In the large waiting room they still had an hour until takeoff. The little Russian’s tears had dried, leaving only a thin scar in her makeup, and once more she was looking curiously about her with her baby blue eyes. Like a little white rabbit, thought Molkho, observing her plump body, the fleshy folds of which exuded pampered innocence. And stubborn too—for since she looked far from stupid, what else but stubbornness could account for her having sat for months in an immigrants’ Hebrew class while barely learning a word? No, she was not stupid, he decided as she anxiously appealed to him for permission to visit the duty-free shop, which she had nosed out with an animal instinct, despite the fact that this was her first commercial flight. Eagerly scurrying off to it, she snatched a shopping basket and headed for the well-stocked shelves with Molkho on her heels checking prices. Once he would have gone straight to the tobacco department, but one of the first sacrifices he had made to his wife’s illness had been smoking, and in any case, what interested the little Russian was not cigarettes: apart from some chocolate bars, her basket already contained two bottles of Scotch, to which, with a nervous glance in his direction, she now added a fifth of vodka. Could she still be a virgin? wondered Molkho, mentally adding up the bill. His mother-in-law had given him eight hundred dollars for expenses, and he had to make the money last; yet, as though it were meant to flow through his fingers, he now counted it out with a smile. Unsuccessfully trying out a few words of beginner’s Hebrew, he led her gently to a seat by the boarding gate, where she sat for a while, blissful with her purchases, until she suddenly popped up again and dashed off to the bathroom, leaving him with her things.
So far, so good, thought Molkho, who was only now beginning to feel his fatigue, having hardly slept a wink all night. Slouched in his seat, he scanned the faces of the other passengers, looking especially for Arabs who might hijack him. But Arabs, it seemed, did not fly El Al to Europe and, in fact, probably did not fly to Europe at all, being by nature thriftier than Jews. Why, just look at me, he thought: my wife isn’t dead a year yet and I’m taking my second trip abroad, although, of course, I’m not doing it for pleasure. In the plate-glass window that looked out on the gray morning he saw the reflection of his own silver curls and his dark eyes, which brimmed with liquid melancholy. Though the clouds looked thick as concrete, their plane would find a way through them.
He shut his eyes, listening to the quiet murmur around him. Once it would have been louder, but Israelis were becoming more civilized: the more they failed in war and politics, the politer they became, he mused, dozing off for a moment to be awakened by a loudspeaker announcing their flight. His fellow passengers rose to queue up by the gate, but the little Russian was nowhere in sight, and Molkho, who hated being late, impatiently grabbed her things and ran to the women’s bathroom. For a moment he stood helplessly outside, recalling the special whistle he and his wife had had for such contingencies; then, giving the door a slight push, he furtively stuck in his head. An eerie silence greeted him from the deserted row of white sinks, broken only by a thin trickle of water, as if an underground spring were bubbling up in one of the toilet booths. Could she have locked herself in there? he wondered, not daring to enter. The first order of business in Europe would be to teach her to whistle. At least we can communicate that way, he decided, anticipating a difficult trip. But meanwhile there must be a way of luring her out of the bathroom. How would it look if he couldn’t even get off the ground with her? Out in the waiting room their flight was being announced again. Trying not to panic, he ran back to the duty-free shop. After all, he told himself, if worse comes to worst and I’ve lost her, I can always go home and catch up on my sleep. In fact, she wasn’t there, and he hurried to the boarding gate, arriving just in time to see the last stewardess vanish through the door. But this is madness, he thought bitterly, hearing the two of them paged on the loudspeaker, a white-rabbit hunter whose quarry had eluded him. Just then, however, she waddled out of the bathroom on her high heels, freshly made up and bright with excitement. “We’d better hurry,” he exclaimed, wagging a finger at her, a resort to words being pointless. Could his mother-in-law be plotting to marry her off to him out of pity—for her, for him, or for both?
WITHOUT THINKING twice about it, he gallantly offered her the window seat. She had hardly flown before and might never fly again, so why not let her enjoy it? He explained the seating arrangements to her in sign language, making sure to fasten her belt while considering how to convey to the other passengers, who were staring at him curiously, that she was neither his wife, cousin, nor mistress but rather someone he was escorting to Europe for a fee and a free weekend in Paris. Perhaps her broken Hebrew would suffice to make that clear; indeed, he now regretted not having brought along a pocket Hebrew-Russian dictionary. Meanwhile, he spoke as simply as possible, omitting adverbs and adjectives and sticking mainly to nouns, with an occasional verb thrown in. She listened to the Hebrew words with amusement, giggling at being treated like a retarded child as she had done when discovered by him that summer in his mother-in-law’s bed.
Unawed by the takeoff, she turned away from the window once the plane gained altitude over the sea. Yet again, her savoir faire surprised him, for as soon as the stewardess came down the aisle with drinks, she asked for a glass of Scotch and downed it before break fast, merely picking at her food while he finished his and hungrily eyed her full tray, which his wife, had it been hers, would have been thoughtful enough to offer him. They were over the Greek islands by now, and since she still seemed wide awake and he was tired of looking up all the time from his magazine to smile at her, he rented her a pair of earphones, helped adjust them on her head, and ordered her another whiskey, though this time letting her pay for it, which she anxiously did from a little purse stuffed with one-dollar bills. Then, to help pass the time, he reached for his Anna Karenina, showing her the title page. “Ah, Tolstoy, Tolstoy,” she exclaimed with a tragic sigh, though he rather doubted she had ever read a word of it. Before he had gotten very far in Part Seven the plane was already descending through the clouds, bouncing and shuddering in the gray fog, and she was on her third Scotch. He shut the book and glanced at the contents of his briefcase, annoyed to discover that his mother-in-law, who had promised to see to everything, had forgotten to take out medical insurance for him. I should never have trusted her, he thought, already worrying about what might happen if he fell ill.