Open Heart (69 page)

My mother hurried to report this conversation to me before Michaela, Stephanie, and Shivi returned to Tel Aviv. She even went out to buy another carton of milk, and called me from a pay phone on the way so that my father would not overhear. Her anxiety was no longer for my endangered marriage, nor for my love for Lazar’s wife, which she still saw as a passing and
unrealistic
fantasy. Her anxiety was now focused on Shivi, for this was the main thing she grasped in all Michaela’s confused eloquence: that Michaela wanted to use Shivi as bait to draw me, and
perhaps
my parents too, after her, even at the price of dragging Shivi irresponsibly around India, in places full of sickness and
suffering
. And so she suddenly demanded, in a tone that was almost hysterical, that I put a stop to the trip immediately, or at least prevent Michaela from taking Shivi. “It’s impossible, Mother, to prevent a mother from taking her baby with her,” I replied
quietly
, trying to maintain my composure, my heart aching at this display of irrationality on the part of so rational a woman. But I
promised her that I would make arrangements with Michaela so I could send for Shivi if I decided at any stage to do so. In spite of my sorrow at the idea of parting from her, which grew as the date of their departure drew closer, it was not of Shivi that I was thinking now but of another baby, whose helplessness, which Lazar had tried to make light of and conceal, only fanned the embers of my desire, which had remained alive and burning ever since the unexpected lovemaking on her sickbed. If my mother had really succeeded in persuading Michaela to leave Shivi with me, I would have lost my freedom and flexibility in the battle for my love, which kept returning to its starting point and leaving me at square one again, especially since Dori had once more succeeded in surrounding herself with loving companions so she would not have to be alone. Not only had her son found a way of coming home every night from his base, but Hishin too was a frequent caller in the evenings, and who knew if she hadn’t
succeeded
, with the power of her ingratiating smiles, in persuading even her mother to stay over from time to time, in order to
introduce
a little structure into the accumulating chaos that gathered in her bedroom and close the open drawers behind her.

When the day of departure actually dawned, my heart was flooded with sorrow, as if I only now realized that I was going to be deprived of the affection and company that surrounded me without having made sure of even a fraction of the love for which I hoped. And the parting from Shivi was made even more painful by the fact that it took place at midnight, the strange hour chosen by the cheap travel agents to take the busload of young backpackers directly to the airport in Egypt for their flight. When I saw Shivi strapped into her carrier like one more pack next to Michaela’s and Stephanie’s big backpacks, I realized that my tolerant attitude toward the trip might not have been completely responsible. Although I had vaccinated the baby
myself
with the dosage prescribed by two reputable pediatricians in the hospital, I could not avoid the thought that I should have made them postpone their departure to make sure there were no complications. Shivi looked healthy and happy, though, as she gazed curiously at the faces of the young backpackers bending
over her with admiring cries and showing their worried parents the baby with the third eye painted on her forehead as
encouraging
evidence of a traveler who was even younger than they were. I still felt guilty over Michaela’s irresponsibility and my own, and I swore to myself that the moment my situation became clearer, I would find a way to bring my daughter back to her natural place. But until that moment arrived, her “natural place” would
presumably
be on sidewalks and train platforms; after all, she was beginning her trip on two Tel Aviv paving stones, with damp sand creeping out between them, while her mother was busy
embracing
her friends, who were far more numerous than I had imagined and so loyal that not even the lateness of the hour had prevented them from coming to say good-bye. Even Amnon had deserted his night watchman’s post and hurried here in order not to miss the moment of farewell to Michaela. I overheard him promising to go and join her if he received a postcard inviting him, even though I knew that he would never abandon his
parents
and his retarded brother, who needed him so much.

Finally it was my turn to say good-bye, and after showering kisses on Shivi’s face and looking deep into her eyes so she would not forget me, I took Michaela aside to warn her once more to be careful. Although I had avoided touching her since the morning when the statuette had been broken, in order not to cause any embarrassment, I no longer shrank from contact with her, and to reinforce my words I took her into my arms, held her tightly, and placed a long kiss on her lips. Her great eyes remained open, shining in the darkness of the night, and her fingers lightly stroked my hair, which was something she never did, as if she knew that the danger hanging over my head was graver than any of the possible dangers threatening her on her trip. Before joining Stephanie and Shivi, who had already disappeared into the bus, she did not forget to say, “If you get into bad trouble, just leave everything and come to us. We’ll all be glad.” And while I joined my hands and held them to my face in thanks for this generous gesture of reconciliation, she let slip this final, surprising
sentence
: “Nothing’s worth dying for, Benjy.” Without giving me the chance to reply, she hurried into the bus, which was
apparently
waiting just for her and now lit its little red lights and silently, as if it had already joined one of the great rivers awaiting the young travelers, sailed out of the narrow alley, leaving behind
it a crowd of friends and relations who suddenly realized that there was not much left of the night.

Accordingly, they did not hurry home but hung around
exchanging
telephone numbers and addresses in an attempt to tie a web of connecting threads to their loved ones, whose
disappearance
into the night turned even the joking words of parting they had just uttered into a suddenly painful memory. Only now did I notice Einat, who was standing next to Amnon’s pickup truck wearing a long black coat that emphasized the fairness of her hair, which she had brutally cropped as if in an act of self-
mutilation
. Had she just arrived, or had she been trying to avoid me? A shy smile crossed her face as she hesitated about whether to
accept
Amnon’s offer of a ride home on the condition that she climb into the back, for the seat next to Amnon was already taken by Hagit and her daughter, who had insisted on coming to say good-bye to her little charge. I quickly went up to Einat, for even if she guessed what had happened between her mother and me, this was no reason to avoid her. In fact, it was an
opportunity
to try to turn her into an ally. In spite of her embarrassment and resistance, I persuaded her to give up Amnon’s pickup for the pillion of my motorcycle, and with my own hands I put the helmet on her head and gently buckled the strap under her
slender
chin. Although I was used to the fear of first-time pillion riders, I had never come across anxiety as intense as that coming from Einat. Like a terrified animal, she clung to my leather jacket, occasionally breaking out into a scream, as if I were going to roll her into some terrible, hostile abyss instead of simply
taking
her home, driving barely above the speed limit through the still, silent streets of the city. As we neared her building, located in a pretty seedy quarter of the city, I asked about the terrible anxiety that had taken hold of her. But she was not embarrassed by her hysterics during the ride, nor did she laugh them off. She acted as if her panic had been natural and completely justified, if not because of the motorcycle then because of the driver. Now too, with the bike silent beside us and my hands removing the strap from beneath her chin, she seemed to be afraid of me, pale and shivering with cold, ready to give me her telephone number as I requested, as long as I would release her into the dark
stairwell
, where she disappeared with such celerity that she neglected to put on the light.

Did she really know about my love for her mother? And did this love, I asked myself, with not a little pain, seem to her so alarming, so outrageous and repulsive, that she couldn’t even stand for a moment next to the man who had gone to the ends of the earth to rescue her and whom she had trusted far more than her parents to save her life? Even if she thought that this love deprived her of her due, she could still have respected its mystery, which had begun in the hotel in Varanasi when I took blood from her mother to revive her. These reflections continued to trouble my thoughts on my way home and added distress to the sorrow of returning to the apartment, which in spite of Michaela’s efforts to leave it neat and tidy was still full of traces of the baby, the memory of whose sweet face brought tears to my eyes. And although my parents had told me not to hesitate to wake them up to tell them about the parting, I refused to burden my already sorrow-filled heart with the anger and
disappointment
of my mother, who knew that I had agreed so casually to their going so I could devote myself entirely to the insanity of the love I had so perversely chosen. I therefore not only refrained from calling Jerusalem but disconnected the phone, darkened the apartment, and got into bed hoping not only to sleep but to lose consciousness completely.

But my sleep, which did indeed begin with a full loss of
consciousness
, was soon violently interrupted by something like an electric shock passing through it. As if by someone’s hand on an invisible switch, it not only was interrupted but disintegrated completely, and from its ruins something seemed to fly up and disappear. And in spite of my soul, which was feverish with
exhaustion
, and my body, which was sinking heavily and limply into the bed, my conscious mind had taken control of me again and knew that there was no more hope of sleep. However tightly I closed my eyes, I found no consolation in the darkness, only a bus with little red lights, racing now, after crossing the border, on a desert road not far from the sea in the silvery moonlight, with Shivi sleeping on Michaela’s lap and Michaela probably sleeping now too, perhaps leaning on the shoulder of her friend Stephanie, who was chatting with one of the young backpackers. And for the first time I felt a pang of the anxiety of abandonment squeezing my soul, as if I were not looking at the lights of the bus which held my wife and daughter receding into the distance not
from the breadth of this double bed but from the opening of a little pup tent, alone and abandoned in a desolate wilderness. Suddenly I was exposed to the incomprehensible indifference of the universe, and I had to switch on the reading light, although it did not restore my composure. Instead, it only increased the pain of my envy for all those who are able to sleep, connected to each other by their bodies or their dreams. It was then that I thought, I have not been liberated but abandoned. And even the soft sound of the rain falling outside could not soften the new dread of loneliness stealing into the walls of the house. I felt as if the blood coursing through my veins were not enough to sustain me. When I shifted restlessly underneath the quilt and threatened
myself
with getting out of bed in the hope that my weariness would overcome me and return my lost sleep, the bed itself seemed to cast me out, as if my touch on the pillows and bedclothes were a burden to it. And a little like a sleepwalker I emerged from the circle of light in the bedroom into the darkness of the living room, trying to attach myself to a less alienating version of
reality
, the one contained in the shabby floral upholstery of the sofa, which immediately aroused my longing for the plump, laughing woman who sat on it with her legs crossed, frozen in alarm but also in delight at the young man’s declaration of love. But was such a longing, which might warm the heart with a sweet
sorrow
, enough to make me take off my pajamas and with limp heavy movements put on layer after layer of clothes? No.
Something
more real and powerful forced me to switch off the lights and go out into the rainy night with my helmet in my hand, in order to seek human contact. As if now that Lazar’s soul had left me, my abandonment had doubled.

If it had been even six o’clock in the morning I might have called my parents and avoided this weird nocturnal expedition. However, I could not have unburdened myself to my mother in my father’s presence or spoken of everything weighing on my heart—the parting from Michaela and Shivi, our plans for the future—though sharing these feelings would have eased my
sudden
sense of abandonment. But it was three o’clock in the
morning
, and since I never had had time to become acquainted with the Tel Aviv pub scene, let alone with the all-night discos, I could not seek human contact at this hour with anyone but those who were always prepared to give it—in other words, those at the
hospital, where I knew that even at this still, secret hour,
absolute
and eternal vigilance held sway over even the remotest
corner
in the building, wrapping staff and patients alike in a blanket of security, whether they were tossing in their beds or asleep in their chairs or dead in their iron drawers. I knew that after
getting
over the surprise of my sudden arrival at the wrong time, one of the anesthetists in the emergency room might try to coax me into changing places with him, so I decided to go to one of the other parts of the hospital. It seemed much darker than usual. I asked one of the security guards about the darkness. He too was aware of the difference and concerned by it—if darkness reigned over the entire hospital, it meant that it wasn’t just a coincidence or an accident but the result of a new directive from administration to save electricity. And then it dawned on me, like a flash of lightning: they had found a successor to Lazar, and he must be someone from outside, if his first instruction was to dim the lights. I decided to go up to the pediatric ward, where there were always parents awake, sitting in vigil. But first I went down to my locker in the intensive care unit, to leave my helmet and leather jacket and put on the coat with my name embroidered on it and hang a stethoscope around my neck. Thus protected by the neutral identity of a doctor on night duty, I went up to the
pediatric
ward. As I had guessed it was humming with activity, not so much because of the concern of the parents, some of whom were sleeping in corners while others paced the corridors red-eyed with despair, but thanks to the wakefulness of those children whose as yet undiagnosed illnesses gave them the right to
demand
unremitting attention. I too wanted attention, but the
parents
who surrounded me did not see that I was no less exhausted than they were. Although I repeatedly explained that I was not a pediatrician but an anesthetist and I had only come up here to look for someone, they clung even to this passing medical
authority
and showered me with questions of a medical or
bureaucratic
nature, which I answered patiently but in a general,
ambivalent
, evasive, and noncommittal way, as if the source of authority which had always given strength and clarity to my
responses
and diagnoses were slipping away from me. It was not surprising that after a while even the most insistent of the parents turned away from me, and with my whole being crying out for the sleep that had been denied me, I walked down the corridor
and peeped into the rooms full of bright posters and toys, to soften my burning eyes with the sight of the sleeping babies, some of whom were no older than Shivi, now lying in the warmth and safety of Michaela’s arms, or perhaps Stephanie’s lap. Even after I had gone downstairs, firmly resolved to go home, get into bed, and drown the inexplicable anxiety that had taken hold of me in sleep, I nevertheless made one last effort, going outside, still in my white coat and stethoscope, oblivious to the wind raging in the little stand of trees behind the main
building
, and into the annex that housed our small psychiatric
department
, which Lazar’s death had perhaps saved from extinction. Although I had never been there before, I knew very well that no concerned relatives would be wandering around its corridors. And even if they were, it was not them I was seeking but the doctor on duty, to ask his advice.