The Lover (37 page)

The light changes to green, but she doesn’t cross. People crush us hard against the iron railing at the side. No manners. She scowls at me.

“You’ve changed a lot.”

And she doesn’t say if the change is good or bad. She isn’t friendly, isn’t laughing. Serious.

I light a cigarette, so many things I want to say to her but I don’t know how to begin. We stand there in this strange place, opposite the changing light, pushed around by the crowd crossing from side to side. I don’t want to scare her, to look like I’m trying to put the make on her, though I could invite her to have something to drink, to sit quietly and talk. She’s pressed hard against the railings, sad and pale. I feel dizzy with love. I’m afraid she’ll go away and leave me.

“And are you still in school?” I smile.

“What can I do?” she says angrily, like I’ve insulted her. “I can’t wander around free like you … without any worries … they’ve forgotten you, you’re lucky …”

Talking so bitterly, like she wants to hurt me. What have I done to her? Why am I to blame? I feel helpless.

A taxi stops by the crossing, she grabs my hand.

“Come on, I’ll take you to your friend’s house.”

And without asking, like I’m a baby, she opens the door and pushes me inside. I have to think quickly, make up an address, stammering a bit as I tell the driver where to go, I’ve never ridden in a taxi before. In the end I stop the taxi outside a house, get out, wanting to say something to her, I can see she wants to say something too, she’s sorry she was so hard on me, wants to go on being with me but the taxi’s starting to move, it can’t stop here, and she pulls the door shut, nodding her head to say goodbye. I’m left standing on the pavement. Miserable. I’ve lost her.

I clutch at his hand, as if at freedom itself.

“Na’im, what are you doing here?”

That mysterious smile on his face, full of confidence. Not the same Na’im, he’s taller, wearing new clothes, his shoes shiny. A handsome hustler. Pleased with himself, free of worries. No longer that awkward country boy. A different person,
unbelievable
, standing there by the crossing, hands in his pockets, in a hurry, going to visit a friend, he’s made friends already, settled down well. Suddenly, I don’t know why, I feel so sad.

He doesn’t really do anything. Living with that old woman, he’s got himself a meal ticket. A strange kind of work for a healthy boy. He walks around town all day. No worries. They’re not throwing him out of school. He’s lucky. They’ve forgotten him. I feel sorry for myself. He leans up against the railings, looks me up and down. I must look like a child to him now. Where’s the little wet boy who came to our house that Friday night? And I was sure he was in love with me. Poor Dafi.

“You’ve changed …” I can’t resist saying.

And he doesn’t reply. He knows he’s changed, of course. He holds his head high. He’s got nothing to say to me now. He’s climbed so high. He’s learned a lot these last months, prowling about in dark corners, smoking earnestly. They’re all of them breaking out of their shells and coming to life, to freedom, and I’m left stumbling along at the end of the line.

And what a silly place to stand, impossible to talk here, with the light changing and rude people pushing against us. I want to say to him – take me with you to your friend’s house, but I bite my tongue, I don’t want him to think I’m trying to put the make on him. And already he wants to get away from me, he’s got nothing to say. He asks coolly, in a mocking tone, “And are you still in school?”

That really annoyed me, he found just the place to dig, my weak spot.

“What can I do? I can’t wander about free like you … they’ve forgotten you … you’re lucky …”

He knows he’s lucky. Bows his head, wants to break off contact. And suddenly I begin to wish this silly meeting never happened, why’s he so proud and puffed up? I’d take him with me, if he could forget about his friend for a bit. His freedom fascinates me. A taxi stops at the crossing and straightaway I grab his hand – “Come on, I’ll take you to your friend’s house” – and I
push him inside. He’s a bit stunned at first but he recovers himself quickly, sitting there on the edge of the seat, all excited, explaining to the driver where to go. Seems it isn’t a friend but a girl friend, he’s got himself a little Arab chick. We drive down a few streets and then he asks the driver to stop. He looks at me, blushing. He’s hiding something. But there’s something gentle about his eyes. He wants to say something, he’s not proud and mysterious anymore. But the taxi can’t stop there, he gets out, stands on the pavement, staring at me, looking sorry about something, maybe he doesn’t want to leave me, but the taxi moves off. I’ve lost him.

They’ve forgotten him. They’ve forgotten me too. I’m alone here with a little Arab and that’s how it will end. Strange. No family, no relations, no husband, and this is the last face I shall see before I die. For this is death, I know. A heaviness such as there has never been before. Standing is difficult, walking is difficult. Hardly eating but swelling all the time. Only the mind is clear and lucid. The body is a rag.

Na’im is a good boy. A real stroke of luck. Cleaning the floor, washing the dishes, taking out the rubbish, going shopping, helping with the cooking. That’s what the Arabs are really good at – housework. And the men are better than the women. They don’t make a lot of noise, they’re clean workers. In the days of the Turks we had a servant in the house, an old sheik, a real sheik, Masiloan. The whole house, all ten of us, he held together. But Hebrew newspapers he didn’t read, no, that he didn’t do.

But this little fellow reads newspapers too, entertains me. I can no longer go to the movies, he tells me about the ones that he sees. Through him I see the films. But it’s not really the same thing because he doesn’t understand. He gets confused, you can tell. What interests him most are the gun fights, who killed whom, who drew a gun on whom, who came up from behind, who jumped down from the tree, who fired back, and all the love interest in the film he forgets. Sometimes I listen as he tells the story and when he comes to the end I take five pounds from my purse and send him out to see the film again, this time at my
expense and for my sake, so he’ll get it right, who loved and who betrayed, who kissed and who disappointed, and who married in the end.

He spends long hours walking by himself in the streets. Who does he see, who does he talk to? He tells me, “Just … just people.” What is this
just
?
Just
is how a boy turns into a
fatah
from too much idleness, too much thinking. The most dangerous are the ones who are forgotten.

But I can’t do without him, I’m more and more dependent on him. I who was once well known as a courageous woman, a lone wolf. For ten years I was alone in this house and felt no fear, and now I begin to be afraid.

My body does not move, but my mind, thank God, is still working, working so hard it almost hurts. It’s hard for me to sleep, to dream dreams. I can’t allow myself to lose consciousness again. I lost it once and a war broke out and the government changed.

The situation is bad. I’m not talking now about prices, to hell with money, we’ll eat onions instead of meat, but the
newspapers
, the pleasure has gone out of newspapers. Darkness in the eyes and where is mercy? There are too many villains, the mistakes are too great, the dead are too young. He sits there in the armchair facing me, the young Arab, the damned dog, reading quietly, and I sense his enjoyment, how can he help taking pleasure in our sufferings? He breaks off, looks up, watching me quietly as if he doesn’t care and perhaps he really doesn’t care. I want to weep for all the troubles, for the isolation of the state, but I control myself, why add to his pleasure? Sometimes I nearly go to the telephone to call Adam – take him away from here, let him go back to his village, I’m better alone. But at the last moment I relent. Not yet. There is time.

For he has some movements that remind me of my Gabriel. Especially when he wanders around the house at night, when he stands at the window, silent and earnest, gazing into the distance. Young and sturdy, shining white teeth. When he sits at the table with knife and fork quietly finishing his food, I think – God, here I am raising a young terrorist who will slaughter me in the end.

Adam has forgotten him and he doesn’t care. They’ve dumped him here and he’s his own boss. He’s forgotten his mother and
his father and his village and taken root here. He’s settled down here very well, it’s as if he was born here and I’m his grandmother. They also lose their roots so easily. He isn’t short of money and all day he searches for entertainment. What is he thinking deep inside, sometimes I really wish I could get inside his head. In the middle of the night I go into his room, sit on his bed and look at him hard, even in his sleep he’s a savage.

The beginning of summer already and it’s warm outside. He still goes about in old winter clothes. I found in a wardrobe a few clothes that were Gabriel’s when he was that age. I offered him a pair of trousers and a shirt. I was sure he’d refuse. But he said nothing, took it all. He didn’t mind wearing somebody else’s castoffs. He took off his own clothes, put on the clothes that I gave him and walked up and down in front of the mirror, smiling, pleased with himself. My heart ached at wasting good clothes like these on him, I had other dreams. Suddenly he came to me and kissed my hand. His own idea, I said nothing. I expected nothing, not even thanks. I almost died, it was so sweet. He touched me to the heart. So did we, as children, at the beginning of the century, used to kiss the hands of the old men as a mark of respect. Where did he learn to do this? The young lips on my skin, a pleasing sensation of freshness. The next day I gave him a jacket the colour of Bordeaux wine. Again he kissed my hand. Ah, God, a little comfort in my last days. I almost wanted to say to him, Don’t call me Mrs. Veducha Ermozo, call me Grandma. But that would have been going too far.

Today in the class that was supposed to be history suddenly Mommy came into the classroom as a substitute. Our history teacher went off to do his reserve duty two weeks ago and usually we play basketball instead of learning about the history of Jewish settlement.

Everybody looked at me and I went red, I don’t know why. Mommy has never come into my class before. I thought she’d ignore me completely but the woman turned to me straightaway and asked me which page of the book we were on. I said at once that we hadn’t brought any books with us because we
knew the teacher was away. But it turned out that a lot of the children had brought their books along anyway. Little suckers. And then somebody told her the page and somebody else lent her a book and she looked at it for a while and went straight into the lesson.

At first she asked questions and the pupils answered. It was amazing how well she coped with the lesson, even though she hadn’t prepared for a lesson with us. She ran it at first like a question and answer session and there was some noise and chattering going on, some of them tried to annoy her even though they knew she was my mother. Anyway we didn’t feel like doing any work, we were a bit rusty in history. But slowly the class quietened down.

I’ve never seen her so friendly, so good-natured. Sure of herself, keeping control easily. Making jokes, not very funny in my opinion but the others in the class were in fits of laughter. She knew the names of some of the girls and she addressed them by name, asking them questions. She got on particularly well with Osnat, who for some reason was full of excitement, as if there was nothing that interested her more than early Zionism. Her hand was in the air all the time and that pleading voice of hers, “Teacher, teacher.” And Mommy let her do nearly all the talking. Even Tali came to life a bit. The whole class was ecstatic, answering questions, making guesses, and Mommy walked about in front of them, smiling at everybody, even when someone was talking bullshit and she knew it, disagreeing politely, without giving offence.

Wearing the old skirt that I’ve known maybe since I was born, her hair grey, a bit ruffled. The shoes with the worn heels that Daddy’s told her so many times to throw out. And I thought to myself – they’re lucky they don’t have to eat the tasteless food she cooks. If anyone in the class knew about her having a lover they’d drop dead on the spot. I don’t mind her being so friendly in the classroom, she probably thinks she’s doing it for my sake, but then why’s she always so stern at home?

Anyway for half the lesson I sat there saying nothing, even though I did have things to say, because I really love history, but I decided not to get too involved with her. But in the second half I got carried away as well and I put my hand up several times but
she never turned to me, as if she wanted to punish me for not bringing the book, though I wasn’t the only one.

The lesson was about the period of the Second Aliyah, and Mommy was trying to explain how few and isolated were the Zionists among the Jewish people, and why they thought that the only option they had was immigration to Palestine. And then I put my hand up because I wanted to say something but she wouldn’t let me, she turned to others, even the ones who put their hands up after me. And I started getting really irritated, all the rest were joining in, even Zaki opened his mouth and said something silly, but she looked right through me as if I wasn’t there. What’s going on here? Mommy was talking about other national movements, about the differences and the similarities. Towards the end of the lesson she asked fewer questions and talked more herself. And I looked at the clock, nearly time for the bell, amazing how quickly the time had passed, and I was the only one with my hand up, I was even supporting it with the other hand so it wouldn’t get tired. I was determined not to give up. Hell, what had I done to her?

“Yes, Dafi?” She gave in at last, smiling, looking at her watch. Silence in the classroom. And suddenly the bell rang and there was the usual uproar from the other classrooms, and I waited for the ringing to stop, and they were all getting edgy now, nobody likes carrying on into break time.