The next day he went back to the office. Whoever hadn’t been to the funeral or paid a call on him at home now came by to express his sympathy. Yet the hours dragged and the prickle in Molkho’s throat grew so bad that he decided to quit ahead of time. On his way down the stairs he spied the legal adviser, looking quite elegant in a brown knit dress and unaware that he was behind her, which enabled him to study her at leisure. Around her pale neck she wore a metal chain that was rather heavy and crude for his taste. Was she in good health? The odd thought occurred to him that she, too, might be incubating some illness. And yet she seemed robust enough, her heels clicking gaily as she quickly descended the stairs. Though his job in the office rarely brought him into contact with her, she was considered, he knew, to have a first-class legal mind. Suddenly, as though sensing his presence, she turned and halted in a fluster, blushing at his sad nod, her cheeks reddening in curious blotches. Molkho, who was wearing a rather old sweater and whose sore throat and cold were getting worse, was not at all eager to encounter her, but already she was hurrying back up the stairs and pressing his hand warmly. “Is the week of mourning over? I also went back to work right away. It’s good that you did.”
YET HE DID NOT GO TO WORK the next day, which was rainy and dreary, his cold having gotten even worse. Feeling he had a fever, he phoned his mother in Jerusalem, hoping to be told by her to stay home, as indeed he was. “Don’t go out,” she pleaded. “Take the day off.” Shortly before nine, which was the hour the housekeeper came, he dressed and sat down in the living room, loath to have her think he was ambushing her in bed. But she was late, and after poking about the house for an hour, tired and runny-nosed, he left a note in the kitchen with instructions for cooking and cleaning, added the postscript that he was sick, and returned to the bedroom, where he shut the door behind him and began to doze off. At eleven he heard her come in. Evidently she hadn’t found the note, because at once she turned the radio on full blast to an Arab station, listening to its trilled music while rattling about with the pots. Not that he had anything against Arab music. It was melodic enough, and lately, he had noticed, the accompaniments had improved and become more sophisticated. Still, it was too loud—though afraid to frighten her by a sudden appearance in his pajamas, especially since she was now singing lustily herself, he remained lying in bed, pretending to sleep while waiting to be discovered, or at least for his note to be found. And in the end it was. At once she switched off the radio and opened the door to his room in amazement. “I have a bad cold,” he nodded to her from his pillow. “I didn’t go to work today.” “It’s good you didn’t,” she answered. “Would you like a cup of tea?” “If it isn’t too much trouble,” smiled Molkho. Oddly misaligned, her bottom too heavy for her girlishly thin arms, she walked out of the room. Household help had never lasted long with his wife, who was very critical, and this one—who was it who had told him she was divorced?—had only been with them a few months. When she brought him the tea, along with some cookies he hadn’t asked for, he coughed a few times to let her know his cold was real; yet even after he had thanked her, she remained standing by his side, as if waiting to see if he would drink. And he did, sitting up in bed. “If you’d like,” he said, “I’ll get up so you can clean the room.” But she had cleaned it just two days ago, she explained, looking at him with a new freedom and confidence, and there was no need to clean it again. “Would you like me to bring you a glass of brandy?” “Later,” said Molkho softly, anxious not to hurt her feelings. Yet, as though mesmerized by the thought of what else she could do for him, she didn’t budge or take her eyes off him. The nursing instinct was clearly strong in her. Smiling uncomfortably, he swallowed the burning tea in little sips. “You can turn the radio back on,” he said. “Just make it a little lower. And I really don’t mind the music. You can listen to whatever you want. You can sing too. Please, I like it.” She reddened but said nothing, and immediately he regretted the remark, afraid she had taken it amiss.
And yet, Molkho realized all at once, from now on, whatever he said to a woman could be misconstrued, for it would be like a little box in which anything you wanted could be put. The thought of it made him feel foolish and undignified. “I can do without music,” said the housekeeper, still scrutinizing him. “You need to rest. If you want any more tea, let me know.” And she left the door open behind her, the better to keep an eye on him.
Molkho finished his tea, put down the cup, and lay looking up at the ceiling and then out into the hallway, catching glimpses of the furniture, the rug, the lit floor of the kitchen, the slippered feet of the housekeeper by the sink, and thinking how this was the view his wife had had during the last months of her life. Once again he felt pride at having managed her death at home. “Here,” said the housekeeper, coming back with a small glass of brandy, “this is just what the doctor ordered.” Though he wasn’t at all in the mood for it, he sat up again, drank it, and thanked her. This time she shut the door when she left. Was he about to become a sexual object, he wondered, even though sex itself was but a dim and distant memory of a bondage cast aside for a more compassionate love, for the greater subtleties of affection, for the finer complexities of human relationships? Must he struggle now to rearouse himself? Certainly this woman of dubious status would be glad to help him out. And yet he wished to prolong the truce a little longer, without knowing exactly with whom. It was quiet in the house. A gray drizzle fell silently outside. He had to go to the bathroom, yet while he did not wish to be seen in his pajamas, getting dressed for no other purpose seemed oddly unnecessary. Finally, he rose and padded noiselessly off to the toilet, noticing the many new pots on the table as he passed the kitchen. And still more was cooking on the stove. Alarmed to think they were being inundated with food, he went irritably off in his pajamas to look for the woman and, finding her mopping the floor in the room of the high school boy, to ask her not to cook so much, because it was more than he knew what to do with. Huffily she muttered something back, but he was already off to the bathroom and thence to his room, locking its door and falling asleep at once. When he awoke, she was gone. On the back of his note she had written that he should buy more spices, because they were almost all out.