“She’s innocent,” Israel said. “She spoke the truth. Is it her fault she realized something we didn’t?” He went up to the window and raised the curtain. “See that light? Ursula is waiting.”
“So?”
“She’s waiting for you.”
“Don’t you start that, too!”
“No,” Israel said. “I’m not starting anything. I’ve finished with her. Now it’s your turn.” He let the curtain fall. “But let’s wait some more. Or rather, let her wait.” He took a chair, turned it around, and sat down facing Dov. “Did I ever tell you about my brother?”
“No. I didn’t know you had a brother,” Dov said.
“He’s dead now,” Israel said. “He was in Britain during the war. When he came back to Poland, the Commies arrested him and sentenced him to death. He spent seven years in prison awaiting execution. Then they let him out.”
“They did?”
“Yes,” Israel said. “They let him out, but he never left that prison. He stayed in it forever.”
“What are you talking about, man?”
“I can talk about anything you like,” Israel said. “Somebody who was once in Madrid told me that the hearses there are painted white and look like a cross between an ice cream cart and a jukebox. Want me to tell you more about it?”
“Why don’t you just go to sleep?” Dov said. “You’ve had enough for today. So have I.”
“Of course I’ll go to sleep,” Israel said. “But what about you?”
“What about me?”
“Will you fall asleep? Will you?”
“What are you driving at?”
“Maybe you’ll dream of your wife again,” Israel said. “Maybe you’ll wake up in the middle of the night and start feeling scared that you won’t fall asleep again and then you really won’t, until dawn.”
“What are you driving at?” Dov asked again.
“You know,” Israel said, “my brother had a wife he brought over from Ireland. And when he was finally released from prison, he told me he dreamed the same dream over and over again. He was driving with his wife through a strange city, and he left her in the car for a minute and went to get something; when he returned, he couldn’t find either her or the car. So he began searching all over the city, asking everybody he met if they had seen his wife or his car, but no one understood what he was saying. And those who did laughed at him.”
“They laughed at him?”
“Yes,” Israel said. “Just like in that dream you had. Remember that dream where you were hungry and no one would share his food with you? That’s the same kind of dream. My brother had it for seven years.”
“And what happened to him?” Dov asked.
“Exactly what you think. Yes, exactly that. Two years after his release from prison.”
“I don’t believe you,” Dov said.
“Why?”
“You read this story somewhere. Or somebody told you.”
“No,” Israel said. “It’s true. He did what you think he did when he came out of prison and realized she wouldn’t come back to him. He didn’t blame her. After all, he had been sentenced to death.”
“Why are you telling me all this?” Dov asked. “I know you. You haven’t told me yet what’s really on your mind. Can’t you say it outright?”
“I’m worried about you,” Israel said. “That’s all.”
“Many people have worried about me,” Dov said. “But so far nothing’s happened.”
“You’ve killed a man,” Israel said. “Is that nothing?”
“You know why I did it.”
“I know much more,” Israel said. “I know that one day you’re going to kill yourself. That’s why I’m telling you all this. One night when you won’t be able to fall asleep you’ll suddenly realize that you should have done it long ago. And then you’ll be in such a hurry to do it you won’t have time to think it over.” He got up and went to the window. They hadn’t turned on the light; he lifted the curtain and stood bathed in the weak glow coming from the window on the opposite side of the yard. “She’s still waiting,” he said. “Isn’t it awful?”
“What?” Dov asked.
“That people learn from others things they should know themselves. Take Esther. Or Ursula. Or me, or you.”
“What do you want from me?” Dov asked. He spoke softly, looking very tired; Israel could barely see his face in the light falling past his shoulder. “Do you want me to get into new trouble?”
“That woman will give you sleep,” Israel said.
“No. Just because you liked it with her doesn’t mean I’ll like it too. I’ve tried going to bed with other women but it never was the same. Never.”
“I thought about it last night,” Israel said. “I switched on the light and watched her go to the bathroom. And I saw her feet leave wet marks on the tiles. It made me think of Dina, your wife. And of you. I thought of you lying here in the dark trying to fall asleep. And I knew you’d stay awake until morning. Wasn’t I right?”
Dov got up. He walked to the window and tugged the curtain down. Israel saw his face up close: it was pale and weary, a mask.
“Yes,” Dov said.
“Go to her,” Israel said. “She’s waiting for you.”
“I haven’t stood trial for rape yet,” Dov said. “And I don’t intend to.”
“What do you mean, rape?” Israel said. “Everybody knows she’s after you. Esther. Your old dad. Your brother.”
“And you too?”
“And me too,” Israel said.
“No,” Dov said, “I can’t do that. I don’t know why but I can’t.”
“You’re afraid of her,” Israel said. “You’re not afraid that you won’t enjoy fucking her but that she won’t enjoy being fucked by you. Is that right?”
“You’re a bastard,” Dov said. “A stupid bastard with a big mouth. Why do I take such a bastard with me everywhere I go?”
“Because you’re a pal,” Israel said. “There are guys who’d slug me for telling them the truth.”
“Remember it was you who said she was after me; I didn’t,” Dov said. He grabbed his shirt from the back of a chair and went out.
“Not only me,” Israel said. “Everybody did.”
He went to the corner where their canvas bag stood and rummaged in it until he found a small vial of sleeping pills. He took out two pills, threw the bag back in the corner, and went to the kitchen to get some water. When he returned, he stopped for a moment by the window, staring toward the light coming from the other house; then he pulled the curtain back in place. It was quiet; he turned off the fan and lay down. He could hear the wind blowing from the bay and traveling over the dark landscape in the direction of the mountain range and on toward the desert where everything was bright and distinct in the moonlight.
DOV CROSSED THE DARK YARD AND WALKED INTO THE house. He leaned against the doorjamb of Ursula’s room and stood there, staring at her sitting on the bed; she turned her head away when she saw him and didn’t look at him again.
“You’re surprised, aren’t you?” she asked, finally.
“I don’t know,” he said.
“Yes,” she said, turning her slim, weary face in his direction. “I can tell you’re surprised. You’re surprised that I’m not surprised. Aren’t you? But it’s not as complicated as you may think. Israel told me he’d come at eight. By the time it was half past eight, I was pretty sure that it would be you who would come, not him. It’s past eleven now. I’ve been expecting you for three hours.”
“I can leave,” he said. “I can leave at once.”
“Do you really believe that?”
“I believe everything I hear about a woman,” Dov said. “And everything a woman tells me.”