Although evening had fallen, there was still a bit of light in the sky. Suddenly Yael got to her feet and said, “I’ve creased my dress.”
Hemdat looked at her and said, “Wear it well. It’s very nice fabric.”
“My mother bought it. I sewed it,” said Yael measuredly, running a hand over the dress as if to brush something away. What childish pride. She studied him as though comparing their clothes. His pants cuffs were frayed and loose threads stuck out of them. It was the fault of the pigeon-toed way he walked, which made his legs rub dolefully together.
Hemdat traced some letters in the sand. At first he did not realize that they spelled Yael Hayyut. Although it was banal, he wanted to show her her name. Along came a wavelet and washed it away. Hemdat watched the waves lick at the sand and fall silently back. Yael got to her feet. She was hungry and wished to go home. Hemdat knew she had no food there and invited her to eat with him. Not in his room but in a restaurant. Yael said no. Then she said yes. Then she said no and yes. Hemdat was in rare spirits. He would not have to eat by himself.
They went to Yaakov Malkov’s inn. For once Hemdat was not his own housekeeper. Mrs. Malkov wiped the Sabbath wine from the table and Mr. Malkov spread a fresh cloth. Yael ordered meat, and Hemdat ordered dairy and fish. Hemdat did not eat meat. The truth was that he would have given up fish too, but he did not want to be labeled a vegetarian. Mrs. Malkov took away the big tablecloth and brought two smaller ones, one for meat and one for dairy. Hemdat regarded the plain strip of table between the two festive tablecloths.
As he was eating Malkov asked him, “If you’re a vegetarian, how come you eat fish?” “Because,” Hemdat said, “the fish didn’t sin before the Flood and weren’t punished by it.”
Malkov did a doubletake. Today’s young men had an answer for everything. What answer would they have on Judgment Day? He rose and went off singing an end-of-the-Sabbath hymn, and came back with a bowl full of almonds. Hemdat beamed at him. “That’s my man, Reb Yaakov,” he said, sliding the bowl over toward Yael.
The almonds had a tangy bitterness. Hemdat dipped one in sweet wine and watched Yael’s jaws bulge as the strong teeth she had bitten off his hair with cracked almond after almond. Yael rose and went to the sink for a glass of water. Hemdat poured her some wine. She shook her head. “I want water,” she said with a toss of her proud shoulders.
Mr. Malkov’s little daughter came to remove the tablecloth and whispered to Hemdat, “She’s so pretty.”
Hemdat patted her fondly on the ear.
7
Hemdat enjoyed Shammai’s visits. Shammai was a sight to see when he talked about Yael. He had visited her every day in the hospital, walking all the way to Jaffa. He had guarded her like a watchdog. And yet Yael could not stand him. She did not want him anywhere near her. Hemdat must remind her when he saw her that evening of everything Shammai had done for her. Really, Yael, what an ingrate you are.
Shammai’s enthusiasms delighted him. He was so youthfully naive. What did Yael have against him?
A few days went by. Yael was nowhere to be seen. Shammai dropped by. He had a walking stick, a safari hat, high boots, and a full picnic basket. Where was he off to?
Shammai had rented a carriage and was inviting Hemdat to come on a trip to Rehovot. “Please do us the honor,” he said. “Yael is coming too.” Shammai’s eyes came to rest on the Rembrandt and his reflection appeared between the couple there.
Hemdat removed the picture from the wall. As if Yael cared whether he came or not. “Yes or no,” Shammai had said. “If you don’t come, Mrs. Ilonit would like your place.”
Who was Shammai to be chasing after Yael Hayyut? Shammai was the son of a Jewish businessman who owned land in Palestine and lived in America and supported a family left behind in Russia, plus Shammai, who was studying medicine at the American College in Beirut. On his vacations Shammai came to Palestine to acquaint himself with the site of his future practice. His coarse hands and jowly cheeks should not mislead you into thinking that he wasn’t an idealist. Was it because he said, “Why don’t you drop in on us?” that he blushed when urging Hemdat to visit Yael? It made Hemdat laugh to hear him declare boyishly, “I love what you write, Hemdat. Everything of yours is so perfect. I’ll be damned if I know why Pizmoni is called a poet. I’ve never read a single line of his.”
Really, Hemdat asked himself, why don’t you go see Yael? After all, she invited you through Shammai. One evening he went. Yael’s embarrassment was great. She was wearing Shammai’s jacket, and Shammai lay sprawled on the couch. His smooth jowls that looked like an extension of his swollen neck erupted in strained, triumphal laughter.
They both jumped to their feet and said, “Why, it’s Hemdat! How about some seltzer and lemon marmalade? Or perhaps you would like an aperitif. There’s nothing like a little drink before dinner. You’ll stay to eat with us, of course.”
How, Hemdat wondered, could they sit in a room with no air? The place was a mess. Shammai’s ties hung over the back of the couch and a pair of slippers lay under each bed.
Hemdat did not judge Yael harshly. She had been hungry, and Shammai kept her not only in bread but in chocolates. When you came right down to it, she was a simple girl. Before you knew it she would be the fat wife of some businessman, with lots of children. He bore her no grudge. He did not mention her name anymore.
The summer was coming to an end. The days were muggy. An immense, relentless sun baked the city and there was not a breath of air. The best thing to do was to stay home and sweat as little as possible. Hemdat rarely went out. The coffee beaker bubbled all day and he drank cup after cup. It did not make him less lethargic but it did give him something to do. Not that there weren’t other ways of taking one’s mind off oneself. He could have gone to see the founding of Tel Aviv, for which there happened to be a party that day. All Jaffa celebrated with wine and cake except Hemdat, who stayed home drinking black coffee.
Hemdat’s friends began dropping by again. It must have been the simmer of the coffee. Gurishkin was in fine fettle. He was now a founder of Tel Aviv and the chronicler of a city. Dorban was tipsy most of the time, which did not make him any less himself. The thought of the first Jewish metropolis left a desert rat like him cold. His muse was not about to be seduced by it. Gurishkin did not take him seriously. Dorban had yet to publish a thing. If Gurishkin was up in arms about anyone, it was Pizmoni, who had just come out with a new poem entitled “On the Banks of the Dnieper.” How could you call yourself a Palestinian poet and write about Russian rivers? Hemdat kept filling their glasses. If the wine made them drunk, the coffee sobered them up. The conversation shifted from patriotism and poetry to women and love.
Hemdat, who had been sitting there quietly, stirred and said, “If you’re in your right mind you shouldn’t go out with a girl unless you take along a fat imbecile. She’s sure to fall in love with him and spare you a messy romance.”
Pnina hung her chaste head. She would never have thought that Hemdat could be so crude.
Hemdat stepped outside. In the street he bumped into Yael and Shammai. “How much did the meal at Malkov’s cost?” they asked. Yael wanted to pay for her share. Hemdat smiled awkwardly. “It isn’t fair of you not to answer, Hemdat,” said Yael. “There’s nothing to say,” Hemdat said. “It’s an insult to Yael not to tell her,” said Shammai. “Why don’t you visit me?” asked Yael. “Why don’t you visit me?” asked Hemdat. “I did,” said Yael. “You weren’t in. If you don’t believe me, your green jacket was on the chair by the table.” “Then come now,” Hemdat said. “No, you come first,” said Yael. They changed the subject.