Jaffa and its little houses stood soundlessly half-sunken in sand. Except for Hemdat, the town had gone to sleep. He walked on and on, his head heavy as a stone yet empty of all thought. He did not love her: he had told himself that a hundred times. He was bound to her by pity. She was misfortune’s child and he worried for her like a father for his daughter. He had never once touched her. She did not even excite him. How did he know what she would do if he tried kissing her? He liked to look at her, that was all. It had nothing to do with the lures of sex.
On his way he met Mrs. Ilonit. Mrs. Ilonit was happy to see him, because she had gone out for a walk and was afraid to be alone. She didn’t know what had possessed her to go out by herself in the middle of the night. Suppose she ran into an Arab. They were a loathsome people.
Mrs. Ilonit shook Hemdat’s hand. Her thumb rested on his pulse. How happy she was to see him! They hadn’t met in ages. Since the day of her visit, in fact. Hemdat had gone out that day because the cleaning woman had come, and as he was returning toward evening he met Mrs. Ilonit, who decided to walk him home. His room was a shambles. The table had been moved, and the washbowl left on top of it was full of books. Nothing was in its right place and there was nowhere to sit except the bed, on which a pair of his pants sprawled with its legs sticking out. He couldn’t find the lamp or even a candle. The damned little Yemenite had mixed everything up. They were fine at scrubbing and scraping, the Yemenite girls, but they never put anything back. Hemdat lit a match that went out and another that did the same. The room looked as big as a dance hall. “Shall we dance, Mr. Hemdat?” asked Mrs. Ilonit, taking him in her arms. Before he could answer she was waltzing him around. Suddenly she stopped and picked up the pants on the bed. “If I ever have to play a man on stage,” she said, “you can lend me these.” He was lucky he was a man. What woman could take the liberties with him that she took with him? Mrs. Ilonit clutched his arm. How dark it was getting. She couldn’t see a thing. Was that him? “Here, let me feel you.” My goodness, she had stumbled right into his arms. Hemdat backed disgustedly away.
Yael, lovelier than ever, came to see Hemdat. She was not alone. Shammai came too. “I won’t be a bother,” he said, and Yael swore that he never was. In any case, it was the Lord’s Sabbath and she hadn’t come for a lesson. Shammai looked around and spied a full bottle of wine. “Wine, wine, I am overcome by wine,” he cried biblically. He took the bottle and Hemdat gave him a glass. “You shouldn’t,” Yael said with a smile. “He’s still a baby and much too young to drink. I would have thought you’d prefer brandy. There was a lady back home who drank brandy all the time. She was born with a glass in her mouth. She said it was good for toothache and her teeth always ached. The funny part was that she never got drunk. She knew how to hold her liquor. Why don’t we go out for a walk?” Hemdat put on his hat and coat, and went for a walk with them.
They walked along the railroad tracks. The walls of Emek Refaim rose on either side of them, two green mattresses of fragrant grass. The tracks gleamed on their wooden ties as though polished. Shammai really was a baby. Suddenly he had a notion to walk on the tracks. Yael had to hold his hand to keep him from falling. Hemdat followed dotingly behind them. They both looked like babies now. Yael raised Shammai’s hand and said, “Your hands are so gross, Shammai. Hemdat’s hands are as smooth and pretty as a girl’s. I do believe that Mr. Hemdat is giving a lecture at the public library tonight. What will you say, Mr. Hemdat? I mean, what will your lecture be about?”
“The stories of Rabbi Nahman of Bratslav,” answered Hemdat in a whisper.
“I’ll be there to clap for you. Shammai, you have the perfect hands for a standing ovation.” Yael clapped her hands and said, “I’m just warming up. Wait until tonight. You better be there, Shammai. Oh, my, look how late it is.” Hemdat gave a start. He had almost forgotten that the Mushalams were back in town and that he had promised to drop in on them.
Hemdat couldn’t say what drew him to the Mushalams. Before their marriage he had not been especially close to either of them. Not that it wasn’t nice to spend time in a tasteful house, even if it was lived in by newlyweds. Shoshanna Mushalam understood him. Unlike some people, she didn’t think he had fallen for Yael Hayyut, and the apples she served were immaculately peeled and never came with bits of skin or knife mold. Shoshanna liked the early plays of Ibsen. It wasn’t fair that Norway had all those mountains and glaciers when here there was nothing but a bit of sea beyond the flat roofs of the houses and a lot of pushy women playing Florence Nightingale. “That’s all there is. Oh, look, the sun is going down. I’ve never seen anything so gorgeous. I wouldn’t leave this place for the world. Happiness for me is going out to my backyard and seeing all the fig trees and dates. It’s beyond me how Mrs. Ilonit goes around complaining all the time. Why, it’s paradise here! Hemdat, look at all those shooting stars. Someone should give the sky a hanky. When did you last see Yaelchi? I mean Yael Hayyut. How is she? Such a lovely person. I can’t believe you’ll end up living here, Hemdat. You’ll go abroad. You’re always welcome to stay with us when you come back, though. Tell me, do you think those frames suit the paintings?”
“Of course, of course,” Hemdat nodded automatically. He even found things to praise on his own. The furniture and the house matched perfectly. So did the flowers and the flowerpots. The Mushalams’ home smelled of flowers all year long.
Although Mrs. Mushalam was happy to hear nice things about her house, she had too much to say to have time to listen. “Really?” she said and was off again. It was a miracle she had found those flowers. She was on her way to the souk when she saw a little Arab holding them. “Ma’am, ma’am,” said the Arab, “buy my flowers.” And so she did. “Would you like a glass of water, or some juice? Yael Hayyut loves this juice. Aren’t those flowers just bursting with life? O my sweet little darlings!”
Mrs. Mushalam removed her head from the flowers and said to her husband, “Why didn’t you tell Hemdat that you read his story ‘The Shattered Soul’? Hemdat, I must know if it’s about you. I can’t believe that your father really walks around with a hasidic fur hat. Here, this flower is a present for you. You can give it to Yael Hayyut. Just don’t abscond with it. My spies are everywhere.”
Yael Hayyut had never brought him flowers. She couldn’t afford them. Once, when a rose fell off her hat, she picked it up and stuck it in the Rembrandt. Although roses were not in season at the time and this one was not real, Hemdat was pleased by the gift. From each according to her ability.
4
Hemdat lay on the divan. Usually Yael arrived between five and six, but today she was late again. She would do him a favor if she didn’t come at all. He needed to work and she wasn’t letting him. She was taking up all his time. Perhaps he should stop tutoring her.
A gust of wind caught the papers on the table and sent them flying in all directions while riffling the green blotter. Hemdat remained seated. He had a feeling of foreboding. The sky had grown dark. Where was she? Just when he needed her, she hadn’t come. His nights would be forlorn without her. There were days when he had to force himself to rise and only bothered to wash because of her. It was six o’clock and still no sign of her.