My Michael (30 page)

The members of Nof Harim, my brother's contemporaries, were mostly in their middle thirties. They were an exuberant crowd who hid the signs of earnest responsibility behind a gay façade. I noticed a solid, self-restrained quality in them. As if they were perpetually being amused and entertained in obedience to a grimly accepted resolution. I liked them. I liked the high place.

Then, Emanuel's small house overlooking the kibbutz fence which was also the Lebanese border. A cold shower. Orange juice and cakes baked by my mother. A summer frock. A short rest. The smiling attentions of my sister-in-law, Rina. Emanuel imitating bears for the benefit of my son Yair. It was the same clumsy imitation which Emanuel used to perform so well when we were children that we would both burst into tears of laughter. Even now we laughed and laughed.

My nephew Yosi offered to entertain Yair. They strolled hand in hand to see the cows and the sheep. It was a time of long shadows and dim light. We lay down on the lawn. When night fell, Emanuel brought out an electric light on a long wire and hung it on a tree branch. There was a slight, good-natured difference of opinion between my brother and my husband, which was soon resolved in almost complete agreement.

Afterwards, the tearful happiness of my mother, Malka. Her kisses. Her questions. The broken Hebrew in which she congratulated Michael on completing his doctoral dissertation.

My mother had been suffering recently from serious disorders of the circulation. She seemed to be nearing the end. What a small place my mother occupied in my thoughts. She was Father's wife. That was all. On the few occasions when she had raised her voice against Father, I had hated her. Apart from that, I had made no room for her in my heart. I knew deep down inside me that I must talk to her sometime about myself. About her. About Father's youth. And I knew that I would not broach the subject this time. And I also knew that there might not be another opportunity because my mother already seemed to be nearing the end. But these thoughts did not detract from my happiness. My happiness surged within me as if it had an independent life of its own.

I have not forgotten. The Passover Eve Party. The arc lamps. The wine. The kibbutz choir. The ceremony of waving the wheat sheaf. The barbecue round the campfire in the small hours of the morning. The dancing. I joined in every single dance. I sang. I whirled hefty dancers round and round. I even dragged Michael, alarmed, into the center of the ring. Jerusalem was far away and could not haunt me here. Perhaps she had been conquered in the meantime by the enemy who hemmed her in on three sides. Perhaps she had finally crumbled to dust. As she deserved. I did not love Jerusalem from a distance. She wished me ill. I wished her ill. I had a wild, lively night in Kibbutz Nof Harim. The dining hall was filled with smells of smoke, sweat, and tobacco. The harmonicas never stopped playing. I reveled. I was swept away. I belonged.

But towards dawn I went out and stood all alone on the balcony of Emanuel's small house. I saw coils of barbed wire. I saw dark bushes. The sky lightened. I was facing north. I could make out the silhouettes of a mountainous landscape: the Lebanese border. Tired lights shone yellow in the ancient stone-built villages. Unapproachable valleys. Distant snow-capped peaks. Lonely buildings on the hilltops, monasteries or forts. A boulder-strewn expanse scarred with deep wadis. A chill breeze blew. I shivered. I longed to leave. What a powerful yearning.

Close on five o'clock the sun burst out. It rose shrouded in thick mist. Low scrub lay hazily on the face of the earth. On the opposite slope stood a young Arab shepherd boy surrounded by gray goats furiously munching. I could hear the chimes of distant bells stirring ripples in the sky. As if the other Jerusalem had come up and appeared out of a melancholy dream. It was a dark, terrifying reflection. Jerusalem was haunting me. Headlights shone from a car on a road I could not see. Great, solitary, ancient trees grew vigorously. Stray wisps of mist wandered in the deserted valleys. The spectacle was frozen and turbid. An alien land was being washed with cold light.

I
HAVE WRITTEN
somewhere in these pages: "There is an alchemy in things which is also the inner melody of my life." I am inclined to reject this statement now because it is too high-flown. "Alchemy." "Inner melody." Something did finally happen, in May of 1959, but it happened in a cheap way. It was a sordid, grotesque travesty.

At the beginning of May I conceived. A medical examination was necessary because of the slight complications I had suffered during my first pregnancy. The examination was carried out by a Dr. Lombrozo, because our family doctor, Dr. Urbach, had died of a heart attack early in the previous winter. The new doctor could discover no cause for anxiety. Nevertheless, he said, a woman of thirty is not quite the same as a girl of twenty. I must avoid excessive strain, heavily spiced foods, and physical relations with my husband from now until the end of the pregnancy. The veins in my legs began to swell again. Dark rings appeared once more around my eyes. And the nausea. The perpetual tiredness. Several times in the course of the month of May I forgot where I had put some object or article of clothing. I took this as a sign. Up till then I had never forgotten a thing.

Meanwhile, Yardena volunteered to type out Michael's doctoral thesis. Michael, in return, offered to prepare her for her final examinations, which she had already deferred to the last date permitted. So every evening Michael, tidy and neat, went off to Yardena's room on the edge of the university campus.

I admit it: the whole thing verged on the ridiculous. And deep down inside me I had expected it all along. I was not disturbed. Over supper Michael would appear to me to be nervous and distracted. He would keep fidgeting with his tie, his sober tie secured with a silver clip. His smile was elusive and guilty. His pipe refused to light. He was forever fussing over me with offers of help: to carry, shake out, sweep, serve. I no longer felt any need to torture myself by detecting signs.

Let me speak quite frankly: I do not suppose that Michael went any further than shy thoughts and speculations. I can see no reason why Yardena should have given herself to him. On the other hand, I can see no reason why she should have refused him. But the word "reason" is meaningless to me. I do not know and I do not care to know. I am closer to inner laughter than to jealousy. At most, Michael is like our kitten, Snowy, who once struggled with pathetic leaps to catch a moth fluttering just below the ceiling. Ten years ago Michael and I saw a Greta Garbo film at the Edison Cinema. The heroine of the film sacrificed her body and her soul for a worthless man. I recall that her suffering and his worthlessness seemed to me like two terms in a simple mathematical equation. I watched the screen sideways, until the pictures turned into a capering succession of different tones graded between black and white, but principally various shades of gray. So too, now, I do not take the trouble to unravel or solve. I watch sideways. Only I am much more tired now. And yet, surely something has changed after all these dreary years.

For some years now Michael has been resting with his arms on the steering wheel, thinking or dozing. I bid him farewell. I am not involved. I have given in. When I was a girl of eight I believed that if I behaved exactly like a boy I would grow up to be a man instead of a woman. What a wasted effort. I do not have to rush up panting like a madwoman. My eyes are opened. Farewell, Michael. I shall stand at the window and trace shapes with my finger on the misty pane. You may suppose, if you like, that I am waving to you. I shall not disillusion you. I am not with you. We are two people, not one. You couldn't go on being my thoughtful elder son. Fare you well. Perhaps it is not too late to tell you that nothing depended on you. Or on me. Have you forgotten, Michael, how you said once, many years ago, when we were sitting together in Cafe Atara, that it might be nice if our parents could meet. Try to visualize it now in your own mind. Our dead parents. Yosef. Yehezkel. Please, Michael, stop smiling for once. Make an effort. Concentrate. Try to imagine the picture: You and me as brother and sister. There are so many possible relationships. A mother and her son. A hill and woods. A stone and water. A lake and a boat. Movement and shadow. Pine tree and wind.

But I have more left than mere words. I am still able to unfasten a heavy padlock. To part the iron gates. To set free two twin brothers, who will slip out into the vast night to do my bidding. I shall urge them on.

At dusk they will crouch on the ground to prepare their equipment. Faded army rucksacks. A box of explosives. Detonators. Fuses. Ammunition. Hand grenades. Glittering knives. In the ruined hut thick darkness reigns. Halil and Aziz the beautiful pair whom I called by the name of Halziz. They will have no words. Guttural sounds will emerge. Their movements controlled. Their fingers supple and strong. They form one body. It rises firm and gentle like a palm. A submachine gun suspended from the shoulder. The shoulder square and brown. They move on rubber soles. Dark khaki tight to the body. Their heads bare to the wind. In the last twilight glimmer they will rise as one man. From the hut they will glide down the steep slope. Their soles treading a path the eye cannot see. Theirs is a language of simple signs: light touches, hushed murmurs, like a man and a woman at love. Finger to shoulder. Hand to neck. A bird's cry. A secret whistle. Tall thorns in the gulley. The shade of ancient olives. Silent the earth surrenders. Lean and grimly gaunt they will trickle down the winding wadi. The tension lurks gnawing deep within. Their movements bowed and curved, like tender saplings swaying in the breeze. Night will clutch and veil and swallow them in his folds. The chirp of crickets. A distant fox's cackle.

A road crossed in a crouched leap. Their movement approaches a weightless glide. The rustling of shadowy groves. Barbed wire severed by savage shears. The stars are their accomplices. They flash instructions. In the distance, the mountains like masses of darkening clouds. Villages glimmer below on the plain. The swish of the water in serpentine pipes. Sprinklers splash. They sense sound in their skins, in their soles and their palms, in the roots of their hair. Soundlessly circling an ambush secreted in the folds of the gulley. Slantwise they cut through pitch-black orchards. A small stone clatters. A sign. Aziz darts ahead. Halil crouches behind a low stone wall. A jackal shrieks shrilly, falls silent. The submachine guns loaded, sprung, and cocked. A vicious dagger flashes. A stifled groan. Unbending. The chill of salty sweat. Noiseless onward flow.

A weary woman leans out of a lighted window, closes it, and vanishes. A sleepy watchman coughs hoarsely. They crawl winding among spiked shrubs. White teeth bared to bite out the pin of a grenade. The hoarse watchman belches. Turns back. Walks away.

The huge water tower rests heavily on its concrete legs. Its angles soften in the darkness, curving into shadow. Four lithe arms reach out. Matching as in a dance. As in love. As if all four spring from a single body. Cable. Timing device. Fuse. Detonator. Igniter. Bodies surge down the hill and away, softly padding. And on the slope below the skyline a stealthy run, a longing caress. The undergrowth flattens and straightens as they pass. Like a light skiff edging through still, calm waters. The rocky ground. The mouth of the wadi. Round the lurking ambush. Quivering black cypresses. The orchards. The winding path. Cunningly clinging to the cliff face. Nostrils flared and sniffing. Fingers groping for a hold. Faraway wistful crickets. The damp of the dew and the wind. Then, suddenly, not suddenly, the dim thunder of the blast. A flash of light capers on the western skyline. Shreds of low echoes resound in the mountain caves.

Then spurting laughter bursts. Wild and throaty and stifled. A rapid hand-clasp. The shade of a lonely carob up the hill. The hut. A sooty lamp. The first words. A cry of joy. Then sleep. The night outside is purple. A heavy fall of dew in every valley. A star. The massive mountain range.

I sent them. To me towards dawn they will return. Come battered and warm. Exuding a smell of sweat and foam.

A peaceful breeze touches and stirs the pines. Slowly the far sky pales. And on the vast expanses quiet cold calm descends.

Amos Oz is the author of numerous works of fiction and essay collections. He has received the Koret Jewish Book Award, the Prix Femina, the Israel Prize, and the Frankfurt Peace Prize, and his books have been translated into more than thirty languages. Amos Oz lives in Israel.

***

Nicholas de Lange is a professor at the University of Cambridge and writes on a variety of subjects. He has won many prizes for his translations.