The Lover (12 page)

The heat gets stronger, I strip off my clothes, in my underwear, in the dark, I sit watching the flames, hypnotized. I could sit for hours watching them being consumed, wondering which one will burn longest. The siren of an ambulance in the distance. Long thin insects with delicate wings walking on the walls, on the table. I start to doze, the light dances in my closed eyes. The lapping of water at my feet wakes me. Water? Where’d all this water come from? Oh God, the floor’s flooded. The tap.

You didn’t want to wash the dishes and now you’ll have to wash the floor as well. It’s nearly midnight. They’re not home yet. I run to fetch rags, start to mop up, cleaning, bending down and scrubbing. Chasing the water as it runs under the cupboard, wetting a little old suitcase that’s hidden behind it. I clean, mop and scrub, streaming with sweat. Going to the kitchen and washing the damn dishes, scraping the saucepans and the frying pan as well, polishing them. Working like a demon, washing, drying, putting things away in the cupboard. At last I go and take a shower, putting on a dressing gown and sitting down to look inside that old suitcase that I never noticed before. Some
moth-eaten
old children’s clothes, mine or his? Who can tell? They can’t have thrown everything away. I put them back in the case, put the case back where I found it, dead tired but waiting up for them. What’s happened to them? Outside the voices are fainter. The music stops. A cool breeze passes through the house, the air stirs.

I only remember that suddenly they were beside me. I didn’t hear them open the door or come in. Daddy lifts me up, supports me, leads me to my bed. Through my sleep I hear Mommy say, “She’s gone mad, she’s washed the whole house.” And Daddy laughs suddenly: “Poor Dafi, she took me seriously.”

So really, is that the way to describe her? Starting with her smooth little feet, so wonderfully preserved, the fleshy, smooth and silky curve, the feet of a pampered child, not belonging at all to this gloomy woman with wrinkles in her face, who seems to insist on growing old before her time.

If only someone was to touch me, quietly, out of genuine friendship, good will, interest, let’s say on a Sabbath eve at one of those social gatherings at a friend’s house, teachers from Asya’s school or friends from our school days, former neighbours with whom we’ve kept in touch. At one of those gatherings that we get invited to every few weeks, where most of the faces are familiar and after a while the conversation breaks down and the one who’s dominated the proceedings falls rather silent and starts to eat his cake, or gets up to go to the bathroom, and the great discussion of political problems, of the meanness of contractors or a visit to Europe is broken off and the minor conversations begin, echoes of whispers, the women discussing obscure
feminine
disorders, the men getting up, to stretch their legs, going out to the main balcony, someone even switches on the
television
at low volume, and I’m still marooned in my chair, picking at the shells in an empty dish of nuts, silent as always, already thinking of moving homeward, if only someone, a good friend, a childhood friend, was to turn to me, put a hand on my shoulder, touch me gently, with a good-natured smile, seeking a genuine connection, and whisper for example, “Adam, you’re always so quiet, what are you thinking about all the time?”

I’d tell him the truth at once. Why not? I don’t mind.

“You’ll be surprised, but I think about her, I can’t think about anyone else.”

“About whom?”

“About my wife …”

“About your wife? Very good … why not? Sometimes it seems that your thoughts are far away and all the time you’re thinking about her.”

“I’m busy with her constantly …”

“Has something happened?”

“No, nothing’s happened.”

“Because you seem so good together, I mean a steady sort of couple without bickering or strains. We were a bit surprised at the time when she married you … she’s such an intellectual type, sitting over her books all the time, and we thought it was strange that you, out of all her friends … you understand? No offence … you understand?”

“I understand, I understand, go on.”

If only one of our friends, and we don’t have many, one of the three or four that we see regularly, who’ve been close to us for years, was to touch me once with friendship, with sincerity, even with all the noise, even in a small room, there’s always an opportunity for a little private, personal conversation.

“We lost track of you in the middle of the school course, you went away to work, the years went by and suddenly – the two of you. It was a surprise.”

“For me too.”

“Ha ha, and we were sure that all the time you were secretly in love.”

“I …”

“Yes, you. We remember that affair of hers. But now the bond between you seems so natural, when we talk about you it’s always with good will, believe me, it’s always good to see you among us, even when you sit there without saying anything. No, don’t think it’s annoying, the opposite, really, I don’t know how to say it, Adam …”

“Thanks very much. Thanks very much. I understand.”

“So what do you think about all the time?”

“About her, I’ve already told you.”

“No, I mean what are you thinking about her, if you don’t mind my asking.”

“Not at all. I think about her feet.”

“Pardon? I didn’t hear you. All this noise … about what?”

“About her little feet.”

“Is something the matter with them?”

“No, nothing in particular, I just wonder, incidentally, if you’ve ever seen them. The sweet girlish curve, the legs of a pampered child, she isn’t quite … as she seems.”

If someone was to lay his hand on my shoulder, taking me aside in a friendly way, with affection, with a whisper, with arrogance even, with curiosity, but still talking to me with genuine affection, looking me straight in the eye.

“But of course … how could I have known, forgive me. Her feet, you said? But how could anyone know … except for you of course … forgive me … she wears … forgive me … such heavy shoes with flat heels … I mean … I don’t know much about these things but I’m surprised … my wife mentioned it … that
dress … something a bit shabby about it … I don’t think she does herself justice … when she was young she was so charming, not pretty but quite attractive and now she’s ageing so quickly, that is, not ageing, far from it, but she’s deteriorating a bit, perhaps because of that tragic business with the boy. I
understand
, but people mustn’t be allowed to age like that, we all have a responsibility, we must look after one another, warn one another, we still have a long life ahead of us …

“I know … I’m sorry.”

“Oh, Adam, forgive me. But I spoke as a friend. We’ve known each other for such a long time, right? You understand?”

“That’s quite all right, go on.”

If only someone was to approach me, casually, when it’s nearly midnight, even a little drunk, when they’re all getting up and moving about the house, because a young couple has to go and relieve their baby-sitter, and the rest are wondering whether to stay a little longer or to leave, starting to wander about the house, going into other rooms, weighing themselves in the bathroom, pacing about on the balcony, and the hosts run around after the guests, urging the undecided to stay, running to the kitchen and fetching hot rich soup and slices of bread, the leftovers from the Sabbath-eve supper, or what they’ve prepared for the Sabbath lunch, gathering the guests together, handing the plates around, pouring out the strong reddish soup, putting on a record of Greek songs, then the drowsy conversations begin, and if anyone comes to me it’s only to discuss car prices or to hear my opinion of a new model that’s just arrived on the market, or to consult me about how tyres should be crossed, they stand there holding plates and cups and listening with respect, on such subjects I’m the supreme authority.

Some of my friends were also my customers, though I never encouraged them to come to me, even in the days when the garage was small and I had to fight for customers. I wasn’t interested in them, but they were interested in me.

In the early days there weren’t many of them who could afford cars. Teachers in primary schools, minor officials, students, former kibbutzniks, just weren’t in a position to possess their own cars. But after a few years the majority of our friends began buying cars, second-hand ones of course, which they used to
bring to me for inspection, consulting me before buying. I had to be careful not to foster illusions, above all not to take any responsibility. Otherwise they’d have been at my door
constantly
, imposing the most awful obligations on me. I was forced to take a detached view of their cars.

Naturally I did some jobs for them.

For the headmaster, Mr. Shwartzy, I did an entire overhaul. For some old school friends I changed the shock absorbers and tuned the engines. For a charming couple that we met at a party, a middle-aged university lecturer and his young artist wife, I cleaned the temperature control and replaced the clutch. For the school secretary and her husband I rebuilt their car after an accident and fitted a new generator. For the gym instructor, a bachelor of thirty-five, I relined the generator and charged the battery.

I expect they all felt they’d got a bargain out of me, and in fact they hadn’t really got a bargain at all, their only advantage in coming to me was that I didn’t do unnecessary work and I didn’t keep their cars in the garage for longer than was necessary.

There were a few who came back to me, especially when they needed a quick job, but the garage grew larger, I was often absent for long periods and the foreman wasn’t prepared to give them preferential treatment. Erlich made a point of not giving
discounts
to anyone and they themselves got to understand their cars better, changed them for newer ones, found cheaper or more convenient garages.

There was one friend of ours, a woman whose husband had deserted her. At one time she was always turning up at the garage. She was scared out of her wits, she was always hearing strange noises from the eugine, she was afraid there was going to be an explosion. She used to stand aside waiting until I was free to go out with her for a drive, to hear and to feel the vibrations and the mysterious noises. I used to drive with her to the main road by the sea, breathing in the smell of cheap perfume, stealing a glance at the short fat legs beside me, while she sat there looking at me with longing and talking about her husband and weeping, all this to the accompaniment of my technical
comments
. She was really hooked on me. Finally I decided to get rid of her and I sent Hamid to deal with her. He went out to test the
car, drove once around the block, came back and said scornfully, “There’s nothing wrong, lady, everything’s quite all right.” After that she left me alone.

So among our friends I really was only a friend. They had no ulterior motive for inviting us to their homes. I used to arrive, sit down and say nothing. In some houses they already knew about my passion for nuts and they used to put a big plate in front of me, as if I were a dog, and I’d sit there in silence all evening, nibbling slowly. I had a special method of cracking the shells quietly in my hands. After the boy was killed they were wary of us. For a long time they didn’t dare invite us but eventually they made cautious advances and we responded. But my silences became deeper. Asya on the contrary talked more and more, she was especially active in political discussions, getting into arguments, always coming up with little-known facts, going into detail. Her
knowledge
never ceased to amaze me. Was it just the professional ability of a history and geography teacher, or a quality inherited from her rather? She knew, for example, the population of Vietnam, the exact location of the Mekong River, the names of all the ministers of France, the principal clauses of the Geneva Convention, when the troubles began in Ireland and how the Protestants came to be there, the date of the persecution of the Huguenots in France, and who the Huguenots were, and she knew that there were Dutch units in the Wehrmacht. In fact it wasn’t always clear exactly what she was trying to say, but she was always putting others right, or clarifying some point. Not that anyone was prepared to change his mind because of the
information
that she poured out in such a constant stream, but I saw that the men were a little nervous around her, as she sat there in the middle, a cigarette between her fingers, not touching the food but only drinking coffee and more coffee, at an hour when all the others were prevented from drinking coffee by fear of insomnia.

And I listened to her and also to the other women, who, weary of these arguments, whispered about their own concerns. One of them had a lover and everybody knew about it, it was a source of great interest although the details weren’t clear. Only her husband knew nothing, sitting there proudly in a corner, a contentious bastard, every time a view was expressed he said the opposite.

But Asya, how to describe her, I’m still trying to describe her, in the early hours of the morning, when we’re still among our friends, time for us to go but we’ve not yet found the right moment. And I watch her, thinking only of her, noticing the bitter, combative tone in her voice, the strange self-confidence. Just occasionally, when someone forcibly contradicts her
argument
, is she at a loss for a moment, putting her fist to her mouth in her old childish sucking movement, the thumb quivers for a moment at her lips, and then she realizes what she’s doing, and hurriedly returns her hand to her lap.

Sabbath eves at friends’ houses, old friends, pointless,
meaningless
conversations, but the bond remains and it’s genuine and deep. I watch my wife all the time, studying her sideways, with a stranger’s eyes, thinking about her, her mind, her body. Is it still possible to fall in love with her, some stranger who would see her just as she is, in these clothes, in the grey dress with the faded embroidery, someone who would fall in love with her for my sake too?