AND WAKE HIM SHE DID. Why, obedient isn’t the word for her! he thought, pretending to be still asleep. He let her knock, open the door, step inside, and call to him, hoping all the time that she would touch him. But she didn’t. She simply called his name again and contrived to make some noise until he sat up and thanked her, though in fact it was so early that he soon fell back upon the pillow, from where he went on thinking about her while looking out the window at an overcast, prematurely autumnal day.
A few minutes later she knocked and called again. “Just a minute!” he called back. It’s no wonder she never finished high school, he thought. She’s fifty-two years old and never sleeps—and neither will I if I marry her! Defiantly he sank back into bed, curling up in a ball beneath the sheet and dozing off again, only to feel even sleepier upon awakening. He washed and dressed hurriedly to the muffled sound of the radio in her room, where he pictured her hungrily waiting for her breakfast, but when he looked for her there after noting with satisfaction that the kitchen table had been set (she was finally beginning to feel at home, then!), he found only her suitcase beneath her hastily made bed and three dresses hanging in the closet. Didn’t she have any dirty laundry? he wondered, tempted to look for it in the suitcase.
He returned to the living room. No doubt she had gone for another walk in the ravine, and he went down to look for her, only to see her coming up the street with a bag of milk, her large sunglasses flattering her small eyes. The milk in the refrigerator was sour, she announced with an edge in her voice, starting up the stairs ahead of him as he took the morning paper from the mailbox. Before he could apologize, a friendly neighbor wished them a good morning, and Molkho, glancing at her neatly folded bobbysocks, decided that their relationship had a future. I can’t afford to be choosy, he told himself, carefully taking the milk as though it weighed a great deal and remarking that the day would be another scorcher once the clouds burned off. I’m sure I once loved her, he thought, following her up the stairs. That’s something we can build on. If only she’ll dye her hair and use makeup. She can even keep the same wedding ring. What do I care who she got it from?
They sat down to breakfast. He was glad he had given the cleaning woman the day off, and Ya’ara washed the dishes without prompting, though she forgot to clean the sink and left suds and soggy food in the drain. She was looking forward to Yodfat. “We’ve thought of visiting there so many times,” she told him, “but the place meant so much to us that we were always afraid to go back.” Before leaving, Molkho phoned his mother-in-law, who asked when he planned to be in his office, because she wanted to consult him about her Russian friends. “As a matter of fact, I’m taking the day off,” he said, “but I’ll be in tomorrow. I hope it’s not urgent.” Apparently it was, though, for he felt her hesitate, though typically she didn’t press the matter. “Well, then, perhaps tomorrow,” she said, remembering to ask about the children. Pleased to hear that the high school boy was off on a hike, she asked where it was to. “To the Galilee,” replied Molkho after a moment’s pause. “Yes, I believe it’s to the Galilee.” “Is it a school hike?” she asked. He paused again. “No, it’s a Scout hike.” How could it be a school hike when school was out for the summer?
THEY ARRIVED in Yodfat shortly before noon. The roads leading out of the city were clogged, and on one he took a wrong turn and had to backtrack, yet once on the new highway to the Lower Galilee, they sped along unobstructed and Molkho praised everything he saw: the well-engineered road, the fresh green forests, the new settlements on the hilltops, the large, clearly lettered road signs. Belted in beside him and looking good in her sunglasses, Ya’ara, too, kept oohing and aahing. The silence as they climbed the last curves to Yodfat reminded him of the approach to Zeru’a, but here the houses were well built and attractive, surrounded by trees and neat lawns. Hardly able to wait, Ya’ara undid her seat belt and guided him to a parking lot by a large, red stone building, jumping youthfully out of the car the moment it came to a stop. “Does it still look the same to you?” he asked, pleased to see her so excited. “Yes and no,” she answered, looking eagerly around her. “I guess more no than yes, though.” She was already starting up a narrow path toward several prominent houses standing amid the gray rocks of the hillside. “You go ahead,” he told her, sensing her wish to be alone with her memories. “I’ll catch up with you.”
He circled the large red building, no doubt a public structure of some sort, looking for an open door. But there was none, and so he walked up the paved street searching for a place to relieve himself, encountering only closely spaced houses with gardens featuring the same gray rock. He had despaired of finding even a suitable tree when he spied an old prefab that apparently served for office space, inside of which, at the end of a short corridor, he came to a small, dirty washroom. Extracting a warm and somewhat distended penis, he tenderly aimed it with both hands at the toilet bowl, dissuaded from talking to it only by the sound of an electric calculator on the other side of the wall, where an unseen bookkeeper was at work. He flushed the toilet, washed at the soapless, towelless little sink, and returned to the corridor, shaking drops of water from his hands, where he was intercepted by the bookkeeper, a short, burly man with thick, steel-rimmed glasses and a head of blond curls. Who, the bookkeeper wanted to know, was he looking for? “I’m just accompanying someone who once lived here,” Molkho told him, mentioning Ya’ara by name. “What, they’re here?” asked the short man excitedly. “Just she is,” answered Molkho. “By herself?” The man seemed mystified, as if it made no sense. “But where is he?” “In Jerusalem,” Molkho said. “And is it true what they say about him?” asked the man tensely. “Yes,” replied Molkho, who could only guess at the meaning of the question. The bookkeeper gave his head of boyish curls an angry though not unadmiring shake. “I might have known!” he said. “An anarchist like him is capable of anything.” Molkho nodded sympathetically. Though he would have liked to inquire about the village, the man seemed in the grip of such powerful memories that he deemed it best not to. “Is there anything you’d like me to tell her?” he asked, wiping his wet hands on his pants. “Never mind,” snapped the bookkeeper with inexplicable ire, wheeling to return to his cubicle.