“Aren’t you eating your cake?”
“No, mother, I’m not hungry.”
Ya’el rolled her eyes at me.
“You don’t have to be hungry to eat a piece of cake. Or don’t you like it…?”
“I do. I’m just full. I mean…” I was only making things worse.
Silence. Horatio had calmed down. He stretched himself beneath father’s chair and started to nuzzle his penis, licking it vigorously. A dull yellowish light filled the room. Perhaps they were dead already and I was visiting them in the underworld. Dutifully, slowly, father and Ya’el chewed their cake. Gaddi was already having seconds.
“You’re not eating yourself,” said father gently. “Your cake is delicious.”
Mother didn’t answer.
The young nurse rose to collect the dishes, adroitly removing my plate with what was left on it.
“Would you like some more?” mother asked father.
He nodded, hoisted by his own petard. A new slice of cake appeared on his plate and he set to work chewing that too.
The young nurse placed the dishes on a tray. Someone opened the door for her. She stepped outside, where waiting hands snatched the tray, and returned at once. She pulled the cord from the socket in the wall, wound it around the electric kettle, and took that to the door too. And again she came right back. Meanwhile the old nurse was murmuring something to mother while wrapping the remains of the cake in an old towel. The young nurse opened the door again. Heads peered in, whispered laughter. They were waiting for the leftovers. The two nurses left and shut the door.
“Who are all those people outside, friends of yours?”
Mother smiled ironically. “Friends…”
Horatio crouched next to her, his head turned, his eyes shut, bald patches like burn scars in his mangy red fur. Father gazed at him and reached out to pet him.
“Has ’Ratio been here all along?”
“Since when is he ’Ratio?” we scolded. “His name is Horatio. You never could get it right.”
Father smiled. “’Ratio… Horatio…”
“Maybe you should take him back with you to America,” said mother abruptly.
Father laughed.
“I hear you’ve had a particularly hard winter this year. I’m glad I brought a coat with me. At first I didn’t plan to, since it would already be spring here, and spring here is as good as summer. But in the end I brought it, and it’s a good thing I did…”
(Bring himself, he meant.)
Ya’el rose without a sound and handed him the plastic bag that had been lying by his chair.
“Oh yes, I forgot. I brought you a present.” He took the bag and went over to her. “It’s something that I bought you…” But he couldn’t remember what it was. He opened the bag to take a peek. “I believe it’s a robe and a sweater.” He looked at Ya’el for confirmation. “Yes, a sweater.”
He pulled out the big wool shawl and spread it on his knees.
“A sweater?” Mother seemed very touched.
Ya’el took the shawl and draped it around her shoulders.
“The colors are perfect for you.”
Mother stood up. The two of them helped wrap her in the shawl.
I sat immobile in my chair, thinking what a dangerous thing this tenderness between them was. I glanced at Gaddi, who had not taken his eyes off the dog.
“It’s just the thing for you,” said father.
“Thank you. You needn’t have bothered… did I ask for a present? It’s really very warm…” She wiped away a tear. “Once I had a shawl like this years ago… exactly like this one… how did you find it again?” She removed it, searching for the missing label. “You shouldn’t have wasted so much money, Yehuda. Really, you shouldn’t have. Perhaps you should give it to someone else… to Asa…”
She made as though to give me the shawl.
But father wouldn’t hear of it.
“How can you say such a thing? You don’t know how happy it makes me to see you so calm. It’s a great change for the better. I would have brought you more, but I left in such a hurry…”
“A hurry?’’
“As soon as I received your letter… and then Kedmi told me…’’
“Oh”
They were beating around the bush. The afternoon light was fading in the room.
Mother sat down again. “So what’s new in America?”
“America?” Father lit a cigarette while he considered. “America is a big place. But nothing is new there. We had a long hard winter too.”
“Another one?”
“Another one.” He stood dangling his arms, not knowing what to do with them. Was he having an attack of idiocy or of cold feet?
“Are you still in that same place…?”
“Minneapolis.”
“But just where is it?”
“Up north.”
“Someday I’d like to see where it is on the map. Maybe Asa has a map in his briefcase…”
“No. I don’t.”
“Maybe there’s a map in one of those books.”
Ya’el was already on her feet, Homo dutifuliensis.
“I’ll show you where it is sometime, mother. On Passover I’ll bring an atlas.”
“It’s near the Canadian border,” explained father anxiously. “Not far from Canada. In the interior. Can you picture it?”
But she could not. Bracing herself, Ya’el threw a despairing glance at the shelves of books. The giant’s face peered in once more at the window. Someone, perhaps the old fellow, tried pulling him away. They could be heard quarreling. Father smiled, still groping for Horatio beneath his chair.
“I understand that the doctor says you can leave here soon. Ya’el told me that he’s very optimistic…”
There was no answer. Arms on her chest, mother watched Ya’el go through the books. She pointed to a corner of the room.
“There must be a map there. Asi’s sure to find it.”
To suddenly be in her damned clutches again. Hopelessly I rummaged through the books in the corner. Cheap novels. Instant biographies. Lifeless volumes bearing the imprint of the Cultural Division of the National Medical Insurance Plan. Ghost-written memoirs of ex-politicians distributed free of cost by their parties. No one spoke. With a smile of consternation father rose to look too. Nothing could proceed without a map. Finally I found a small one in a children’s encyclopedia. I showed it to her, reading out loud the place names near Minneapolis. She bent to get a closer look. Father stood by us, confirming what I read.
“Is it cold there?”
“Very.”
“Then you should move down here. Further south.” She laid a finger on Brazil.
Father smiled at us uncertainly. But to me it was clear: it was he who brought out the madness in her.
“No, mother. You’re already in Brazil.”
“Brazil?” she giggled embarrassedly. “I can’t see very well. Dear me, Brazil? My glasses broke last week and no one here seems able to fix them.”
She took out a folded handkerchief from the pocket of her dress, unrolled it, and showed us her glasses. One lens was shattered. Father took them from her solemnly, carefully, with deep concern.
“We’ll get them fixed right away,” he told Ya’el. “It’s something we must take care of.”
The shattered lens fell apart in his hands. He tried fitting it back together.