Yael raises her eyebrows as she looks across at Evgeni. ‘Why don’t you tell the doctor what the emergency is this time?’ she says, dumping a pile of paperwork onto her desk. She points a red talon at him. ‘No, wait. Let me guess. Your neck hurts.’
Dina stifles a laugh as Yael swivels on her chair, turning her back on Evgeni, reaching across to pull a sheet of paper from the fax machine. Yael glances at it, stamps it and thrusts it into Dina’s hand. Evgeni doesn’t move. Dina can smell the salami on his breath even from two metres away. The door squeaks as it swings open again. Sousanne enters slowly, holding her bag in front of her as she approaches the desk. She has brought her girls in for their immunisations. She stands in line, behind Evgeni. Yael flips through the pages of a spiral notepad, before answering the phone. Dina takes a sip of her coffee, which is stone-cold now.
‘Allo? Rak rega, I’ll be with you in a moment,’ Yael says, pressing a button to place the caller on hold. The red light flashes insistently. ‘Ah’lan, Sousanne. How are you feeling?’ she says, looking straight past Evgeni.
‘Fine, fine,’ Sousanne says, her grey eyes smiling. ‘A little tired, but otherwise I’m okay.’
Dina flips through the message book, trying to decipher Yael’s scrawls.
‘Take a seat, Sousanne,’ Yael says. ‘We’re running a little late. As you can see, the doctor has only just arrived. Shouldn’t be too long, though; there’s only one patient in front of you.’ She points to Tahirih.
Sousanne bites her cuticles and ushers the girls over to the waiting room. The younger one heads straight to the toy box. Dina leans forward to speak to Yael, but the phone rings again.
‘Allo, Carmel Clinic, please hold.’ Yael looks up at Evgeni, who is still leaning on the counter. ‘You can see we are very busy, Evgeni. What exactly is it you need today?’
‘I’m not talk with you about problems,’ he says, a little too abruptly. ‘I’m here for doctor.’
‘Well, I’m the one in charge of bookings, so you’ll just have to wait,’ Yael says.
Dina retreats, careful not to say a word. Evgeni usually takes advantage of her getting to the clinic early and often barges in without an appointment before she’s even started. This morning is no different from any other, even though she’s running late. You’d think he would have learned by now it isn’t worth arguing with Yael. Determined to be seen, he starts his ritual pacing up and down the corridor, knowing Dina will cave in eventually.
The door opens again. A reedy youth heaves a parcel onto the counter and waits for Yael to sign his clipboard.
‘A special delivery?’ Yael asks.
He looks away, mumbling something.
‘I wonder what it is.’
The young guy shifts nervously from one foot to the other, his forehead sweaty. Yael picks up a pen.
Suddenly, there is yelling coming from over in the waiting room:
‘Get it away from her!’ Sousanne swings her handbag at Evgeni’s dog, which has bounded into the middle of the waiting room.
The animal leaps around wildly, slobbering over her younger daughter, who has been playing quietly in the corner. It tugs a soft toy out of her hand and starts shaking it around in its mouth. Its tail whirls like a helicopter blade, brushing against the child’s head. She starts wailing. Sousanne lifts her daughter up. The child clamps her legs around her waist, burying her face in her mother’s breast.
Yael drops the pen and rushes over. ‘Get out!’ She picks up a copy of Vogue Living from the magazine rack and swats the dog with it, chasing it back towards the front entrance. ‘Kishta! Shoo! How the hell did this stinking animal get inside?’
The mailman turns bright red, realising he’s the one who must have let the dog in, and slinks back out of the clinic, leaving the parcel and unsigned docket on the counter. The mutt piddles all over the floor. It runs to Evgeni and lunges its forepaws onto his shoulders.
‘Take that flea-bitten beast out of here!’ Yael shrieks. ‘This is a doctor’s clinic, not a bloody zoo.’ She rushes over to the bathroom cupboard and brings back several rags and a bottle of disinfectant.
‘Sha, sha!’ Evgeni coos at Murashka, trying to get the dog to calm down by stroking its ears. Tugging gently at its worn collar, he leads it towards the door.
‘And don’t you dare leave it hanging around the entrance again or I’ll call the pound to come collect it straightaway,’ Yael shouts across the room as Evgeni takes the dog back outside.
Yael finishes wiping up the mess and stomps down the corridor back to the bathroom. She emerges a minute later, rubbing her hands together, and gets back to her desk, plonking her bottom down on the chair. She starts swivelling from side to side. The caller that was on hold has hung up. Trying to stay out of the fracas by pretending to look through her paperwork, Dina feels guilty letting Yael deal with all the drama by herself.
‘One day, I’m going to poison that horrid creature,’ Yael says.
Dina wonders if she is talking about the dog or Evgeni. She takes her white doctor’s coat down from its hook and pulls it on like a suit of armour. She flings her bag over her shoulder, drapes a blue stethoscope around her neck, walks straight down the corridor to her room and closes the door, managing to escape Evgeni before he comes back inside and has a chance to corner her.
Dina is usually punctual in the morning, even though she can eventually run up to an hour late by lunchtime. People get upset, but it never fazes Evgeni. Especially on hot days. He seems to turn up without fail when there’s a hamsin blowing outside. It’s nice and cool in the waiting room and Dina is sure he enjoys having some time off work. Sometimes after a whole day of sweeping up other people’s trash, breathing in all that dirt and dust, he must feel pretty bad. But at least he has a job. So many Russian immigrants can’t find any sort of work; former concert violinists with the Saint Petersburg Philharmonic busk in the mall, and physicians from Moscow mop stairwells just to earn a few shekels while they study for their Hebrew entrance exams.
She places the fax Yael threw at her on top of the growing pile of test results taking over her desk and turns on the computer. A list of the day’s patients appears on the screen. She should call Eitan before she starts seeing them. This morning’s argument is still lodged in her throat. She grabs her mobile phone, but decides to wait till things have calmed down a bit and tosses it back into her bag.
She remembers the way the light fell on Eitan’s face one morning, years ago, before they married, when love was filled with midnight movies, searching fingertips, excited conversations about the future. It was so simple just being with him, his hands strong; his heart steady. She felt her past close behind her as she walked with him among the stone ruins and olive trees, stepping over dog shit on the pavement, down dusty streets littered with ice-cream wrappers. She was oddly drawn to the vagaries of this land; she had fallen in love with its harsh beauty and fervour.
‘Let’s catch the train to Tel Aviv today,’ Eitan said as she woke.
She stretched her arms out, uncurling on the bed, not wanting to get up. But he pounced on her like a puppy straining for a walk.
‘We could go to Jaffa.’
She relented and they pulled on some clothes, headed down to the station and boarded the 10.05 Express. The shoreline whizzed past, and just as they approached the town of Atlit an elderly man burst into their car, playing his accordion, a halo of plastic flowers fastened to his stringy hair. The other passengers, who had been snoozing or reading newspapers, sprang to life, singing and clapping in time to the music. A young soldier got up from his seat and became the man’s impromptu accompanist, pulling a guitar out of nowhere. Dina drank in the enthusiasm of the crowd, which carried them in song all the way to Tel Aviv Central.
They jumped on the bus to Jaffa. The weight of summer pressed on them as they wandered south along the old port, past run-down warehouses, till they reached a graveyard of ships.
‘After Jonah fled from God, he was swallowed by the whale
,’ Eitan said. ‘It soon vomited him out, and legend has it he was washed up on this very shore.’
The rusty ships lay huddled together, beached on the sand. Dina stared out at the brilliant sea, watched over by facades of crumbling fortifications up on the hill behind them. Eitan clicked his camera as they strolled past skeletons of wood and metal that leant and rattled with the weight of their history, their long-dead captains’ dreams of sailing the high seas interrupted by drink, or war.
‘Jaffa’s one of the oldest towns in the world,’ Eitan said. ‘Thousands of years of secrets are hidden in its walls. Each conqueror has left his mark here.’
‘Everyone has always wanted a slice of this land,’ Dina said.
‘Let’s not start on politics.’ He grabbed her in a bear hug and kissed her neck.
They wove their way through winding alleyways in search of a late lunch, the smell of cabbage and soup seeping out from under doorways. Painted wooden shutters were closed to block out the heat of early afternoon sun. Grapevines climbed up stone walls. Stopping briefly at the flea market, they sifted through old postcards of fishermen mending their nets and camels strolling along the beach.
They were sipping Cokes together at Cafe Shakshukah, next door to a junk shop, when Eitan pulled out his camera again. Dina covered her face with her hands.
‘Oh, come on. You’re so pretty.’
She peeked at him between splayed fingers. Would he be the man she married?
‘Enough photos. I’m starving.’
Eitan raised his hand to get the scrawny waiter’s attention. The guy scurried across to their table and stood leaning over them, his pen and notepad poised. Tattooed across his forearm was the word BLISS.
‘Two serves of falafel,’ Eitan said, pushing the menu away. ‘And chips.’
People in the cafe were laughing and talking in shrill voices, stubbing cigarettes into overflowing ashtrays.
‘Will that be all?’ the waiter asked, distracted by a young woman peering in through the window.
Eitan coughed to grab his attention again. ‘You know what? Bring us an Israeli salad and a plate of hummus with pita. Eh, and let’s have some shakshukah too.’
The waiter scribbled down the order.
Eitan hesitated for a few moments, clicking his tongue on the back of his teeth in what might have sounded like a rebuke to the uninitiated. Tsk. Tsk. The waiter spun on his heels and vanished, understanding this unspoken Israeli proto-language to mean ‘no thanks’.
Behind a bain-marie filled with trays of salads and dips, posters of Maccabi Tel Aviv players were plastered on the wall. A wooden shelf boasted bronze and silver trophies. Newspapers were stacked up on a stand in front of the counter.
Dina took a sip from her glass, crunching a block of ice between her teeth. Eitan sat staring at her, as if trying to read a book whose pages were stuck firmly together. Her hand roamed under the table, reaching for his thigh, to steer him off course. She began to feel the blurring of happiness and dread. All this had happened to her before, this language of promise, the growth and ache of love, followed too soon by excoriated decay. She tried to force her heart to beat a steady rhythm, but that afternoon, the deluge of pungent smells, plates of exotic food and sultry heat engulfed her.
At dusk, they walked north along the beach, trampling shells, holding hands so tightly moss could grow between their fingers.
‘I’m tired,’ she whispered, as Eitan stood staring out at the ocean.
They circled back towards the boardwalk, crossed Ha’ Yarkon Street and made their way to Hotel Bel, next door to Dr Lek, the ice-cream shop where hookers stood around licking lemon-lime sorbet while they cooled off between customers. Eitan opened the front door and they walked into the lobby. The concierge handed over a key and pointed to a crooked staircase. They climbed up to the second floor and walked along a corridor. Fiddling with the lock, Eitan opened the door into a shoebox of a room, crammed full with a bed, a table, an orange lamp and a bible. The air was heavy with other people’s stale desire. The last of the sun’s rays reached across the walls with delicate fingers, stroking the peeling velvet wallpaper, leaching the redness from its stripes. He kissed her shoulder and by eight o’clock the sun had set and they were both living on hope.
In the middle of the night, the dead, who always arrived sooner or later from their scattered cities and towns, came to stare at Dina with faces of flesh and bone. They stood frozen in their second death, betrayed by her fucking.
‘This one is different!’ she yelled at them, but they watched her steadily, their eyes shining blue and green in the dim light.
Uncle Fishl, who had been plunged into fire inside the church in Stempeni, stood in the corner. He fingered the bible on the bedside table. Dina grabbed it from him and flung it across the room. Beside the door, Grandmother Rivka started telling the story of how they tore off her wig and raped her as she lay on the ground beside her barrow in the village market at Shereshov.
‘Leave me alone,’ Dina pleaded with them. ‘The war is over!’ But more of them started arriving, carrying Kugel, gefilte fish, pickled herring and chopped liver with fried onions, trying to force their food and their horror into her.
‘Oh my heart! Oh my heart!’ Uncle Fishl’s wife Lena cried.
‘Yes! Yes!’ echoed Great Aunt Sarah. ‘What use were all our sacrifices? Not even a wedding yet? No musicians. No vodka. What a terrible shand. A disgrace she is! Got vet shtroifen!’
‘Silence!’ Uncle Fishl hushed his wife. ‘The only one God is going to punish is you. You’re not helping matters at all. Stop squealing, woman. If you want to marry off a child, zei shtil. Be quiet.’
She sat up in bed, gagging and coughing. Eitan woke with a start, grabbed a bottle of water from his bag and offered her a drink.
‘Take them away,’ she begged Eitan.
Dina rested her head on Eitan’s chest, curling into him. ‘They follow me,’ she said, sobbing quietly.
‘Who?’
‘The ghosts.’
‘Then maybe you should introduce them to me.’
A cobweb lay silhouetted in one corner of the ceiling. Dina watched the lone spider as it repaired its silken threads. There were no more words. Eitan traced her tears with his finger, writing his initials on her skin. He stroked her hair and she drifted off to sleep, knowing she would probably wake alone, yet another lover slipping away from her madness just before dawn. She was wrong, though. Eitan turned out to be a man who was comfortable with the dead. They were as familiar to him as the living, and in time she would learn why. Dina fell back into a deep sleep, his arms around her, shielding her from the strange lullaby of her bickering shadows.
Dina looks at the clock above her desk and flicks on the radio, hoping to catch the end of the news.
‘Traffic downtown is very heavy this morning. Drivers are advised to detour from this area. Stay tuned for updates as they come to hand. And now on Radio Haifa, Pini Baron, with guests in the studio to help you prepare the perfect gefilte fish.’
‘Your grandmother used to make her own gefilte fish, you know.’ Dina’s mother is seated in the chair beside her, speaking over the top of the announcer.
Dina turns off the radio. ‘Don’t start with this now. I need to see patients.’
Her mother’s ghost is like a faithful dog. Difference is, though, you can train a dog to heel. If there was some sort of international taxonomy for spectres, Dina’s mother would come under the section headed Free Range, Off Leash, Subcategory (5a) – phasma familiaris.
When her mother catches wind of the opportunity for a story, there’s no stopping her.
‘I was the mizinek of the family. The youngest of six.’
‘I haven’t got time right now, Mother. You’re not listening to me!’
‘You should be the one doing the listening here.’
Dina sinks deeper into her seat and places her hands over her belly, as if to block her baby’s ears from yet another of her mother’s unav
oidable tales.
‘Back in Lodz, before the war, my mother would take me to the market to get a carp every Thursday. We carried the fish home wrapped in paper and placed it in a tub of cool water to let it swim around. I named him Moishe and thought he was my special pet. My mother didn’t have the heart to tell me that every week she would chop off Moishe’s head, mince his flesh and serve him for the Shabbat meal, so she made up a story, lying about the fish’s fate.
‘“Moishe is a magical fish,” she would tell me. “He is King of the Carps. Mrs Lewin, the fishmonger’s wife, looks after him during the week because otherwise all his fishy subjects would be lost without him. But on Thursdays, he comes home to play with you again.”
‘Nollek Lewin owned the fish shop on Narutowica, but it was his wife, Saba, who wore the pants in that family. After she insisted Nollek renovate the place, pink tiles lined the walls. The fish that came from Saba’s shop were the cleanest, freshest and of the highest quality in all of Lodz. And Saba had her reputation to uphold. The Who’s Who of Jewish women came to buy their fish there, even from across the other side of town. They stood in line, patiently waiting for their turn. Saba took her time with each customer, with every fish. The carp would swim around in the large tank and the fishmonger’s wife would watch them closely.
‘“This is Mrs Rosenberg’s fish,” she would announce, as a particularly large carp swam three times around the tank and stopped in front of a woman in a fur hat who wore a string of pearls around her fat neck. It rolled over to one side and seemed to stare at the customer with its bulging fish eye. “A fish comes to you by name,” Saba Lewin would say, reaching in to grab the poor carp by a fin and tossing it on the scales as it thrashed around. She weighed it carefully and quickly wrapped it up in an old edition of the Lodzer Arbeter Tsaytung, the worker’s newspaper, before handing it over to a smiling Mrs Rosenberg, who dropped a few coins in Saba’s palm and shoved the flapping fish into her basket.’
Waiting Room, The Page 6
