The Lover (49 page)

“They won’t let us in.”

And the doorman really does stop us – two odd-looking creatures, not fit for such a smart hotel, a religious Jew dressed in black with side curls and a beard, wearing sneakers, and a heavily built labourer in dirty overalls. I take out a hundred-pound note and give it to the doorman. “We only want a light breakfast.” He takes the note eagerly, leads us in by a side entrance, calls the head waiter, who comes hurrying towards us, hastily takes another bill that I offer him and without a word leads us to an ornate little room with soft carpets and closes the door on us.

This breakfast costs me three hundred pounds but I stopped thinking about money long ago. He claims that he isn’t hungry and I don’t press him to eat. Sitting beside me, chewing his side curls and watching me gobbling up the fresh little rolls, gulping down cup after cup of coffee. Absently he puts out his hand and starts picking up the crumbs from the table cloth, playing with them.

“What is this fist?” I ask.

“The seventeenth of Tammuz, the destruction of the Wall.”

“But they built it again.” I point through the curtain at the grey wall of the Old City.

He doesn’t even look, just smiles uneasily.

“Not that wall …”

“And is that why you’re not eating?”

He smiles, that weak enchanting smile of his, shrugs his shoulders, mumbles something about not being hungry. And suddenly he starts taking an interest in Asya, at last, I was thinking he’d forgotten her. Asking how she’s been getting on during the time he’s been missing, and cautiously I tell him about her work, about her longings, he listens, his eyes closed.

“But how did you find me?”

I put down on the table the crumpled piece of blue metal, it’s been handled so much it’s going soft. I tell him about the accident.

He remembers the accident. He smiles. That old man nearly killed him –

On the other side of the fence, behind his back, to my surprise I see the three little orthodox children peeping through the bushes, waving their hands, calling out, throwing gravel at the windowpane. I get up quickly, go to the main entrance, find the doorman, give him fifty pounds and tell him about the little nuisances. From the lobby I phone home. It’s six o’clock. The ringing’s hardly begun and Asya picks up the receiver. I tell her what’s happened, she decides to come at once. I go back to the little room and find him munching the half roll that I left. At once I order another breakfast. On the other side of the fence, the doorman collars one of the boys, snatches his hat, takes care of him cruelly.

He gulps down his coffee, eats two soft-boiled eggs.

“And I thought you’d given me up …”

And suddenly I realize, he’s clinging to me just as much as I am to him, he’s afraid I may take him back there. I rush out to the desk, order a room, again handing out money, needlessly, to the waiters and the doorman. I go back to the little room to fetch him. He’s already devoured the lot, as if he’s been fasting for days, he’s licked out the butter dish and the little pots of jam, there are yellow egg stains on his beard. I lead him out, passing through the lobby that’s crowded with American tourists who stare at us curiously, following us with their smiles. The head waiter shows us into a room on the third floor. Gabriel flings himself down in one of the armchairs, sighing with relief.

“I’m escaping again … like before, in the desert …”

Through the window an impressive view of the Old City. The furniture is upholstered in a pleasant shade of grey, the carpets are grey, the curtains grey. He takes off his black frock, removes his shoes, starts walking about in his socks, goes into the bathroom, washes his hands, dries them on a scented paper towel, he turns on the radio and music swamps us.

“What a wonderful room.”

I ask him if I should fetch the possessions that he left behind at the yeshiva. He shrugs his shoulders, there’s nothing of any value.

“But the car …”

Oh, he’d almost forgotten it. He hands me the keys, better not to go himself, he couldn’t stand their disappointment and sorrow.

He strips off his shirt, picks up a magazine and starts leafing through it, looking at the pictures.

I lock the door on him, go downstairs in a hurry and return to the quarter, getting a bit lost on the way but finally arriving in the courtyard of the yeshiva.

The children rush at me.

“Mister, where have you taken him?”

But I don’t answer, I get into the car and try to start the engine. The battery’s very weak, the engine coughs loudly.

The children call to some students who surround the car at once.

“Where are you going, mister? Where do you want to take the car?”

At last I succeed in starting the engine, I must have been a bit flustered. I don’t say anything, but my silence only adds to the anger around me. They take hold of the car and won’t let it move. I’d have thought that as they were fasting they’d have no strength, but the hunger only increases their vigour. The car won’t budge, although I put it into gear and press the pedal hard.

An old man comes out to see what’s happening. They tell him something in Yiddish.

“Where is he?” he asks me.

“He’s a free man,” I reply. “He doesn’t owe anybody anything.”

The old man smiles.

“What is a free man?”

To hell with it, I say nothing.

Meanwhile three students get into the car and sit in the back. A crowd gathers around us. I switch off the engine, get out, to hell with the car, why fight over it, I put the keys away in my pocket, let them tear the bloody thing apart.

The old man still stands there watching me.

“Tell me, sir, what do you mean, a free man?”

I say nothing. Tired and worn out. Almost on the brink of tears. A man of forty-six. What’s happening to me?

“Do you, sir, consider yourself a free man?”

Theological arguments now –

I open the door of the car and find the registration certificate, show him that it’s signed in the old lady’s name, explain that I must take the car back to its owner.

One of the students takes the licence, glances at it, whispers something in the old man’s ear.

“So the gentleman wishes to take the automobile, let him take it, only let him not say that there is one free man in the world.”

I stare at him, nodding my head as if hypnotized, take the licence and get into the car. The students idly leave the back seat, the way is open. I drive away from the quarter, arrive at the hotel, leaving the car in the parking lot. I enter the hotel, standing at the desk I see Asya, distraught, the reception clerk knows nothing.

When she sees me alone she goes pale.

“Where is he?”

I take her by the arm. She trembles, light to my touch. We climb the stairs to the room, she leans on me. I take out the key and open the door, curious to see if he’s still here or if he’s already flown away through the window.

I know there’s nobody in the house but I ring the doorbell anyway wait ring again wait ring for the last time and there’s no answer. Ring for the very last time and still no answer, knock a few times, no answer. I put the key in the lock, one last ring and I open the door. The house is dark, all the blinds closed like they’ve all gone out and they’re not coming back for a long time. I’ll write him a note and go. First let’s just go to her room, have a look at it, lie down for a while on the beloved bed, and go …

There’s a ring at the door. Who can it be? Another ring. I don’t feel like getting up. If it’s the postman he can use the letter box. Another ring. He’s persistent. Now he’s knocking. Maybe I ought to get up. Suddenly it sounds like somebody trying to put a key in the lock … A short ring and the door opens. Who is it? Somebody walking into the house. Light footsteps. A thief in the morning? Now he’s coming straight into my room. Oh, help …

But there is somebody here … Dafi lying in bed in a dark room. Her head on the pillow, her blond hair all over the place. She’s alone in the house. Too late to run away.

“It’s only me …” I mumble. “I didn’t think there was anyone at home. Are you sick?”

How serious he is, this boy, you could die. Blushing all the time. Anyway he’s changed an awful lot. That thick mane of curly hair and those clothes. Who bought them for him? Glaring at me so fiercely you’d think he wanted to kill me. Staring at me, studying me, those hot Arab eyes, something a bit foggy about them. I just hope he doesn’t run away suddenly.

“The old woman’s dying … and I came here to say I’m resigning …”

What a crisis. The Prime Minister’s resigning.

“Resigning from what?”

“I’m resigning from the job … I’ve no strength left …”

Strength for what? You’d think he’d been working hard lately. He’s funny, and so serious and grim. I wish he’d give me just a little smile.

“Strength for what?” I smile at him.

It’s obvious these questions are annoying him, but what can I do, otherwise he’ll run away from here.

“Strength to look after her.”

The swine! He’s looking after her? And Daddy said she was looking after him, she was in love with him.

“I thought she was looking after you.”

Now he really gets mad. I’ve offended him.

“What’s that? It isn’t true …”

I sit up in bed. His eyes are blazing. That voice of his, a bit hoarse, that cute accent. He’ll catch fire in a moment. The poor schmuck is in love with me, I know. But he’s worried about his pride, their famous pride. I must hold him, get his rocks off before he goes.

“Why don’t you sit down for a bit, if you’ve got time. You can resign later.”

A smile at last. He looks around for somewhere to sit, but the only chair’s covered in clothes. He comes to the bed and sits on the edge. Something warm and solid in the distance.

Silence. I watch him all the time. He sits there, his head bowed, trying to think of something to say.

“School finished already?” he asks suddenly.

“For me.”

“They expelled me,” I say and he’s astonished, doesn’t believe it.

“What? They expelled you?”

“You heard me. I insulted one of the teachers and the headmaster expelled me.”

And I tell him about it, the whole story from beginning to end, and he listens with such concern, as if I were his daughter, trying to understand and not understanding. But suddenly I myself don’t understand why I was so obstinate. The whole business seems pointless when I describe it now.

“Why didn’t you say you were sorry?”