The Lover (51 page)

“How are you? Mrs. …”

And she can’t even answer, the words stick in her mouth, is she afraid that the lover is no longer a lover, that the lover has gone mad?

The love of an ageing woman –

“But why?”

He rises slowly, sitting up, still smiling with a sort of happiness.

“They wanted to kill me, I had to escape. Praise the Lord, what matters is that I’m alive.”

And he starts pacing about the room, going to the window to look at the wall of the Old City, its towers and turrets. She watches him as if every one of his movements has a deep significance. Still afraid to approach him, still nervous of him.

He notices the Morris in the parking lot.

“So they’ve given me up? Wonderful people.”

I don’t answer. Speech has deserted me. He continues pacing about the room before us, his hands clasped behind his back. He’s grown accustomed to slow, elderly movements.

“But what will happen now?”

“God willing, we shall return home. Grandmother is alive, let us bid her goodbye. Receive her blessing. Now there is no legacy, that was a dream and is no longer. Let us sit and wait. Really, why should we hurry? I have time …”

Praise the Lord, God willing, these phrases fall from his lips without a thought, naturally, or is he trying intentionally to provoke us? Walking about the big, pleasant room, at some distance from us, lightly touching the furniture, picking up an ashtray to examine it, standing in front of the mirror and studying his reflection, lightly touching his curls.

“You won’t believe it, but I’ve hardly seen myself these last few months. They don’t have mirrors.”

And he sinks into a chair.

Somebody knocks at the door. The hotel reception clerk appears, staring at us so hard you’d think we were standing there naked. He can’t quite get the words out. It’s twelve o’clock, he’s afraid, he says, we must leave the room, today some congress or other is convening here.

I’m still silent. Asya doesn’t know what to say. Gabriel stands up, taking the initiative.

“We’re leaving.”

The clerk bows to him slightly and closes the door.

A few minutes later the three of us are walking down the stairs. I go to the desk and pay a hundred and fifty pounds for the use of the room. “We don’t have hourly rates,” the clerk apologizes, but I’m not asking for such a rate, I hand over the money (my wallet has become light, crumpled, I’ve never known it so flabby). The delegates to the congress stand in a line in front of a hostess who’s sticking name tags on the lapels of their jackets. They watch the three of us curiously. Gabriel makes a great impression on them with his black clothes, his curls, the broad fur hat. A flash bulb pops, somebody has taken his picture.

We get into the Morris, I at the wheel, leaving Jerusalem at last.

A blazing hot day. The car goes slowly, thirty to forty kilometres an hour. Everything overtakes us, even little motorcycles, drivers turning to us with a friendly smile as if we’re young adventurers. The very presence of such a car on the roads deserves respect.

On the ascent to Castel the Morris starts to cough, the engine making a strange ticking noise like a rusty machine gun, a light report responds from behind. But with one leap we reach the crest of the hill. But after Sha’ar Ha’gai on the sharply winding road a long line of cars starts to trail along behind us, unable to overtake us because of the oncoming traffic. Like a little black beetle with a trail of big coloured beads. A traffic cop on a motorcycle stops us, asks us to pull over to the side to free the clogged traffic. We do as he asks. Before we return to the road he checks the documents, my mechanic’s licence reassures him.

And again a long column of traffic builds up behind us, and again we pull over to the side of the road and the line of cars breaks through.

We reach the Tel Aviv-Haifa freeway after five hours’ driving, as if we’ve come from another continent. Before Hadera we stop at a roadhouse, fill up with petrol and go inside for a meal. Curious stares follow us all the time, something in the
combination
of the three of us arouses great interest.

We eat. Or rather, Gabriel eats, devouring course after course, as if he has some ravenous hunger to satisfy.

We leave to continue our journey. It’s four o’clock. We stand in the parking space beside the car, looking at the sea sparkling nearby, around us the movement of people and cars. We don’t speak. All the time followed by curious stares, smiling eyes. Gabriel turns towards a little shop, souvenirs and camping
equipment,
we follow him, still afraid he may try to escape.

Among the objects in the display window his reflection appears.

“She’ll be shocked to see me like this …” he says as if only now he realizes the effect of his remarkable appearance.

He takes off the big fur hat, stands there bareheaded, takes off the black coat, touches his side curls.

“The time has come.”

He goes into the shop and returns with an old razor in his hand. We turn to the sea, to the beach. He sits on a big stone and Asya bends over him and cuts off his curls. Two long thin locks, shining from endless fingering. She gives them to him, he’s about to throw them away but changes his mind, finds an old tin can lying on the beach and puts them in it.

Asya feels easier, she begins to smile. He takes off his tasselled apron, folds it and puts it into the can. Asya starts trimming his beard with the rusty razor, they laugh. I walk back and forth along the shore, my head bowed before the dazzling brightness of the waves. Tired, numb, only one thought in my head, to get home.

We go back to the car. People no longer stare. We drive on for about an hour and a half, the rusty ticking stops, instead the engine begins to creak, I have no idea what’s going on inside there.

We arrive at the house. He’s decided to come in with us and phone her first, so she won’t be startled by his sudden appearance. I can see how concerned he is about her, looking forward to the meeting with excitement.

I go up the stairs first and they follow. My shoes battered, my legs like jelly, I’m encrusted with sand and oil. It’s been a long journey. The apartment is dark, on the table piles of plates and cutlery, as if there’s been a banquet. A big candlestick stands
there with the flickering remains of a candle, shadows on the walls. Dafi’s dressing gown and pyjama top lie scattered on the floor. Suddenly I feel terribly afraid. Something has happened to the girl.

So now it’s the reverse the body is lost and only thought remains the hands have gone the legs have gone the face is going can’t move but I think of what I want to think knowing it all my name and my parents’ name and my grandson’s name and my daughter’s name remembering them all recalling all I was a stone a frog a thorn bush all is clear how can death come when I’m thinking with such power no pain but no feeling and I don’t want to die no no why if I’ve lived so long why not a few more years I was born in the nineteenth century sometimes I’m astonished when I remember but soon this century too will be over no pity I could have lived a little into the next century too at least the first years two thousand and one two thousand and two the fullness of light it’s all gone so fast this century so quickly a dark and fast century not like the last years of the century that went before full of sun in Jerusalem when Jerusalem was great full of fields when I was married it began to grow dark nineteen hundred already twilight.

The bastard came in through the window they aren’t as stupid as they were when the state began he thought I was already dead the little Arab he put a sheet over me lucky there was one more tear left and it fell he would have choked me little
fatah
animal then he tried to feed me put bread in my mouth so kind and I had a daughter and I had a grandson it’s all a disappointing dream without a true end.

No hunger no thirst no feelings I’m only thought the brain works very clear there’s even a whistling in the mind I can think of what I like but of what?

The boy has gone left fled good if he had stayed longer in the house I would have given him it all as a present terribly sweet when he reads the papers sweet and dangerous but why should he take this house?

Oh Lord of the Universe the eyes sink in darkness the
cupboard 
before me goes black the corners turn and split farewell cupboard farewell table darkness approaches black mist quickly quickly farewell carpet farewell chair I am going and peace all around good at last I shall think in peace but of what?

The cars have gone from the road farewell bus what’s this the siren of a ship like the wail of a little cat hearing nothing seeing nothing farewell street enough street and suddenly a little bell a whistle oh the telephone is ringing like a little lamb beside me someone is calling wants me weaker and weaker not a bell but the whistle of a dying wind I know but do not hear too bad too bad about me too bad for I am dead too bad, for I am not

What is this? What’s going on here? Who’s here? The whole place is dark. Pulling down the blinds in the middle of the day. These new ideas. Na’im standing there in a corner dressing.

“Daddy don’t do anything to him he isn’t to blame Daddy have mercy on him.” Why’s she yelling at me like that? Dafi’s completely disturbed. I shall have to do something about her. I hardly understand what’s going on here. I’m the one who needs pity, not him. I’ve spent two mad days on the road. I go closer to see if it really is Na’im and what the hell he’s doing here and he tries to slip away or it looks as if he’s trying to, and I catch him by the shirt, the shirt that’s already torn, and he dangles in the air, either he’s very light or I’ve forgotten the strength in my arms that’ve slumbered for so many years, there was a time when I used to lift engines, turn cars over, bend steel pipes and put doors straight.

Now I just hold him for a moment in the air, by the shirt that I haven’t torn, in the dark room, and he’s sure I’m going to strangle him and he shakes all over. I’m shaking too, I’m capable of anything. And Dafi leaps up, throwing off the blanket, getting dressed, quite hysterical. I’ve never seen the girl in such a state, so aggressive. Na’im is silent, I’m silent, only Dafi speaks.

“Leave him alone, he came to say he’s resigning.”

And Na’im, still suspended in the air, repeats after her in a choking voice, “Yes, I’m resigning …”

“Resigning from what?”

“From everything … from working with you.”

I drop him on the floor. This is crazy.

“You’re not moving from here now even if you have resigned, do you hear?”

“I hear …”

“Tell me exactly what’s happened to the old lady. Where is she? I rang and there was no answer.”

He looks at me, very quiet.

“I think she’s already dead.”

“What?”

“Since yesterday she’s been paralyzed. She doesn’t talk, doesn’t answer, doesn’t eat.”

“Then why did you leave her?” I yell, suddenly I feel like stamping on him.

“But he’s resigning …”

Dafi again. I go to silence her once and for all, but she slips away.

Asya is in the doorway, looking in silence at the chaos of the darkened room, the blankets on the floor, the crumpled sheet, Dafi’s clothes. Na’im hurriedly buttons his trousers, puts on his shoes. From the living room comes the sound of the television. Gabriel is attacking civilization. Now we shall lose him again.

“What’s happened?” she asks.

“We’re going down to see the old lady, come on you …”

Gabriel’s sprawled in an armchair, he stares at the little Arab, who stares at him. We leave the house. A drizzly summer evening, the
hamsin
broken. I have great difficulty starting the Morris, it’s exhausted after the long journey. The battery’s almost dead. I jump out and go to Asya’s car, quickly remove her battery and throw it onto the back seat of the Morris, in case of need. Also, I think, better they shouldn’t follow us there.

Na’im curls up in the seat beside me, scared by the little black car that looks like a coffin. The sight of the tasselled apron, the fringes, the tin can with the severed side curls, the big fur hat and the other ritual objects scattered about the car, all perplex him. He’s careful not to touch them. He wants to say something but before he can open his mouth I say, “Shut up.”

We drive fast to the lower city. The gear box shakes, the engine goes on bubbling and shimmying, the whole thing’s
falling apart, but I hurry on, cutting the corners, the sea on our left, the bay all green and red, a strange sick colour.

“What’s this? What’s happened to the sea?”

I’m talking to myself, he looks at the sea, he’s about to say something.

“Be quiet, it doesn’t matter …”

We go up to the old lady’s apartment. A heavy twilight. I’ve forgotten this apartment, so long since I’ve been here. We find her in the armchair in the big room, leaning forwards a bit, dead. The telephone on a little stool beside her. She’s still warm, she died just a few hours ago. I take a sheet that’s lying beside her and spread it on the floor, I say to him, “Come on, we’ll lay her on the floor,” and together we lift her. Newspapers start falling from her, scattering and drifting. Copies of
Ma
’
ariv
and
Yediot
Aharonot
sticking to her body, she’s upholstered with newspapers. I’ve never seen such a mass of newspapers. Na’im looks at me, wants to say something, but he’s afraid.

“Well?”

“She loved newspapers …” An evil smile twists his mouth.

I pick up the phone, to pass on the news, but suddenly I change my mind and put the receiver down again. I don’t have the strength now. Let’s give her one night at least.

It’s seven o’clock, still traces of light outside, but in the room it’s dim. Na’im lights himself a cigarette, offers me one, with an adult sort of gesture, I take it, he gives me a light, I look at him, now I begin to realize what’s happened between him and Dafi. I sit in the old lady’s chair, seeking a moment’s rest.

The old lady lies there in front of me in the clear light of evening. Through the open window – the sea, endlessly
changing
its colours.