroom, planning just to clean myself up with a washcloth. But the water heater was boiling, and I gave in to the temptation, got undressed, and took a shower. Lazar’s toilet aricles were still scattered over the shelves, and his presence made itself felt in all kinds of things: his toothbrush, his shaving kit, his aftershave lotion, his bathrobe hanging behind the door. He had been right about my talent for noticing insignificant details and absorbing them into myself, for I now found myself recognizing many of the things he had taken with him to India, easily distinguishing them from the articles belonging to other members of the household. This being the case, I unhesitatingly, and without any feeling of strangeness, wrapped myself in his bathrobe, shaved myself with his shaving gear, and brushed my teeth with his toothbrush. I felt no need to say good-bye before leaving the apartment, for I was determined to return to Dori as soon as possible. I even took the key.

  How strange it was, after such a night, to emerge into the bright Tel Aviv morning, which held not one single hint of mystery. I looked at the broad, familiar boulevard, at the cars covered with wet leaves torn from the trees by the tempestuous winds of the night, the crates full of milk standing outside the little supermarket, the newspaper boys, their rounds over, racing down the street on their Vespas. If only I too could race straight to the hospital, which was waiting for me now no less than it had once waited for Lazar. But I knew that even though I had already bathed and shaved, I had to show myself to the woman waiting for me in the kitchen, and to my surprise not alone, but with sweet little Shivi, who had already woken up and was sitting in her high chair, her mane of hair wild and a red third eye painted between her eyes—a sure sign of her mother’s surging longings. And when Shivi saw me enter the room she put her two little hands together on her lips in the Indian greeting, as Michaela had taught her, in order to welcome the new Brahmin who had risen from the underworld.

  Eighteen

  And it quickly finds her, no longer a little girl in a wrinkled school uniform but a tall, attractive young woman standing in her kitchen in the morning, a red apron around her waist, stirring porridge with a big wooden spoon for her three children sitting in chairs of different heights according to their age, and gazing in astonishment at the windowsill, where a big bird has just landed and is pacing up and down before them like an agitated, preoccupied schoolmarm. The children’s glee is very great at the sight of the boastful, brightly colored tail, wagging to and fro like the pendulum of a living clock. But the young mother standing behind them knows that in spite of the general merriment, she must be quick to calm the youngest of her children, for otherwise he will soon burst into tears for fear of the winged creature, which now stands still and stares at her with a single piercing green eye. She picks the little one up, cuddles and kisses him to comfort him, and hands him to the mystery that enters the room, her balding husband in a smart suit, with the gold-rimmed glasses on his eyes. And the mystery takes the child with such a bright, cheerful smile that we may presume he has already recovered from his insanity, and no longer goes about insisting that the world stands still and every hour is final and sufficient unto itself and nothing is ever lost in the universe.

  But was it wise to drop in on her now, or should I have gone straight to the hospital? The pallor of Michaela’s face and the redness of her eyes bore witness to the fact that she had not been indifferent to the events of the night. Had she followed them in full consciousness, or in the fog of sleep? She smiled at me welcomingly when I came into the kitchen, as if she bore me no grudge for my absence and was even surprised at my hurrying home. Did I really have to confess everything that had happened last night, I asked myself, and tell her about the impossible infatuation that was turning into a possible love before I left for the hospital? Or did I have the right to silence? At first I only bent down to give a tender fatherly kiss to Shivi, and also to Michaela, from whose fingers I gently took the spoon in order to go on feeding the baby so she was free to prepare a hasty breakfast, which would include, if possible, a small bowl of the sweet baby cereal to which I had recently become addicted. I tried to eat my breakfast in silence, but I soon saw that not only was Michaela demanding that I give an account of myself, but even Shivi had stopped eating to stare at me expectantly with all three eyes. This being the case, I began carefully, gradually selecting from the night’s events a few of the essential
details, concentrating mainly on the physical and spiritual health of the new patient who had imposed herself on me, slightly exaggerating her helplessness in everything from her domestic arrangements to her electrical appliances, and mockingly describing the obscure but real dread that descended on her when she was left alone. Although after Lazar’s death I had resolved to try to avoid telling lies, at this moment I did not want, in the short time at my disposal, to drop the bombshell of the lovemaking into the bright morning air of the little kitchen, and I decided to make do with a description of the psychological support I had given the widow. But Michaela, who seemed fascinated by every word that came out of my mouth, insisted on confirming what she in any case sensed in her heart, and when she asked me in so many words if I had also slept with Lazar’s wife, I could not deny her the full enchantment that my story seemed to arouse in her.

  Thus, with my eyes fixed on the big clock hanging on the wall above the many-armed statuette we had received from Einat, which was standing on a high shelf, safely ensconced between two vases, I began to describe economically not only the first bout of lovemaking but also the second, to show how serious my battle with the soul inside me had been. I may have gone too far, for suddenly Michaela’s face went very red and she seemed stunned, not so much by the sex itself as by its repetition, which was a clear sign of the profound change awaiting us all. “If so, he’s got a strong grip on you now,” she pronounced, contemplating me with a mixture of pity and admiration. “Instead of entering some lifeless, inanimate object in order to animate it and be reborn, he’s latched onto a living human being in order to cling with all his strength to his previous place.” And when I maintained my silence she added, “Be careful, Benjy, that in the end you don’t lose your soul.”

  “But I’ve apparently already lost it, Michaela,” I whispered with a very glum smile, shrugging my shoulders and taking my plate to the sink. And I took the key to the Lazars’ apartment out of my pocket, as if to prove to her the concrete reality behind the bizarre metaphysical exchange we were conducting, half in earnest, half in jest, over our kitchen table—a reality that for all its pain was also one which might thrill her. For before her very eyes an ethereal idea from the India she so adored and longed for was being incarnated, not by a Hindu but by a rational, practical Western doctor, a moderate man trapped in the mystical seam between body and soul, where even Stephen W. Hawking had floundered, paralyzed. My heart contracted now at the sight of Shivi’s eyes raised in deep attention to the words of the adults standing over her head. I had already noticed the peculiar attention she paid the conversations between her parents, an attention full of an inexplicable inner excitement, which led her now to rub her finger unconsciously on the perfect circle of the third eye which Michaela had painted on her brow and to turn it into a smudge spreading over her entire forehead. I looked at the clock. There were only a few minutes left before I had to leave for the hospital. I saw from close up that Michaela’s beloved statuette was covered in dust and even had delicate spiderwebs clinging to it. Michaela looked with a smile at the key I showed her. “Now do you understand the profound wisdom behind the custom of burning the widow on her husband’s funeral pyre?” she asked, and there was a malicious gleam in her eye. “No, I don’t understand it,” I answered honestly, a faint tremor of anxiety passing through me. “She has to be burned so that the yearning soul of her husband won’t steal into her through a stranger’s body. They don’t burn the widow to punish her for remaining alive, but only to protect the soul of some weak, innocent stranger who is prepared to lend his body to the husband’s eternal love.” I nodded my head, and with a certain absentmindedness, because it was already time for me to leave, I took the statuette down from its shelf and lightly removed the lacy covering of spiderwebs, examining it to see if there was any coordination among its six arms. “In that case,” I said, smiling, “do you think Dori should have been burned too?”

  “Of course,” she answered unsmilingly, in a provocative tone, her face flushing. “If she made Lazar love her so much, let her follow him to the grave.” And with a new thought flickering in her great eyes: “And if she can’t do it by herself, she can be helped.” These last words, which had surely been said in a joke, struck terror into my soul, but I went on smiling, bending over Shivi, who seemed so interested in the statuette in my hand that I gave it to her. But she wasn’t ready to receive the unexpected gift, and the statuette slipped out of her little hands and fell to the floor, scattering its six clay arms in various directions, and after a moment detaching itself from its head as well. A cry of pain burst from me, but Michaela remained composed, as if she had been prepared for an act of revenge after what she had just said. She crossed her arms on her chest to ensure the restraint she had imposed on herself, showing no intention of kneeling down with me to pick up the pieces of the little statue so dear to her heart, nor any intention of answering my ridiculous question as to whether it might be possible to mend it. With satisfaction and a note of triumph in her voice she said, “Now I’ll have to go back there to find another one.” And when she saw that I wasn’t taking her seriously she added: “The only question we’ll have to think about is whether I’m going to take Shivi with me right away or whether I should leave her for the time being with you, or your mother, or, why not, with Lazar’s wife.”

  But there was no time to discuss this question now. The operation in which I was to participate as an anesthetist was scheduled to begin in half an hour. Surprisingly enough, in spite of the sharp words we had exchanged and Michaela’s explicit announcement that she was going back to India, I did not feel that a real rift had taken place between us, and I left for the hospital feeling excited, and even a little happy at the idea that Michaela was giving me permission to continue my affair without throwing me out of the house. When she asked me just before I left if I would leave her the car in view of the rainy weather and the chores she had to do, I agreed immediately, since I had no idea that she meant chores connected with her trip to India. Surely the broken statuette alone could not have been enough to make her get up and leave immediately for the Far East. Nor did I believe that my infidelity had shocked her. A woman as free-spirited as Michaela wasn’t outraged by infidelities, hers or anyone else’s. No, it made more sense to think that what was happening to me had simply reawakened, with great intensity, her old longing for the spiritual climate in which she felt, as she had repeatedly explained to me, free and liberated, in a place that only seemed so wretched and defeated. But was it really only her old longing for India? Perhaps there was a new yearning behind it all, not for the great subcontinent but for herself, as the true source of what was happening to me, since more than two years before it had been she who had come back from India in order to tell the Lazars about their daughter’s illness. Now, just as I too was being swept up into an ill-fated karma, she felt that in order to rescue me she had to return to the starting point, and to take my baby with her, so that she might draw me back to the place where wise and understanding forces would come to my aid, working through those who needed me urgently—in other words, the truly sick and maimed of the world, waiting on the sidewalks of Calcutta for volunteer doctors to come to them from the world that called itself free and happy. But I only began to understand all this when Michaela finally decided to take Shivi with her, after Stephanie in London agreed to join her on this trip to India. On the morning in question, in the operating room, feeling slightly dizzy as I stood behind the anesthesia machine, I was thinking neither of Michaela nor of myself but of the woman I had left sleeping in the spacious apartment, either sick or well, who would soon wake up and find herself alone and begin to worry about when I, or somebody else, would come to keep her company.

  When I reached the hospital I wanted to go straight to the administration wing to tell Lazar’s secretary that I had responded to the call she had referred to me in the fullest possible way, and to find out indirectly if she had already received any reports from the other party. But
there was no time. So I waited until after the “takeoff” had succeeded and the patient had begun to sail gently along his appointed course before slipping into the anteroom to call her and tell her that I had made a house call and there was nothing to worry about. She thanked me gratefully. “I know we’re being a bit of a burden to you,” she said, glibly including herself with the woman who was constantly in my thoughts, “but I saw that Mrs. Lazar was a little lost, without knowing exactly who to turn to, because Lazar used to put the whole hospital at her disposal. And although everyone’d be happy to help her, after what happened, everybody thinks that someone else is taking care of her.”

  “Yes,” I said, “I thought that Professor Levine had taken her under his wing. He’s more or less their family doctor, isn’t he?”

  “He was,” she corrected me emphatically. “He was in the past. But now he’s angry with her because she refuses to put all the blame on Hishin. He isn’t satisfied with what I keep telling him, and what I told you too—that we’re all a little to blame, me, Dori, her mother, and even Lazar himself. But no—that crazy, stubborn man, who was forgiven so many times by Lazar, wants to set up a kangaroo court to sentence Professor Hishin. He’s not like you, Dr. Rubin, and refuses to take responsibility for himself. Yesterday, after you left, I felt a little bad about including you in my accusations.”

  “But why?” I reassured her. “You’re right. We’re all guilty, morally at least. Me too. No less than Lazar himself.” But there was no time to elaborate on the moral guilt for Lazar’s death while the patient I had left on the operating table could implicate me in criminal guilt as well. I therefore hurried back to make sure that the numbers flickering on all the monitors were compatible with the smooth continuation of the flight, leaving Miss Kolby with the promise that I would get back to her during the day for a firsthand report on the quarrel that had flared up between the two friends. This secretary was proving herself to be a pillar of support on which we could all lean in the confusion left by her boss’s death. But how much support would she give me, I wondered, when sooner or later she found out about my relationship with his widow? I decided to go on investing in her, for I very much wanted this loyal and lonely woman on whom Lazar had depended, like many powerful executives depended on their secretaries, to be my ally not only in the little battles of the hospital but also in the great battle that had commenced this morning. At the end of the operation, after I saw the clear gleam of consciousness in the pupil of the anesthetized patient’s eye, which meant I could leave him with the nurses in intensive care, and after I received no reply when I called the Lazars’ apartment, I bought two sandwiches in the cafeteria instead of joining the surgeons for lunch and hurried to Lazar’s office.