The wind was blowing harder. A storm was brewing. The street lamps sputtered in vain against the darkness. Swirls of dust spiraled upward, spiraling swirls of gritty dust. His hat nearly flew off his head. What was he doing out in a sandstorm? He began to run down the dark, narrow streets. The sand clung to his feet and lashed his face. He prayed he would make it to Yael’s room.
Yael was not in. A small, smoky lamp gave off a dim light. When Pnina turned up the wick, which cast its sickly glare on Hemdat, the flame grew even weaker.
“Where’s Yael?” Hemdat asked, looking down to hide his face.
Pnina looked down to hide the fact that she knew what it looked like. “She went to see her mother and stayed. Her bad arm is acting up and the doctor wants to keep her in the hospital.”
Suppose it was blood poisoning and they had to amputate? The thought of her lovely body without an arm! He felt overcome by sorrow, but even though he wanted to, he could not cry. He went back to his room and lit the lamp. The night seemed endless. He did not do a single thing he had planned to do, and what he did would better have been left undone.
Pizmoni whistled as he climbed the front steps. He was coming from the hospital, where he had just seen Yael. There was nothing to worry about. It wasn’t serious. Tomorrow or the day after, she would come home. After leaving the hospital he had decided to take a walk. What a lovely night it had turned out to be. An hour ago it was blowing like the devil, and now just look at the sky. That was Palestine for you! That was Pizmoni too: one minute with Yael in the hospital and the next minute here. He was in high spirits. A few days ago he had published his poem “The Song of the Strong,” which was a new voice in Hebrew literature. Now he had made up his mind to go abroad. A poet without an education was like a candle without a wick. Next summer he planned to start at a European university.
Hemdat enjoyed their walk. The night glowed darkly. A light breeze blew good smells from the wet sand, and the sea murmured in the stillness. The conversation flowed. Pizmoni knew more about the oddest things than all your uncles and cousins combined. I don’t know if Yael ever told you what made her come to Palestine, but Pizmoni knew the whole story. What happened was that a friend of hers in Russia had been arrested for subversive activities. When his house was searched, a letter from Yael was found, and although there was nothing against the government in it, she was thrown into jail with a lot of revolutionaries. It cost her father a pretty penny to get her out, and since the police kept following her even then, it was decided to send her to Palestine. Soon afterward her father lost his money and died in poverty, and the shame was so great that her mother packed her things and set out to join Yael. She had barely recovered from the voyage when she fell ill and had to be hospitalized.
Ah, wasn’t it the loveliest night! You could walk forever and never tire of the murmur of the sea and the smell of the sand. And what in the whole world tasted better than the salt on your lips? If Pizmoni hadn’t needed his sleep, Hemdat could have strolled with him all night.
The next day he put off going to the hospital. The hours passed in sleep. He wrote nothing new and revised nothing old. After parting from Pizmoni, he had stood looking out the window until the sunrise filled his room with light. Now he found himself at the gate of the hospital. Visiting hours were over, but the good-natured attendant let him in.
Outside the ward he found Gurishkin, who had come to see Yael too. Gurishkin was putting his time to good use, for he would have a few pages to add to his autobiography when he sat down later that night by his dim lamp. Although the hospital was a Jewish institution and deserved the public’s support, it was so poor that it stood empty most of the year despite the illness going around. Whoever was sick had to go to the Christian hospital and pay ten francs for the pleasure of being preached at.
Yael lay in a bed spread with white sheets, her heavy body rumpling the bedclothes. Her hospital smock gave her an odd look. It was hard to say if she looked happy or sad, but she was glad to be lying in a real bed in a clean room and to be brought her meals without lifting a finger. Even when he stared down at the legs of her bed, Hemdat saw her image before him. So she would look when she gave birth. And that, Hemdat, was the most peculiar thought you ever had in your life.
Hemdat was sure that Yael would marry someone rich. She was not made for drudgery. One day, gaunt from suffering, he would return from afar and come see her. A swarm of children would greet him in the yard and run to their mother’s arms. “It’s a stranger, Ima,” they would say. “Why, it’s Hemdat,” Yael would exclaim, jumping with joy. In the evening her husband would come home from work and sit down to eat with them. Hemdat would be far too frail to arouse his envy.
He was on his way to the hospital again when he was told that Yael had been released. She was planning to leave for Jerusalem the next day. It seemed that she needed a minor operation, and Mrs. Mushalam was going with her. Mrs. Mushalam had to go to Jerusalem to buy inlaid furniture from Damascus.
How would Yael pay for the trip? Hemdat felt his pocket. There was nothing in it, but he was owed some money by Dr. Pikchin. Dr. Pikchin was a leader of the Jewish community and Hemdat had served as his secretary. When he found him, he said:
“Doctor, I would appreciate it if you could give the money you owe me to Yael Hayyut.”
Dr. Pikchin puffed silently on his pipe.
“You can tell her, Doctor,” said Hemdat, who had to walk fast to keep up with him, “that the hospital is paying for her treatment. She doesn’t have to know where the money came from. Have you heard that Efrati is back from Europe? They say that he did a lot for this country when he lived here.”
Dr. Pikchin took his pipe from his mouth and said, “Everyone who comes back from abroad thinks he’s done a lot for Jewish settlement.”
“But he really did,” said Hemdat eagerly. “When I was abroad I heard of him too.”
Dr. Pikchin put his pipe back in his mouth and said, “Everyone who comes back from Europe says that he did a lot for this country.”
“I was just making conversation,” said Hemdat, his eagerness gone.
Hemdat ran into Yael. He was happy to hear she was all right. Yael gave him her cold hand to shake. She looked well but distracted. “Why don’t we buy a herring,” she said as they stood in the street.
Hemdat was glad that they had met, and that she wanted to eat with him, and that his room was nearby. She climbed the stairs to it with stately steps. He lit the lamp and set the table. There was butter and honey and jam. Who wanted jam, though? Yael was set on herring. She never ate preserves. Herring was what she craved.
The green-globed lamp gave off a tender light. On the green tinted walls the pots and pans gleamed larger than life. Shadow rubbed against shadow and pot against pan. Hemdat sat eating with Yael. Their shadows danced on the walls, barely touching. Yael poured Hemdat tea. “Why don’t you drink your tea?” she asked. “Or didn’t I pour you any?”
“You did,” he said.
Yael said, “I’ll bet you’re afraid to gain weight and spoil your good looks. Is that it, Mr. Hemdat?”
Hemdat smiled and said nothing. Yael thought that writers never stayed good-looking for long. Their chests collapsed from sitting so much and their hair fell out from too many thoughts. Each time Hemdat spoke, his face clouded with romantic anguish. It was as though he were in one place and his mind in another. What was he thinking? “Thinking?” he said. “I was thinking how many hankies you need for one snotty nose.” Writers could be a vulgar lot.