In the end she fell into a deep sleep, and I lay behind her back with my arms around her stomach, in the same position in which I had seen the Lazars sleeping in the hotel room overlooking the Ganges. I thought about Michaela, asking myself if she had stayed awake up to now to accompany me in her thoughts or if she had given up and gone to sleep. In either case, there was no need for me to hurry home. Even though I knew that I must not lose control over my conscious mind in this most intimate place, lying where the dead director lay, I could not overcome the deep impulse to go on holding her sleeping body in my arms, if not to sleep, then at least to dream a little, perhaps the very same dream I had dreamed in the big old propeller-driven plane flying from Gaya to Calcutta. But I couldn’t remember the dream, only the interior of the plane, with the many Indians crowded into it. Then I tried to remember the movie I had seen with Michaela at the beginning of the evening, but it had evaporated from my mind. Thus I had no option but to surrender to the sleep overpowering me. But not for long. About three hours later, at five o’clock in the morning, I woke up in the same position in which I had fallen alseep, wide awake, as if this short sleep had satisfied me completely. I carefully disentangled my arms, slid off the bed, got dressed, and left the room, closing the door behind me. I felt light and spiritual, relieved of the inner weight that had been oppressing me for so long. In the living room windows the first lines of light were visible, and I wandered around the silent rooms, trying to identify the source of the anxiety threatening the woman I now had to leave alone. At seven I had to be at the hospital for my shift, and before then I had to go home to shave and change my clothes. But I didn’t want to go home to Michaela like this, sticky and rumpled from the long night, and I was also afraid that I might have caught Dori’s virus, if it was a virus, in the course of our lovemaking. I went to the bathroom, planning just to clean myself up with a washcloth. But the water heater was boiling, and I gave in to the temptation, got undressed, and took a shower. Lazar’s toilet aricles were still scattered over the shelves, and his presence made itself felt in all kinds of things: his toothbrush, his shaving kit, his aftershave lotion, his bathrobe hanging behind the door. He had been right about my talent for noticing insignificant details and absorbing them into myself, for I now found myself recognizing many of the things he had taken with him to India, easily distinguishing them from the articles belonging to other members of the household. This being the case, I unhesitatingly, and without any feeling of strangeness, wrapped myself in his bathrobe, shaved myself with his shaving gear, and brushed my teeth with his toothbrush. I felt no need to say good-bye before leaving the apartment, for I was determined to return to Dori as soon as possible. I even took the key.
How strange it was, after such a night, to emerge into the bright Tel Aviv morning, which held not one single hint of mystery. I looked at the broad, familiar boulevard, at the cars covered with wet leaves torn from the trees by the tempestuous winds of the night, the crates full of milk standing outside the little supermarket, the newspaper boys, their rounds over, racing down the street on their Vespas. If only I too could race straight to the hospital, which was waiting for me now no less than it had once waited for Lazar. But I knew that even though I had already bathed and shaved, I had to show myself to the woman waiting for me in the kitchen, and to my surprise not alone, but with sweet little Shivi, who had already woken up and was sitting in her high chair, her mane of hair wild and a red third eye painted between her eyes — a sure sign of her mother’s surging longings. And when Shivi saw me enter the room she put her two little hands together on her lips in the Indian greeting, as Michaela had taught her, in order to welcome the new Brahmin who had risen from the underworld.
Eighteen
And it quickly finds her, no longer a little girl in a wrinkled school uniform but a tall, attractive young woman standing in her kitchen in the morning, a red apron around her waist, stirringporridge with a big wooden spoon for her three children sitting in chairs of different heights according to their age, and gazing in astonishment at the windowsill, where a big bird has just landed and is pacing up and down before them like an agitated, preoccupied schoolmarm. The children’s glee is very great at the sight of the boastful, brightly colored tail, wagging to and fro like the pendulum of a living clock. But the young mother standing behind them knows that in spite of the general merriment, she must be quick to calm the youngest of her children, for otherwise he will soon burst into tears for fear of the winged creature, which now stands still and stares at her with a single piercing green eye. She picks the little one up, cuddles and kisses him to comfort him, and hands him to the mystery that enters the room, her balding husband in a smart suit, with the gold-rimmedglasses on his eyes. And the mystery takes the child with such a bright, cheerful smile that we may presume he has already recovered from his insanity, and no longer goes about insisting that the world stands still and every hour is final and sufficient unto itself and nothing is ever lost in the universe.
But was it wise to drop in on her now, or should I have gone straight to the hospital? The pallor of Michaela’s face and the redness of her eyes bore witness to the fact that she had not been indifferent to the events of the night. Had she followed them in full consciousness, or in the fog of sleep? She smiled at me welcomingly when I came into the kitchen, as if she bore me no grudge for my absence and was even surprised at my hurrying home. Did I really have to confess everything that had happened last night, I asked myself, and tell her about the impossible infatuation that was turning into a possible love before I left for the hospital? Or did I have the right to silence? At first I only bent down to give a tender fatherly kiss to Shivi, and also to Michaela, from whose fingers I gently took the spoon in order to go on feeding the baby so she was free to prepare a hasty breakfast, which would include, if possible, a small bowl of the sweet baby cereal to which I had recently become addicted. I tried to eat my breakfast in silence, but I soon saw that not only was Michaela demanding that I give an account of myself, but even Shivi had stopped eating to stare at me expectantly with all three eyes. This being the case, I began carefully, gradually selecting from the night’s events a few of the essential details, concentrating mainly on the physical and spiritual health of the new patient who had imposed herself on me, slightly exaggerating her helplessness in everything from her domestic arrangements to her electrical appliances, and mockingly describing the obscure but real dread that descended on her when she was left alone. Although after Lazar’s death I had resolved to try to avoid telling lies, at this moment I did not want, in the short time at my disposal, to drop the bombshell of the lovemaking into the bright morning air of the little kitchen, and I decided to make do with a description of the psychological support I had given the widow. But Michaela, who seemed fascinated by every word that came out of my mouth, insisted on confirming what she in any case sensed in her heart, and when she asked me in so many words if I had also slept with Lazar’s wife, I could not deny her the full enchantment that my story seemed to arouse in her.