The hours went by indistinguishably. The reddish, wintry light of a cloudless sunset poured through the west, seaward window. Another night passed and then another morning, and still his mother-in-law did not come or even call to ask how he was. His fever was down a bit, yet he kept to his bed, unwashed and unshaven between the crumpled sheets, enjoying a detached convalescence, his main link with the world the soft music that he played on the tape machine. Though he phoned his mother each morning as usual, he did not inform her of his illness, keeping the conversation to a minimum to prevent her from becoming suspicious.
When he awoke early on the morning of the fourth day, the fever was gone. Pale, weak, and slightly thinner, he opened all the windows to air out the house, made himself two eggs, and was leafing through the newspapers in bed when suddenly he heard his mother-in-law opening the front door with the key she still had in her possession. She had come to see him at last, and now she sat facing him in the armchair from which she had watched her dying daughter, her cane between her legs and her coat still on as if already eager to depart, regarding him more severely than worriedly through her thick lenses with a look that was, except for its slight squint, genetically coded just like his wife’s. And yet, as they talked—and not at all about his illness—it struck him again how close they had grown, how much they had in common. He had been thinking, he told her, of visiting their cousin in Paris, but now, having just read in the newspaper about the latest economic decrees, including a new travel tax, he had his doubts. The new taxes, for some reason, interested her; she wanted to know all about them. One might think, Molkho thought, that she were planning a trip herself—and indeed, why shouldn’t she? She certainly could afford one: there were new sums all the time from Germany, where her husband’s suicide must have put her in a lucrative category. Two years ago, in fact, upon turning eighty, she had astonished everyone by going on an archaeological tour of Turkey sponsored by the Geographical Society. Soon, though, the talk shifted to more practical concerns, such as the high school boy, who should perhaps eat lunch with his grandmother at the home and sleep at a friend’s house until Molkho recovered. The idea seemed a good one; he even envied the boy for being able to dine with all the old folks. Outside the sun was shining. His mother-in-law rose, made a quick tour of the apartment with her cane, and was already on her way out, apologizing for having an appointment. He put on his bathrobe to walk her to the street. “I see you’re all better already,” she said, as if realizing she had wasted her time on him. Forced to confess that he was, he opened the front door of the building and was blinded by the sudden winter light. It was a cold morning, scrubbed clean by the rain. Slowly he walked her to the street, where, sitting in an ancient fur coat at the bus stop like a peasant in an old painting, was the little old woman from the concert. She rose smiling to greet them, as round-cheeked and rosy as if fed on a diet of potatoes, bowing genially to them from afar. “Who is that?” Molkho asked. “Stasya,” said his mother-in-law. “She’s the friend from Russia I told you about, the one who arrived a few months ago.” Molkho smiled back at her. “Why didn’t you bring her up to the apartment?” he asked, already on his way to introduce himself in his bathrobe and floppy slippers, lured onward by the crisp morning. “No, don’t,” his mother-in-law warned him. “It’s too cold for you. You have to take care of yourself.” “So I do,” Molkho said, turning to go back upstairs.
Part II
WINTER
MOLKHO’S WIFE DIED in early autumn, toward the end of September, and at the beginning of January he left for Paris. They had been together in that city three times, each time reconfirming their special love for it. Now, the fourth time, he arrived by himself. His wife’s cousin, who was ten years her junior, and her husband, a non-Jewish doctor, hugged him hard at the airport and bundled him off to their home, where they so insisted he stay with them that he abandoned his original plan of putting up at his old hotel. As if feeling guilty for merely sending him a telegram instead of coming to the funeral, they showered him with warmth. On the first night they did not go out at all. Once more Molkho told the story of his wife’s death, describing the days before and after it, enjoying sharing all its details with his two eager listeners. The doctor asked professional questions and Molkho did his best to answer them, though he did not know many of the medical terms in French or how to pronounce the names of the drugs. It was late when they turned in. His hosts lived in four small rooms, one of which belonged to their eight-year-old daughter and year-old son, and though at first they had planned to put him up in it, the mess there was so great that over his loud protests they gave him their own room and spent the night in the living room. After sleeping for a year in a single bed, it was hard to get used to the width of a double one.
It was still dark out when, crawling into bed with him and babbling in French, the baby woke Molkho in the morning. Though the little fellow seemed not at all disturbed to find a stranger in his parents’ place, his mother soon appeared in a flimsy nightgown and gathered him up with an apologetic smile. Molkho, however, saw no need to apologize. After months of waking up to silence, he was greatly pleased by the morning bustle of the French family. They all left the apartment together, and after driving the girl to school and the baby to his nursery, the doctor and his wife dropped Molkho off in the Latin Quarter, where beneath a gray sky he walked the long boulevards past places he already knew and loved. As soon as the department stores opened he began to go from floor to floor, checking prices and looking for gifts.
That evening the three of them had dinner at a little neighborhood restaurant, during which the doctor and his wife questioned Molkho about Israel and its prospects. “Are you trying to commit national suicide?” the doctor kept asking with an anger of obscure origin, forcing Molkho, who explained things as best he could, onto the defensive. “I really don’t know much about politics,” Molkho confessed at last.
The next day was windy; the temperature dropped sharply and the weather forecasts on the radio had a menacing tone. Molkho joined a small bus tour to Versailles, listening to the guide’s pedantic descriptions while slowly traipsing with the other sightseers from one coldly ornate room to another. Rigidly symmetrical, the elaborate gardens of Louis XIV could be glimpsed through the windows.
Once back in Paris, he huddled in a café to warm up, waiting for his wife’s cousin, who worked as a technician in a research institute. Lively discussions of the weather went on at the surrounding tables. When the cousin arrived, they drove to pick up her daughter from school and then her son from his nursery. The children took a liking to Molkho, who was playfully physical with them. Clearly, though it did not spend much time together, the family was a boisterous one that lived in great disorder, even filth. Beneath his bed Molkho discovered some underpants and socks of ancient vintage, while, half-crawling on all fours and half-tottering on two, the baby took his food everywhere, smearing and dropping it in secret places. And yet Molkho felt at home, and his hosts did their best to feed him well and keep him in good spirits. Indeed, he ate a great deal, the cold weather doing wonders for his appetite.
On the third night of his visit they had planned to go to a small theater, but the doctor came home late from the hospital and they ended up watching television instead. Much of the news program was devoted to the weather. The announcers showed maps and diagrams, even satellite photographs, and predicted snow for the next day. Afterward, his wife’s cousin decided to call Molkho’s mother-in-law in Israel. She spoke to her in German, and at first, the old woman kept confusedly talking the same language when Molkho got on the phone. He inquired about his children, told her about Paris and the snow, and asked about the weather in Israel. His mother-in-law, however, had trouble following his questions and answered him a bit crossly, her voice slow and groping, as if his trip abroad had caused a sudden deterioration in her condition. Then he and his hosts discussed the next day, and Molkho suggested they all go to the opera; he had never been to one, he said, and had heard it was all the rage. Though the doctor and his wife, who felt bad about the missed night of theater, seemed to welcome the idea, Molkho noticed a hesitation in their voices. Opera tickets, apparently, were very expensive, and for tomorrow only the best seats would be left. Well, then, he insisted, let them be his guests! Hadn’t they saved him the cost of a hotel?