Their meals were not talkative. His wife had been the conversationalist in the family. “Without me,” she used to say to them, “you’d just gobble your food like animals,” and in fact, though it did not make them feel particularly bestial, that was how they now ate. Sometimes one of them would groan in despair over the political situation, but fatalistically, as one despairs of the incurably ill; and sometimes Molkho’s mother-in-law would tell the children about their dead mother, relating some childhood story about her from the age of ten or eleven. None of them had ever heard these anecdotes, which the old woman evidently rehearsed during the week; but though Molkho would listen to them with interest, feeling a bittersweet pain, the children would sit through them bored and fidgety. Soon the college student would return to his dorm (he had fallen behind in his studies and had a lot to make up), the soldier would pick up the telephone and begin dialing her friends, and the high school boy would slip off to his room, leaving Molkho and his mother-in-law to watch the news by themselves until, as soon as the entertainment programs started, she would rise from her chair and put on her coat and scarf. Sometimes, driven by habit, she first went to her daughter’s bedroom and stood looking at it from the doorway, casting Molkho a kindly glance. Though she had never thought particularly highly of him, he knew that she felt a subtle affection for him, which had grown stronger in recent months. “Is there anything I can do for you?” she asked. “Perhaps you’d like me to invite the boy for a meal now and then.”
He would have liked to ask if she was going to Tuesday’s concert, but he thought better of it. Driving her back to the home, he parked near the entrance and watched her step out of the car, her feet groping weakly for the sidewalk, then quickly recovering and striding firmly down the path between flowerbeds and bushes surrounding a small pool until she reached the large glass door, on the other side of which the postprandial light was an almost blackish violet. He waited to make sure she passed safely through it, watching her gaily say hello to the old folks chewing their cud in the lobby and the little old lady who greeted her, rising quickly from her corner with an old-fashioned bow.
THAT TUESDAY NIGHT he went to the concert. The program featured Haydn’s Creation and rumor had it that the performance was a good one, Sundays and Monday’s audiences having only the highest praise for it. Though at first the college student had promised to join him, Molkho found a note from him that afternoon saying that he couldn’t make it, and so he asked the high school boy instead. “What’s there to lose,” he cajoled him. “Try it one time. It’s wonderful music. You can always leave in the intermission if you don’t like it.” “Ho, ho, ho,” said the boy, rejecting the offer disdainfully. Molkho did not make a point of it. This time he was sure his wife’s ticket could be sold. His last Philharmonic concert had been over half a year ago, in early summer, before his wife, who had come leaning on a cane, took to bed for the last time; later on in the season, when he had wanted to bring her again, she had asked him, practically begged him, to go by himself, and he almost did, until suddenly she began to throw up and he was forced to stay home with her.
He washed, put on a dark suit, and arrived earlier than he had meant to. Yet the mall was already crowded, and its festive mood was infectious. There were numerous people he knew, many of whom came over to shake his hand earnestly, and he wished the college student were with him so that the blame, such as it was, could be shared. The concert was sold out; quite a few youngsters circulated among the crowd in search of extra tickets, but none were to be had. He himself was approached in a friendly manner by an attractive young lady in glasses; she seemed to be alone, perhaps even available, and seeing her bright, beaming face, he thought, Why not, who knows what may come of it? Yet he wavered, afraid how it might look, and then feebly shook his head. Soon after a young man in jeans came up to him too. No, said Molkho decisively after starting to take a step toward him, making up his mind to forfeit the price of the ticket. Entering the auditorium, he took his customary seat. The two old men on his right, who were partners in an optometrist’s shop, greeted him diffidently, not quite sure it was he, while quickly he sought out his mother-in-law’s seat a few rows ahead of him and saw it was empty. The musicians began coming onstage, taking their places and warming up deftly on bars of the opening piece. The hall hummed with people, more of whom kept streaming in, though it looked almost full already. Students were sitting in the aisles. Now and then, someone stopped to ask Molkho if the seat beside him was taken, to which he testily replied, “Yes, it is.” Still tuning up, the orchestra was now wildly improvising on all kinds of themes. He kept staring at the empty seat ahead of him, hoping to see his mother-in-law appear, but instead, an usher arrived with a little old lady in an old velvet dress who, anxious and flustered, bowed to her neighbors with a timid smile and sat in Frau Starkman’s place. Just as he recognized her, a hand on his shoulder made him jump. It was some old friends from Jerusalem, who helped him to his feet and sorrowfully embraced him. “We heard about it,” they said in low voices. “We’re so sorry. We wanted so much to come see you. Was it very hard in the end? Did she suffer much?” They wanted some preconcert consolation, and he gave it to them warmly. “No, she didn’t suffer at all. Not a bit. I know, because it happened at home.” “At home?” they asked astonishedly, their arms still around him. “Yes,” he said proudly, “at home. She hardly suffered at all.” The old men on his right listened open-eyed, regarding him sympathetically when he sat down again. No doubt they had suspected as much, from the moment they saw her last summer with the cane, and now they put two and two together. Still, they didn’t seem to mind his being there. They even seemed about to speak to him, but just then the conductor made his entrance.
The first piece was Vivaldi’s Four Seasons, which was new to him. In general, Molkho’s knowledge of classical music, which had come to him via his wife, was sketchy. Both his parents had been bom into Orthodox families in the old walled city of Jerusalem, and what little musical education he possessed was the result of his wife’s patient efforts. He still preferred compositions with plenty of trumpets and drums, although he couldn’t deny that the strains of the first violin now washing over him tugged at his heartstrings too. Suddenly, glancing at the empty seat beside him, he missed his wife acutely, as if he had left her at home and was now needed by her there, hobbling about on crutches in the dark apartment. Why did he have to say she hadn’t suffered, what made him need to be so comforting? A light cough from somewhere behind him sounded like hers. Reassuringly he laid a hand on the soft plush of the open seat beside him.