“Fine.”
They went into the bedroom. Israel pulled out two blankets from their bag; Esther gave him two more.
“These will be enough,” Dov said. “Here, in Eilat, almost everybody sleeps on the floor. Are you two going to bed, too?”
“No,” Little Dov said. “I’d like to borrow your jeep and take Esther to the beach.” He paused. “I don’t have a car.” He walked over to the window and closed it. “Can’t they park that goddamn truck somewhere else?” He paused again. “Can I borrow the jeep?”
Dov gave him the keys and said, “Good night. Good night, Esther.”
She didn’t say anything. For a moment she stood in the doorway, then turned and left. Soon afterward Dov and Israel heard the roar of the jeep’s engine. They turned off the light, but neither of them could fall asleep at once.
“Tiles again,” Dov said. “Last night I was looking at them, now I have to lie on them.”
“Think about something else.”
“Too bad we don’t have any sleeping pills. I won’t be able to sleep. When Dina was with me, I never needed any pills.” He propped himself on his elbows. “You know, sometimes I would drop off to sleep on top of her, and she’d lie like that half the night, not moving so as not to wake me.”
Israel didn’t say anything. They lay in the dark listening to their own breathing. Through the wall they could hear the monotonous voice of Dov’s father, praying.
“He’s such a contrary bastard he even says his prayers at night and not in the morning,” Dov said. “He does everything he can to make people hate him. And he quarrels with everybody, even God.” He pounded the wall with his fist. “Let us sleep! Maybe you don’t need your rest, but others do!”
They heard the old man’s steps coming down the hall. Dov jumped up, picked up a chair from the floor, and lifted it over his head. Israel threw himself against him. The old man entered the room and pointed at Dov with his hand entwined up to the shoulder with a leather strap from his phylacteries.
“I would listen to you, son,” he said in his shrill, old man’s voice, “if you were a man. But you’re not. I don’t know what it is you lack, but you must be lacking something if your wife has left you. If you want something from me or your brother while you’re in this house, ask. Never tell us what to do.”
He left, closing the door softly.
LITTLE DOV DROVE SLOWLY; IT WAS DARK NOW ALTHOUGH the moon was still out, suspended over the mountain range — the desert lay shrouded in darkness and quiet, without light, without sound, and yet they could still smell it, smell the invisible waves of heat it sent out tirelessly. He drove toward the beach, swerving to the right a little awkwardly and too sharply whenever a car came from the opposite direction.
“Do you want to swim, Dov?” Esther asked.
He turned to her; it seemed to him that he could see her profile in the dark — the high forehead, the short, straight nose, the strong neck. “No, I don’t,” he said. “I didn’t say anything about swimming.”
“Dov,” she said, “we did it twice already today. Please, Dov, no more.”
The right-hand wheels rasped against the sand as he pulled her to him. “Did we really? I have a bad memory, Esther. Like all men who work too hard.”
“Please, I just can’t,” she said.
“You won’t know that for sure until you try.”
Near the airport he turned left off the highway. They began bouncing up and down as the jeep made its way over the rough terrain. Esther caught his arm.
“No, Esther,” he said. “Put your hands around my neck and hug me.”
“Yes,” she said. She did what he asked, but even in the darkness she felt embarrassed.
Little Dov stopped being aware of the smell of the sea: he inhaled only the smell of her skin, gentle and strong like the scent of fresh bread. He felt her breath on his neck, hot and clean like a child’s. Unable to go on driving, he stopped the jeep, jumped out, and held out his hand to her. “Come.”
“There are people here, Dov.”
“Don’t be ashamed, Esther. You’re pretty and clean, and you smell like fresh bread.”
He knelt on the sand and so did she, then he lay down next to her and started peeling off her dress and her swimsuit.
“You’re like an animal, Dov,” she said. “It’s really a miracle that you can speak and read. And that you have a kind heart. Yes, you’re an animal.”
“And you’re my wife, Esther, and I love you,” he said. “Do you think many men love their wives? Think about it, Esther.”
He could feel her hands pushing his belly away; weak, hot hands that couldn’t put up much resistance.
“Dov,” she said. “Dov, I hurt all over inside. If you really love me—”
“Don’t worry. When you get hot and moist, it won’t hurt.”
“But I’ll scream, Dov. You know I always scream. I can’t control myself.”
He got up, unsteady on his legs, and went to the jeep. He pulled the starter and the engine roared into life.
“Now you can scream all you want, Esther. All you want.”
He felt her hands tighten on his back, and then a great joy began to mount in him, he was getting closer and closer to something he could never reach and where he could never stay, and then his head was empty of all thought and he heard the sound of his own teeth grinding sand. He lay exhausted, feeling her hands on his face, brushing it clean.
“Esther,” he said after a while, looking at her face, now pale and tired. “You know how to make me happy. And you always will.”
Suddenly he heard footsteps. He got up and lit a cigarette, feeling the weight and awkwardness of his own hand.
“Dov?” someone said in the dark. “Anything wrong? You need help?”
“No, I don’t need help, damn you.”
“Then why is your engine running?”
“That’s what it’s for. I didn’t invent it. Now leave me alone, okay?”
The man went away. Little Dov sat down next to Esther; she gazed up at him and watched his crooked mouth inhale the smoke.
“Why is your mouth always crooked, Dov?”
“When I was a kid, I fell and busted my septum. A surgeon could have fixed it, but my father wouldn’t hear of it. I had to twist my mouth to breathe normally. My nose healed with time, but this leer remained.” He tossed the cigarette butt away and lay down beside her; the sand was as hot as during the day. He started to move his hands over her body and again felt his jaws begin to clench.
“No, darling,” she said. “I can’t. I’m hurting all over inside.”
“Esther,” he said quietly, “go into the sea and swim around a bit. And then come back to me. I can’t throw my brother out. And I don’t want to make love to you with him there.” He reached for her swimsuit and helped her put it on. “Now go for a swim.”
“Dov,” Esther said.
“Yes, baby?”
“I don’t know if I should tell you this, but I’m afraid.”
“Of what, Esther?”
“Your brother.”
“Don’t be afraid of him,” he said. “He’s not a bad man. He’s unhappy, that’s all.”
“People have been saying so many bad things about him.”
“That’s not his fault. People often can’t tell the difference between badness and misfortune. Though I don’t blame them for it.”
He turned off the jeep’s engine and they started walking toward the sea, passing through hard, invisible walls of heat the day had left behind. Then Little Dov sat down in his boat, which he always beached in this spot, and watched Esther swim quickly out of sight; she was a good, fast swimmer — young, long-armed, and long-legged.
“Enjoying yourself with the little woman, Dov?” suddenly somebody asked.