I’ll never know …
And yet what does it matter?
I’ve already wasted enough energy on this mess.
It’s time to call it a day.
The water flowing from the tap showed no sign of warming up, evidence of how little sunshine there had been that day and how slim the hope for a hot shower was. He sat shivering on the edge of the tub, naked in his former home, while the two substitute parents gave a last flurry of attention to his daughter, who was being worn down by the growing tensions between him and his ex-wife. As far as he was concerned, he thought, switching on the electric heater while gently massaging his body, they could help her with her homework as much as they liked. Perhaps before going to sleep he would find a quiet time to tell her about his evening. Hearing about the pretty woman with the smile who had spent a week in the morgue as a nameless corpse might make her realize that there were other people to feel sorry for besides herself.
There was a sharp knock on the bathroom door, followed by his daughter’s strained voice:
“Abba, if you haven’t showered yet, don’t! Ima just called to say she’s coming home because of what you got yourself into. You have to let her have her parking place. So please, Abba, if you haven’t begun to shower, there’s no time …”
He knew how she suffered from the savage rift between her parents and did not wish to make things worse for her — and so, overcoming his repugnance at having to get back into his dirty clothes, he turned off the tap and rejoined the office manager and her husband. They were already in their overcoats, holding their folded umbrellas. A khaki stocking cap, the kind worn in simpler times by Israeli soldiers, was pulled jauntily down over the husband’s rugby-ball head. Here was a couple who felt good about themselves and about their contribution to the world.
“You didn’t have to say goodbye,” the office manager said. “You’ll see me in the morning.”
“But not your husband,” he replied. He shook the hand of this jaunty man, who whispered a gentle scolding:
“You should have more patience with her maths. She has too many gaps in her education.”
The human resources manager reddened and laid a hand on his heart. Then, slipping into his windcheater, he accompanied the two to the street. When, he asked the office manager, did she think the concert would be over?
“You don’t intend to call him tonight!”
“Why not? After all the fuss he’s made, he deserves some kind of report.”
“And you’ve really cleared everything up?”
“I think so.”
She regarded him sympathetically. “In that case, you can call until midnight. Don’t worry if he sounds half asleep. He dozes off and wakes up all the time. He’ll sleep better tonight if you calm him.”
“I’m not sure I will,” said the resource manager. He parted from them warmly, as if they were newly discovered relatives; moved his car from the building’s parking lot to the far pavement; and returned to the apartment, where he devoured the remains of the pizza and told his daughter the story of the cleaning woman. He even showed her the woman’s photograph in the folder, curious to see how it struck her. Yet she did not seem to have an opinion or even to be listening. Gripping his arm, she pleaded:
“Abba! Ima will be here any minute. You’re both tired. Why fight again now?”
“Who says we’re going to fight?”
She bit her lip and said nothing, while he stroked her curly head to still her fears. In his heart, he cursed the old owner for spoiling their evening. Slipping back into his damp windcheater, he borrowed an umbrella and went out into the rain. Standing in the dark entrance of the house next door, he waited to make sure that his wife arrived.
The rain was now a fine drizzle. You couldn’t tell whether it was falling or rising, or whether the strange red glow in the sky, appearing behind a large antenna, was natural or man-made. Shivering from cold and fatigue, he stood waiting patiently for the large car that was still registered in his name to swing into the street and pull violently into the vacated parking space. Its driver, apparently unconvinced that the man she hated had departed, left the headlights beaming and stepped out to glance at the apartment, as if to judge from the glow in the windows, or perhaps some other sign, whether he was still there. They hadn’t met face-to-face for weeks. From her silhouette he could tell that despite the weather she was wearing high heels. No doubt she had on an elegant dress beneath her winter coat. And yet, he thought sadly, finding a new man wasn’t easy for her. Whoever she had gone out of town to meet that day must have left her feeling disappointed.
Well, that wasn’t his problem.
He needn’t feel guilt for her bottomless anger.
Or for her sexual frustration …
Assured at last that he had left, she switched off the car lights and took out a small suitcase. Then, before pressing the remote control, she glanced up once more.
Even though there were only a few metres between them, she did not notice him standing in the darkness. Yet had she sniffed a familiar scent? Whatever it was, she suddenly stopped and looked suspiciously around before hurrying up the stairs.
13
Although it was only nine o’clock, the human resources manager assumed that his mother, who was not expecting him that night, would already have gone to bed. He had noticed that she was sleeping a great deal lately, and since she claimed that her first hours of sleep were her best, he was determined to enter quietly and not disturb her. He had forgotten, however, that in his absence she always put the chain on the door. Locked out, he had to call her on his cell phone and explain what he was doing there.
She was in no hurry to let him in. As if he were a lodger rather than her only son, she slowly put on a robe and paused to comb her hair before unchaining the door with painstaking reluctance. He had turned her apartment into a transit camp, burdening her not only with his clutter but also with his divorce, which she had done all she could to prevent. For the first time since his childhood, she did not look at him when they spoke.
Now she took his unexpected arrival as evidence that he had caused yet another family mishap. Instead of helping to put his supper on the table, she went to her bedroom, gathered the still-warm sections of the day’s newspaper from her sheets and blankets, dumped them on the kitchen table for him, and excused herself to return to her interrupted sleep.
He felt almost insulted. What was the hurry? he asked. The night was young. And he had a story to tell her, something from the office that he wanted to discuss, something on which he would like to have her opinion.
She had no choice but to listen to the tale about the cleaning woman, whose death in the latest bombing had led to a vicious article being scheduled in the local weekly where his photograph was to appear as well as mention of his divorce. It couldn’t be stopped. That’s what the press was like these days: it always went for the jugular. And yet, he said with a smile, proudly relating his discovery of the supervisor’s strange infatuation, he had already managed to get to the bottom of it. Placing the folder on the table, he showed his mother the picture and asked whether she, too, found the woman alluring or attractive.
She listened to him absentmindedly, her eyes on the table, as if doubting whether anything in his account could possibly justify the loss of her beauty sleep. Nor did she want to look at the picture. “What difference does it make?” she asked crossly.