The Lover (39 page)

“Where’s Mommy?”

“Arguing with a traffic cop about a parking ticket.”

He smiled.

That calmness of his –

Mommy came back, furious.

“I haven’t the energy to cope with your daughter, you take her and buy her a skirt.”

She climbed into her Fiat and disappeared.

The calming influence that he always has over me. And having Tali with me as well. Both of them looked relaxed and beautiful in the darkening street.

“What kind of skirt do you want?”

“Actually it’s not a skirt I need but a blouse, I’ve just realized …”

And the three of us went to a shop that was about to close and there was a great blouse that cost hardly anything. And he took out his wallet, again I saw how swollen it was, and he handed over a hundred-pound note and said, “Perhaps we should buy one for Tali as well.”

And I hugged him, it’s wonderful when he’s so generous, and now the two of us will look like twins. And Tali blushed bright red.

And he bought one for Tali as well and we put them on right there. And then he bought
falafel
for the three of us. And we climbed into the truck and he switched on the flashing light on the roof so the other cars would treat us with respect. Sitting there like three Afghan chiefs, eating
falafel
and looking down at the people.

Mommy –

The look she gave me when I bought a blouse for her like Dafi’s. A Russian blouse with old-style embroidery. Dafi hugged me affectionately, it’s so easy to make children happy. And Tali looked at me as if I’d confessed to her. And I looked at her as if I’d already made love to her. Did she understand?

And the next day at four-thirty when I left the garage after work I saw that she understood. She was waiting for me. Sitting
on a big stone outside the gate, wearing shorts and the new blouse that I bought her, reading a book. Drawing attention, excitement almost, with her beauty, her silence, sitting there so passively. Workers waiting for the bus, from my garage and from other garages, can’t take their eyes off her, joking and whistling at her. And she doesn’t look up, absorbed in her reading, in a sort of serene abandon. I know this abandon of hers. She doesn’t even look to see if I’m coming out of the garage, she knows I’ll stop beside her.

And I do stop. She looks up, the book still open in her hand, gets up from her seat, climbs into the car in silence, not saying a word, sits down, glances at me solemnly and returns to her book.

The blood rushes to my head. The looks and the smiles of the workers, understanding what I still refuse to understand. I start to drive, not towards home but out of town, to the open road. Driving slowly, almost paralyzed with fear and excitement, saying nothing. It’s forbidden. It’s madness. Take her home at once, or put her down here, in the middle of the road. But I carry on driving along the shore road, looking for a quiet beach. In Atlit there’s a little bay where you can drive almost to the shore. I drive to the shore.

And she reading all the time, turning the last pages. I switch off the engine, get out and stand there, my face to the sea. A day of
hamsin.
The smell of the salt washes over me. My face is drenched with sweat, I bend down and wipe my hands in the sand. She’s still absorbed in her reading, motionless. Not even looking to see where we are. I stand watching the waves, the sun sinking in the west. I must cool off quickly, return to my senses, but I don’t want to. I look at her thin shoulders, her braids. So pretty. “Come here,” I say at last in a voice that even I don’t hear. I open the door. She steps out, the book still in her hand, reading the last page, suddenly moaning. Then she holds out the book to me with a movement that sets my head spinning, bending down to take off her sandals, if only I could come again without touching her.

The book is warm in my hand, I flick through it, a thin, worn volume. A tale of magic or witchcraft, a children’s book. I give the book back to her, but she drops it in the sand with a weary gesture. What can I say to her? How can I explain? How can I
start to speak against the murmur of the sea? A girl fifteen years old, her head reaches my chest. What am I doing? To speak would be more ludicrous than to take her in my arms and kiss her. I take her. My trembling hands caress her hair, with a false fatherly movement I kiss her face, embrace her. She’s silent, a lifeless thing. I remove her blouse, stunned by the vision of purity that is revealed, the ungrown bosom of a girl just
beginning
to blossom. I close my eyes and bury them in this child flesh, move my lips over her hard little breasts, not believing that this is so, destroying myself. And she says nothing, she doesn’t understand, she doesn’t resist. The smallest shadow of resistance and I would leave her alone at once. She’s staring at my beard. I hurl her down on the sand, fierce with lust, whispering, “Tali, Tali,” and I see that she’s listening not to me but to other voices, she says nothing but I hear them too. The laughter of children, the engine of a launch, people talking, a car starting up. There are people nearby.

Hastily I pull her to her feet, put on her blouse and tie it up, and bend down and put her feet in her sandals, fastening them for her as if she’s a little girl. And all the while not daring to look her in the face. Bundling her into the car and driving inland, looking for a quiet place. But there is no quiet place. This crowded land. Roads, houses, bare fields or fenced orchards. Army units, tents, people in motion. Give up. From time to time I lead her from the car, beating a path among thorns, and she follows me obediently. Once again there is someone in my power. Once it was Gabriel, once an Arab boy, now it’s a girl. People put themselves so willingly into your hands.

Wait until dark –

I stop at a little roadhouse at a
moshav.
Order cake and fruit juice for her and coffee for me.

She sits facing me, eating slowly, sucking the juice from the glass. I swallow her with my stare, my desire stretches to the sky. Twilight. Like an animal I watch my prey, her white hands, her face. This silence is unbearable, must say something. But what?

“Have you done your homework?”

“Not yet.”

Silence. Again I ask her about her father. Again the same story. He disappeared years ago, they know nothing about him. I ask
her about Dafi, what do they think about Dafi in the class. And she starts talking about Dafi with love, almost with admiration. A tough girl, awfully tough, the toughest. Tells everyone the truth, to his face, even the teachers. She isn’t afraid of anyone.

She talks slowly, something not quite developed, almost retarded, in her manner of speech. That vague disturbance, origins unknown. My redemption will come from her?

Twilight. We sit at a broken iron table in a diner, no, in a filthy general store in some remote
moshav.

“Won’t they be worried about you?”

“No.”

“Perhaps you should call your mother, tell her you’ll be back late.”

“No, she doesn’t care anyway.”

“Even so, you should phone her.”

She doesn’t move. She looks lost.

I go to the phone and ring home. Dafi answers. Asya isn’t at home. I tell Dafi I’ll be home late, I’ve driven to Tel Aviv.

“Still looking for him?”

“No, this is something else.”

“When will you be back?”

“I’ll be back. What does it matter when? What are you doing now?”

“Nothing. I’ve been waiting for Tali but she hasn’t come.”

“She’ll be there soon …”

“Don’t be late, Daddy.”

A childish plea, it doesn’t become her.

It’s already dark. The air growing cold. I pay the bill and we’re on the road again. I don’t know where to drive to, just wandering about in the darkness. Still meaning to turn and drive home, but I’m trapped in something stronger than myself. Something in the surroundings looks familiar. I drive on a few more kilometres down a narrow road. From a distance I recognize the old people’s home, the old hospital where the old lady was kept. I drive around the building, park some distance away. I leave the girl in the car and go into the hospital. I ask for the matron. They tell me she may still be about and I find her locking the door of her office. She recognizes me at once, her face lights up, she almost leaps at me.

“Did you hear about the miracle?”

“Of course.”

She’s so sorry I refused to leave my name, or an address. She wanted to give me the news herself. Just a few days after I was there.

“I know.”

“And how is she? I haven’t had time to contact her.”

“She’s fine.”

She starts telling me what she’s done with the money I gave her. After a lot of thought she decided to buy some pictures by a young, very promising Israeli artist. She takes me around the wards to show me the pictures hanging there, hoping I approve of them, even though I told her to do exactly as she liked with the money.

“Of course.”

I walk beside her, tired, worn-out, distracted, looking at the grey, surrealistic pictures, listening to her explanations with half an ear.

At last she falls silent. I explain my request. A room for the night, or for a short rest. I’m doing some work not far from here.

The request seems a little strange to her but how can she refuse me? She’ll give instructions to the Arab watchman. No problem. They’ll give me supper too.

“No need.” I walk with her to her car. She shakes my hand. Only one request, that I reveal my identity.

“Never …” I smile. “I intend to make you another donation in the future.”

She laughs, moved, shakes my hand again.

I go back to the car and find that Tali has disappeared. I start searching for her. After a few minutes I see her emerge from behind a stone wall, walking slowly back.

We wait in the car until the hospital grows a little quieter, until the evening meal is over. The lights go out. My head is bent over the wheel, sweaty, sticky. Outside a cool breeze. She still sits quiet beside me, not moving. Nothing gets through to her. An hour passes. We leave the car. The Arab watchman opens the main door, doesn’t even look at Tali. He leads us down long corridors past dimly lit wards, the old people dozing after their supper,
some of them moving about in their striped dressing gowns, like twisted slow-moving monsters.

The girl shudders.

At last something has got through to her. He shows us into a room, not large, an operating room or intensive-care unit. In the centre a big iron bed fitted with little pulleys, beside it a big cylinder of oxygen, some surgical instruments. A sink on one wall. He doesn’t even ask if I want another bed. I thrust ten pounds into his hand but he refuses to accept it.

She stands in the corner like a trapped animal, terrified, not moving. But I can’t stop myself, not now, one thought only in my heart. I go to her, draw her to me, suddenly she tries to resist. I lift her, she’s very light, sand falls from her hair. I kiss her face, her neck, gently at first, softly, fearing the violence overtaking me. I lay her on the bed. A voice tells me to stop but I can’t. I’ve gone too far. I take off her sandals, the soles of her feet are dirty. I go to the sink, dip a towel in water and wash her feet, her thighs, wipe her face. Then I strip her, and lie on the little naked body. She doesn’t understand, she starts to cry, I kiss her until she stops. I make love to her. She begins to understand, folding her arms around my neck, closing her eyes, starting to kiss me slowly. Lying still at her side. Beginning to hear the sounds of the world around me. The voices of the old people in the nearby wards. Somebody is praying, reciting psalms. An old woman laughs. Someone groans, starts weeping. She’s already asleep.

After a while I rouse her and while she still dozes I dress her, wrap her in a blanket and carry her in my arms like an invalid. The watchman opens the gate for me, I put her on the back seat. Just before midnight I arrive at her house.

Will it be possible to deny all this? I want to tell her to say nothing, but I can’t. What I’ve lost I’ve lost. I watch as she disappears through the door of her house.

A small car passes me slowly. I turn to look at it, my habit these last few months. Perhaps it’s him. And I too have become a lover, a lover in search of a lover.

PART FIVE

I can’t remember the beginning, the three of us are in another country, somewhere in the East, in Asia, near Afghanistan, I don’t know how I know that it’s near Afghanistan. An afternoon sort of country, the sun strong and low in the sky, but not a desert country, just a dry country, thousands of kilometres from the sea. Fields all around, growing corn, yellow-green, short fat stalks. What we’re doing here I don’t know, we’re not here for a holiday but for a short stay, Adam has work to do here, but he hasn’t actually started working yet, all the time he paces around the house.

We are in trouble. Dafi is pregnant. She was walking in the fields and a seed entered her. She touched nobody, nobody touched her. Not the seed of man but a seed of corn. She sat among the corn stalks and a seed entered her, something like that, vague, frightening … but she is pregnant. We already have the results of the tests, and now she sits before me in a wicker chair, small and pale, and I am filled with despair.

It’s impossible to tell if Dafi knows the condition she’s in. But I stare at her fearfully and I see that her belly is already swelling a little. It’s amazing, she conceived only a short while ago, but they explained to us that this is a childhood pregnancy, very quick, and it isn’t the first time this has happened to foreigners here on a visit.

Adam comes into the room with a doctor. A dark man, swarthy skinned, not black but very dark, with a little wispy beard. He’s come to take Dafi away because she needs urgent treatment, an operation, an abortion, not exactly an abortion, something like that, similar, they are going to take that thing out of her womb, and they will send it to us, a field mouse perhaps, something frightful. A nightmare. Adam has settled the whole business without consulting me.

The man, the doctor, God knows what he is, comes close to Dafi and takes her by the hand, and she obeys him, rising from her seat, so miserable. And I thought I was losing my mind, I could kill Adam for submitting to this doctor, I draw him aside and plead with him, “Let’s go home at once, we can take her to doctors there,” and Adam listens but isn’t convinced, the doctor
leads Dafi to the door, stands there waiting. I talk hurriedly to Adam, and the doctor listens as if he understands Hebrew, and Adam refuses, shakes his head – “No, only they know how to do this, they will save the mouse.” I’m streaming with sweat, shaking, frantic – “What mouse?” And suddenly Dafi breaks loose from the doctor, runs to me, howling, clutches at me, starts shaking both of us.

Dafi shakes me roughly, climbing onto the bed, switching on the light, tugging wildly at my pyjama jacket. “Mommy, Daddy, Shwartzy’s on the phone.” The light hurts my eyes, Dafi’s hair is in a mess, she’s all excited. “Shwartzy’s on the phone, he’s had an accident.”

It’s one o’clock in the morning.

Asya stirs slowly, sitting up in bed, her eyes closed. The phone rang and I didn’t hear it, when I stopped doing the night towing I put the phone back in the study. Only Dafi heard it. She’s still awake at night. At first she thought it was a wrong number and didn’t answer, but the ringing went on. She lifted the receiver and, unbelievable, she thought she was dreaming, the soft and wheedling voice of the headmaster she hates, her cruel persecutor.

She mimics him –

“Dafna? Is that you? Would you be so good as to call your father, I must speak to him.”

I go to the phone.

His whispering, urgent voice, sometimes a strange laugh, even at such a late hour of the night he uses the same pompous style of speech.

A thousand pardons. A misfortune has befallen him. His car is embracing a tree, ha, ha, the hood is crushed and bent. On the road from Jerusalem, near the airport. He has been hurt too, bruises and scratches on the face. Some wonderful Jews from the
moshav
Vardim took him in, bandaged him and gave him a drink. But now he wants his car towed to Haifa, to my garage. Is it possible? Will I be prepared to receive the unfortunate car? There is nobody he can trust but me, Adam dear friend, he has no other garage but mine … ha, ha …

Well then –

He has forgotten the address, he has simply forgotten the address, he whispers as if afraid to wake somebody beside him.

I say nothing.

“Adam?”

“Who is going to tow you?”

Nobody at the moment. His rescuers will try to find a towing service.

“Wait, I’ll come and tow you in.”

“Heaven forbid … such a distance … that wasn’t why I rang …” but I detect the relief in his voice.

“Where are you?”

No, he won’t tell me, he’s suddenly obstinate, he was very dubious about calling, he’s full of remorse, he woke the girl …

But I insist. Dafi’s fate is in his hands. Some day soon he must decide whether to expel her from the school or not. I shall tow him in, repair his car, accept no payment, for a few days he will be in my power.

Suddenly he begins to waver. On no account does he wish to be a burden. He already regrets calling me. Besides, a special kind of tow job is required here. His car, to tell the truth, is completely wrecked.

“That’s all right … just tell me exactly where you are, Mr. Shwartz. I won’t let anyone else tow you in … besides, they’ll overcharge you … do you have money to spare?”

He’s taken aback.

“Adam, dear friend, what can I do? Of course I shall have to pay you … I shall never agree to a free job … and anyway, what does money matter … the important thing is that I’m still alive …”

“Pity about the time …”

He tells me where he is, in a devious manner, as if he’s doing me a favour.

I phone Na’im. The old lady answers at once, as if she’s been waiting for the phone to ring. She’s an insomniac too. The wakefulness of this survivor from the last century never ceases to amaze me.

“Has something happened? News of Gabriel?”

“No … please wake Na’im. I shall be coming to pick him up
soon, we’re going to tow a car.”

“I thought you’d stopped doing the night work.”

“This time it’s a friend of mine who’s in trouble.”

“Shall I make coffee for you?”

“No, thank you, I’m in a hurry.”

Meanwhile Asya has got out of bed and is making coffee. Dafi is beside her in the kitchen, insisting on knowing all the details, disappointed that he’s got off with just cuts and scratches.

“I wish he’d been killed, the monster …”

And we’re so tired we don’t even tell her to shut up.

“You’re driving to Lod for him? What’s the idea?” Asya is amazed.

“It’s for Dafi … so he’ll think twice before expelling her …”

“It won’t do any good … I know him … he’ll expel her … and she deserves it too.”

Dafi listens in silence, quietly chewing a piece of bread, her hair falling over her face, her face puffed up, lately she’s really gone to pieces.

“Pity he wasn’t killed …” she whispers again.

“That’s enough.”

She’s beginning to get on Asya’s nerves. Asya paces about the kitchen in an old nightdress. Suddenly I remember the dream I had.

“You woke me up in the middle of a dream.”

Asya looks at me.

“What was the dream?”

“I don’t remember.”

But as I’m accelerating down the hill, I remember the dream, I even smell it. I was in a big hall, at a sort of meeting, crowds of people were wandering about there, Gabriel among them, his head shaved, pale. I was angry with him, spoke to him harshly, he turned and went away …

A thin silhouette outside the old lady’s house, a flickering cigarette. Na’im is already waiting. These last months he’s grown a lot taller, grown a great mop of hair, matured. Chain-smoking, buying himself new clothes, and all the time taking money from me. I don’t care. A strange boy. What does he go through in the silence with the old lady, whole days? I’ve ruined him
completely
. This power that money gives me, I must put my mind
to him, return him to his village.

The lights are on in the old lady’s house. She’s looking out of a window, her face white, like the face of a corpse come to life.

“Your sweater, Na’im,” she shouts from above and throws the sweater down to the pavement.

“I don’t need it,” he mutters, embarrassed, angry, but he picks the sweater up from the ground.

I get out of the car, wave to her.

“She’s in love with you.”

He turns around to me quickly.

“Who?”

“The old lady.”

“The old lady,” he says softly, seriously, “is way off her rocker.”

I say nothing. There’s a new tone to his voice, cynical, decisive.

We arrive at the garage, Na’im jumps down to open the gate. The watchman is asleep in his shelter, the little dog in his arms is asleep too, they don’t notice us coming in, changing vehicles, leaving the Dodge and climbing aboard the tow truck. Na’im loads a box of tools. Quietly we close the gate behind us, the dog opens his eyes, looks at us affectionately, wags his tail and lays his head on the watchman’s chest.

A clear summer night. The sea lies calm. A grey colour to the sky. The truck runs slowly. I’m very tired. Na’im is silent beside me. I ought to ask him a little about his life, but I haven’t the energy to talk. Now and then I feel him staring at me. Perhaps he would like to say something to me, but he holds back.

We reach the scene of the accident after two hours. From a distance I see the headmaster, pacing back and forth on the road as if he’s walking the corridors of the school, his head wrapped in a sort of white turban, a tall ghostly figure. He shakes my hand, embraces me, his torn shirt stained with blood. “Adam, dear friend, such a catastrophe, never before have I been in an accident …”

He shakes Na’im’s hand as well, ruffles his hair, gives him a little hug, as if he’s one of his pupils. He doesn’t seem to realize he’s an Arab. We walk together arm in arm, treading on glass splinters and fragments of metal. Where is the car? To my
astonishment I find it hanging on a tree, as if he had been trying to climb the tree with it. It’s incredible, I can’t help smiling, it’s actually hanging there caught in the branches.

I see the smile on Na’im’s face.

“The car is hopeless …” He follows my gaze.

“No car is hopeless. Only people are.”

He bursts out laughing.

Meanwhile Na’im goes to the truck and lifts down the box of tools, attends to the winch chains, lays out flashing lights on the road. There’s no need to tell him anything.

Two figures appear on the dust bank at the side of the road, lean white-haired Yemenites with rifles in their hands. The night watchmen of the
moshav.
The headmaster hastens to introduce them to me.

“These dear Jews, they looked after me until you arrived … we had a wonderful conversation … didn’t we? We talked about the Torah.”

He hugs and caresses them too. The two old men look a little dazed from their time spent with Mr. Shwartz. It seems he’s caused quite a stir in the
moshav.
Lights are on in some of the houses, other figures appear, watching us from a distance.

“What happened exactly?”

A strange story. He was returning from Jerusalem after a long conference on educational matters. Oh, these damned meetings, the endless chattering, all so depressing. At first he intended to stay in Jerusalem overnight, but in the morning there was to be another meeting in Haifa in the office of the city architect, about the new wing that they’re going to add to the school. He decided to return home. Everything was in order, the road was empty, he was quite wide awake. When he was young he used to drive for long hours at night without any problems. In England, before the war, when he was a student at Oxford. He was so engrossed in his memories of England that apparently without realizing it he began slowly straying towards the left. Suddenly a little old black car appeared in the opposite direction, with lights almost blacked out. At the last moment he recovered himself and swerved towards the right, but evidently he swung the wheels too far, and suddenly this tree, this unnecessary tree …

“What happened to the other car?”

Nothing, a light collision, a few scratches. If he had run into it rather than this damned tree the damage might have been less, for him that is, ha, ha, the other car would have been completely squashed, that little old tin box, to say nothing of the men within. And they turned out to be religious, these men, an old rabbi and a young man with side curls, dressed all in black, Naturei Karta or some sect like that. Like a hallucination. What were they doing driving about near the airport after midnight? They stopped, they both got out, they didn’t come too close. Just checked that he was alive and on his feet.

And the old man said softly, from a distance:

“You are aware, sir, that you are to blame …”

What could he say to that?

“Yes, I am to blame.”

Curse them. Anti-Zionists. They didn’t ask him if he needed help, as if they were afraid of getting involved with him.

Na’im is already playing out the cable. This tow is going to be very complicated. A light breeze passes over us. Better get rid of the headmaster so he won’t get in the way. I persuade him to go home. He’s easily persuaded, he’s quite exhausted. He goes to the two Yemenites, takes leave of them, writes down their names in a little notebook, promises to send them a book, his own book apparently, to continue their conversation. We flag down a car, bundle him into it and send him northwards.