The Lover (16 page)

I went to have a shower, washed off the oil stains. When I came out he wasn’t in the living room, Mommy had disappeared too, only Daddy was still there, deep in thought.

“Is he still here?”

Daddy nods, pointing to the study door.

“When are we going to eat?”

He doesn’t answer.

I go back to my room, put on a blouse and shorts, return to the living room, find Daddy still sitting there motionless, as if he’s been turned to stone.

“What’s going on?”

“What do you want?”

“Has he gone?”

“Not yet.”

“What’s happening?”

“Nothing.”

“Do you really mean to employ him here?”

“Perhaps.”

I go into the kitchen, everything’s tidy and clean, no sign of supper. I take a slice of bread, go back to him, pick up the paper and glance through it, go to the study door and listen, but Daddy looks up and angrily signals to me to move away.

“What’s she doing in there? How long’s he going to stay?”

“What business is it of yours?”

“I’m starving.”

“Then eat.”

“No, I’ll wait.”

It’s a bit strange to see him sitting there in the dark, without a paper, without anything, his back to the sea.

“Shall I put the light on for you?”

“There’s no need.”

I eat another slice of bread, which only increases my appetite. At the beach we hardly had anything to eat. It’s eight o’clock now, I’m frantic with hunger.

“But what’s happening?”

“Why are you making such a fuss? If you want to eat, eat,” he snaps. “Who’s stopping you … anyone would think Mommy still had to feed you …”

“You know I don’t like eating alone … come and sit with me.”

He looks at me angrily, groans, gets up from his seat, scowling, comes into the kitchen and sits down beside me, helping me to slice the bread, bringing out cheese and olives and salad and eggs and after a while he too begins to nibble, digging around in the dishes with a fork. The study door is still closed, she’s gone quite crazy, taken my idea seriously, made him her slave.

Suddenly the door opens, Mommy comes out to us, her face tense, she’s very alert.

“Well?” I say, jumping up.

“O.K.” She smiles at Daddy. “He can help me with translating at least … he’s translating something already …”

“Now?”

“He’s got time to spare … why not?”

“Come and eat with us,” I suggest.

“I can’t leave him on his own, I’ll make sandwiches and coffee, you carry on without me.”

Hurriedly she prepares sandwiches, makes coffee, puts some olives in a dish, lays it all out on a big tray and disappears again into the study. We finish our supper, Daddy insists that I clear the table and wash the dishes and then he goes and sits down in front of the TV.

Nine o’clock. Ten. They still don’t come out, now and then I hear their voices. Daddy goes to his room, but I can’t relax, I don’t know why, this strange and sudden invasion has upset my balance, made me nervous. I undress slowly, put on my pyjamas, feeling the pain of my sunburned limbs. I sit in the living room and watch the closed door. At a quarter to eleven he leaves the house, I leap up and rush into the study. Mommy sits there in a chair, the room’s full of cigarette smoke, she’s flushed, papers and
books scattered about her in a chaos that reminds me of my own room, a light smell of sweat in the air, in her hands a bundle of papers covered with a strange, rather ornate handwriting.

Erlich of course wasn’t impressed, wasn’t mollified, a hard-boiled
yeke,
standing erect at my side, his turnip head tilted back, glaring at the pale man with the stumbling speech. To him, all this fainting was just an act, an attempt to escape payment.

“That’s all, Erlich,” I said pleasantly. “It’s O.K … you can go home now … I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Erlich was taken aback, blushed a bright red, mortally offended, never had he heard such an explicit order from me. He snatched up his old briefcase, tucked it under his arm and stormed out of the office, slamming the door.

By this time the garage was empty. I’m always struck by the sudden silence that falls within a few minutes of the workers leaving. The old watchman came in through the gate, Erlich stumbled against him, the dog barked at Erlich, Erlich kicked the dog and walked out.

I knew I’d offended Erlich, but I wanted to be left alone here with the pale young man who sat there with his head in his hands. Did I already know what my intention was? Is it possible? I knew very little about him, but enough to feel that
unconsciously
I’d cast a net and a man was caught in it, and was writhing in my hand. The sense of warmth that I’d felt when I helped him up from the floor, it certainly wasn’t regret at having involved him in such an expensive repair job, because I was already prepared to cancel the debt, but …

I smiled at him, he looked at me gloomily, but then a light flicker of a smile appeared on his face. My slow, relaxed, assured movements can instil calm all around me, this I know. I bent down and picked up the bill, which still lay on the floor. I read it through, folded it and put it in my shirt pocket. I left the office, called the watchman and sent him to buy coffee and cake from a nearby café, I switched on the electric kettle and made coffee for him and for myself.

Again, the story about his grandmother, which sounded to me
more and more like a hallucination. A very old woman who had brought him up after his mother died. A few months ago she fell into a coma and was taken to a hospital, but only two weeks ago he received a letter in Paris, a neighbour found his name and address and wrote to him, telling him that she was dying. He wasn’t sure whether to come, but since he knew he was the only heir he decided to come and claim whatever there was. There wasn’t much, he had no illusions, but there was after all an apartment in an old Arab house, this car, a few bits and pieces, perhaps some jewellery that he didn’t know about. What did he have to lose? He spent most of his money on the plane ticket … he didn’t intend to stay here long … he thought he’d just sign some papers, take the money and go … but in the meantime … from an official point of view there was nothing he could do … the small amount of money that he’d brought with him was running out fast … it seemed prices had risen a lot … and his grandmother wasn’t yet … almost … today he was at the hospital again … she was like a vegetable … worse than that … a stone … but, alive …

What did he do in Paris?

All kinds of work … in recent years he even taught Hebrew … private lessons … the Jewish Agency even sent him three priests who wanted to learn Hebrew, enthusiastic and reliable pupils … and friendly, not like the Jewish businessmen … aside from this he taught French to foreigners, to other Israeli
immigrants
, Arabs, Africans, students especially, helping them to write their papers … recently the agency had sent him some Zionist publicity to translate … he hadn’t been short of work and his needs had been few.

Had he studied there?

Yes … no … a little … years ago he attended lectures on history and philosophy but because of his illness he’d been forced to give them up … he used to feel faint in crowded rooms … not enough air … but this last year he’d started going to lectures again … not for a degree … for pleasure … now if he was going to have money he’d be able to spend more time studying …

Meanwhile he finished off the sandwiches, eating delicately, picking up the crumbs around him. A hungry man in Israel in 1973.

“Do you intend to work now?”

If there’s no alternative … if he has to wait much longer for his grandmother to die … but not work in the sun … he’ll go to the Jewish Agency … perhaps I know somebody there …

Such an alien passivity amid the chaos of life all around, but no particular worries either.

The watchman came in, took away the empty cups, the man put his hand to the keys lying on the table and played with them.

“Excuse me, I don’t know your name.”

“Gabriel Arditi.”

“You won’t be able to take the car.”

“Not even for a few days?”

“I’m sorry.”

He put the keys back on the table, I took them and hid them away in my pocket. “Don’t worry,” I said, “we’ll take care of it here, nobody will touch it, until you’re able to pay the bill …”

He was disappointed but he bowed his head with a captivating gesture, thanked me for the meal, put on his cap and left. A few seconds later he came back, asked me to lend him five pounds. I gave him ten.

He left the garage, the dog no longer barked at him but followed him for a few paces. I hurriedly finished my work with the bills, went out of the office and climbed into the Morris, which stood there in the middle of the floor. I was going to move it into a corner but I changed my mind and decided to take it home with me, to see how it climbed the steep slope of the hill. It went up slowly but surely, the engine throbbing steadily. Everyone overtaking me turned to look, some with
astonishment
, some with a smile.

At noon the next day someone touched me lightly. He stood there beside me, a pleasant smile on his face. He held out ten pounds.

“Has your grandmother passed away?” I smiled.

No, not yet, but at the airline office they’d agreed to buy back his return ticket at half price. He now had a thousand pounds. Could he take the car? I thought carefully, for a moment I considered taking the thousand pounds and cancelling the rest of the debt, letting the car go, but suddenly I didn’t want to let it go.

“No I’m sorry … you’ll have to bring the rest of the money … anyway it’s better you should keep the money for the time being … have you started looking for work yet?”

He was disappointed but he didn’t insist. He murmured
something
about Jerusalem … he’d go there and look for work … there were no opportunities in this town …

Somebody’s going to get control of him, I thought.

At supper I found myself thinking about him again, seeing him pace slowly about the garage, his back slightly bent, moving cautiously among the cars, avoiding the Arab workers. The faded French beret, the professional vagrant. I remembered him fainting on the garage floor, his opened shirt, his thin white chest, his history of mental illness, his fixation about a dying grandmother. He doesn’t stand a chance in Israel. He must be taken in hand. I asked Asya, I thought perhaps there might be something at the school. Of course she didn’t understand what I meant, washing the dishes, in a hurry to get back to the study, surprised at my concern over a customer, not understanding the interest I took in him. But when I told her about the lost money she stopped short at the study door, and of course Dafi
interrupted
every other sentence. To my surprise I realized that it really was the loss of the money that bothered them. Dafi in her usual way started being facetious, suggesting ways of employing him in the house, her imagination running wild, he could wash the dishes, scrub the floor, help her with her homework. I looked at Asya, she smiled.

Of course I didn’t decide anything. But the next day I found the phone number that Erlich had written on the bill, which was still in my pocket. I phoned him. I got him out of bed, he was half asleep and confused, I told him to come around and see me in the afternoon. He asked, “Are you going to give me back the car?” I said, “We’ll see … in the meantime I may have found you a job.”

Five minutes before he was due to arrive I told Asya, she was surprised at first, then she laughed. He arrived with that perpetual cap of his, but in a clean shirt, sat down in the living room and began to talk. She liked him, as I knew she would, slowly the conversation developed, she asked him about Paris, about his studies there. And he, a confirmed lover of the city, started
talking about places that she knew only from maps or books, describing ways of life, mentioning historical events, all this in a light, colourful style of speech, sometimes getting quite carried away.

Dafi came back from the beach, came straight into the room, just as she was, her hair untidy, all stained with oil. He leaped up at once, took her hand, told her his name, he had strange, funny manners, he even bowed slightly. The girl blushed, fled from the room. I whispered to Asya, “Why don’t you see if he can help you, he’s done a lot of translating and copying work.”

She took him into the study to show him her papers.

Dafi started pacing about restlessly, standing listening at the closed door of the study. But I felt suddenly weak, I couldn’t get up from my seat, couldn’t even switch on the light. Wondering if I should have told her something about his time in an asylum in Paris, or if it was better to let her find out for herself.

It began just with going down to the beach at the beginning of the vacation, because Osnat and Tali and I had nothing to do after the Girl Scout camp was cancelled and it grew into a full ritual. Since I was born I’ve seen the sea every day from my bedroom window, but it was only in this last vacation that I came to know it, really discovered it. The sea fascinated us, made its way into our souls and our bones, I didn’t know it could be so wonderful. At first, in the first week, we were still taking books with us, newspapers, our holiday assignments, rackets, a
transistor
, afraid we might be bored, but after a while we realized it was another world and we began going just as we were. At nine o’clock in the morning we’d meet at the bus station wearing only swimsuits, no hats, no blouses, barefoot, like savages, clutching only some folded money, going down to the beach, finding a place in a corner a long way from the lifeguard’s booth, collapsing on the warm sand, the sun on our backs, talking lazily, telling one another about our dreams, beginning to enter the slow rhythm of sea, sun and sky, losing our sense of time, roasting in the heat, diving into the cold water, swimming, sinking, floating, finding a little island of rock, rising and falling on the surf, coming out and
lying on the water line, wallowing in the muddy sand, digging holes, then going to buy
falafel
or ice cream, drinking water from the big tap, moving away from the crowd, finding a quieter place, sinking into drowsiness, a kind of Nirvana, a quiet listless reverie, like corpses on the beach, to the sound of the waves, not caring that the sun’s in our eyes. Slowly waking and starting to run, a light run, a gentle long run, the whole length of the deserted beach, farther and farther from any sign of human life, stripping naked and plunging again into the sea, where it’s shallow, among the rocks, looking at one another no longer with curiosity or with embarrassment but studying the parts that the sun hasn’t reached, needing to be brown all over, on our nipples and our asses. Putting on our swimsuits again and walking slowly back, hunting for shells, bending over a yellow crab, motionless in its crevice. Sometimes one of us dives into the surf again and the others wait till she comes back, all the time our eyes fixed on the blue horizon shimmering in the heat, feeling the sands shift beneath our bare feet. When we reach the lifeguard’s hut the last of the people are packing up to go, with their baskets, chairs and children, we stand and watch the setting sun, not wanting to move, until the lifeguard comes to us, tells us to go.