Twenty
On the Friday evening of a dry, clear winter’s day, the journey on the top of a double-decker bus going from Tel Aviv to Jerusalem seemed not quite real to a motorcyclist used to riding low on the ground — like a gentle sail, rocking the hills and woods and rolling them up like a bolt of soft fabric. Now I was pleased that I had kept my promise not to make the trip on my bike, although I wanted to test its pull on the steep street leading to my parents’ house. This gentle journey, with its pleasant memories of riding on English double-decker buses, seemed to ease and soften the despair of my thoughts. I had lost the battle for my love. As quick and generous as she had been in her response to my first declaration of love, so sharp and stubborn was she now in her refusal to allow me even to approach her, as if she were fighting for her life. Even the darkness of the long power failure seemed to help her in her efforts to evade me. And when I insisted, in spite of her objections, in taking down a dusty candelabrum which had remained on the shelf from her mother’s days, and lit the stubs of the two thick red candles, I was alarmed to see in the light of the crimson flame that her face was hard and burning, as if the struggle to separate herself from me were using up all her strength. A feeling of pity for her stirred in me. And I kept quiet, to make it easier for her to leave me.
When I reached the central bus station on the outskirts of Jerusalem, I saw that nobody was waiting at the stop for my parents’ neighborhood. It looked as if I had missed the last bus. Although I could have called and asked my father to come and get me, I preferred to take a bus to the center of town and walk from there, perhaps in order to postpone the difficult meeting awaiting me. Since the evening when I had blurted out my confession to my mother, I had not met her face to face, and our telephone conversations had become brief and businesslike. Even Michaela and Shivi’s parting from my parents had taken place without me. Perhaps for the first time in my life, I felt apprehensive about going home.
I slowed down deliberately and tried out a number of new shortcuts in the little streets, which I had not frequented for many years as a pedestrian, wondering at the sight of the many worshipers in heavy coats disappearing into the doorways of private houses which on Friday evenings turned into song-filled little synagogues. Once more I realized how from year to year the Sabbath was tightening its grip on the city, not like Tel Aviv, where it descended like a filmy veil of silence, touching first the tops of the trees, like the ones I saw from Dori’s windows. Although she believed in her heart that if she persisted she would succeed at last in staying by herself, after death had released her from the yoke of love, I knew for certain that at this darkening moment, as dusk descended, she was not alone but surrounded by members of her family — her mother, the soldier, and maybe also Einat, with whom I would have to make my peace — and in the brightly lit apartment they were all helping her prepare dinner. Full of longing for the city I had left behind me, I entered my parents’ home, looking at the remains of the Sabbath candles smoldering in the two old silver candlesticks standing, as always, very far from each other on the dinner table, which in recent months had been surrounded by five chairs, including Shivi’s high chair. But this evening the table had returned to its state during the days of my bachelorhood — three chairs opposite three drearily familiar pale blue plates. I knew I was tense and worried in anticipation of the meeting, and that my parents too were afraid of the anger in their hearts. Since they didn’t know if I would keep my promise to come by bus, my lateness had added a new worry to the anxiety that had been hovering in the air here since Michaela’s and Shivi’s departure. Although a first announcement of their safe landing in India had been recorded on the answering machine, it was too brief to satisfy my father, who was far more concerned about Shivi than my mother. Because he was shy and reserved and careful not to burden others with his feelings, the anxiety secretly gnawing at him had built up into a new and unfamiliar aggression toward me for so lightheartedly allowing his beloved little granddaughter to set out on this irresponsible adventure. And although my mother — who was not an emotional woman, and whose attitude to Michaela and Shivi was always more matter-of-fact and balanced — might have been able to calm his fears a little by speaking to him logically, she did not do it. The gloom and depression that had descended on her with my astonishing confession, whose contents she had decided to keep from my father at all costs, seemed to prevent her from coming to my support in the simple argument that I now repeated to my father — that Michaela was entitled to take her child wherever she wanted to, including India. But this argument did not relieve the gloom around the dinner table. Nor was it dispelled by my parents’ restraint and good manners, nor by the obligatory humor which was part of every Englishman’s birthright. I was especially disturbed by a new phenomenon: my mother persistently and deliberately avoided looking me in the eye. Even when she spoke to me, she averted her face. She did not yet know that my love had been rejected and now caused me nothing but suffering. Seeking my father’s eyes, which met mine unhesitatingly but in total silence, I thought bitterly of the injustice of it all. When I challenged him for not answering my questions, he admitted with a embarrassed smile that he couldn’t stop thinking of what was happening to Shivi in India, what she was eating, where she was sleeping. “Stop worrying,” I said to him, “nothing will happen to her. Michaela has a special talent for finding her way around in the most questionable places.” My father listened and nodded his head, but he did not seem reassured.
At the end of the meal he asked my mother to help him find his prayer shawl, for it appeared that the old janitor in his office had invited all the staff to his grandson’s bar mitzvah, which was to take place the next day in a synagogue in one of the new suburbs that had grown up at some distance from the city. “But do you really intend to go?” my mother said in surprise. “Why risk getting lost? I’m sure nobody really expects you to go.” But my father insisted. He was sure the invitation was genuine. It was important to this good, simple man for my father to honor his grandson’s bar mitzvah with his presence. Uncharacteristically, my mother went on trying to talk him out of going. And then a strange idea occurred to me. She was afraid to remain alone with me in the house, exposed against her will to the story of my love affair, which apparently still filled her with indignation and shocked her to the depths of her being. This being the case, despite my exhaustion after all my sleepless nights, I decided to spare them my painful presence, and soon after dinner I took my father’s car and went to visit Eyal, whom I hadn’t seen for ages. He and his wife had gone to live with his mother, whose condition had deteriorated. Even though I knew that living with her must be difficult for Hadas, I thought that the saving of rent had probably consoled her. Hadas opened the door and kissed me warmly and immediately asked for news from my “Indian women.” Eyal had apparently been delayed at the hospital, and Hadas would soon take the car to pick him up. In the meantime we chatted. She had put on weight and looked placid and serene, as if married life suited her. We spoke about Michaela’s trip to India. “It was only to be expected,” said Hadas. “Ever since she came back, she never stopped announcing her intention to return. When we wondered at the speed with which she agreed to marry you, she said, Benjy’s a doctor, he’ll always find something to do in India.” She didn’t even mention Shivi, as if she were simply a part of Michaela’s body. And when I began to complain about how much I missed the child and how sad it made me to look at her empty crib, it was suddenly time for her to drive to the hospital to pick up Eyal. Before she left, she woke Eyal’s mother, who knew that I was coming and had asked Hadas to receive me. She didn’t get out of bed but invited me into her bedroom, in which nothing had changed since my childhood except for a wheelchair, which was standing next to her bed and which filled me with surprise and concern. She reassured me, a faint blush spreading over her bloated face. She didn’t need the wheelchair, she only used it out of laziness, because her legs found it hard to bear the weight of her body. Indeed, since the last time I had seen her, she had put on even more weight. She was very glad to see me and began telling me all kinds of stories about her son and daughter-in-law, but my heart, which was shriveled up in its own pain and sorrow, was not interested in hearing stories about other people, even if they were good friends. My weariness and the excitement of the past week were also beginning to take their toll. Since I was now deep in the old brown velvet armchair opposite her bed, breathing in the familiar smell of the big bedroom, my eyes began to close of their own accord as she spoke. She smiled to herself. In the light, fitful slumber that descended on me, I saw her getting up, vast beyond belief, wrapping herself in her robe, sitting down in her wheelchair, and riding over to me to place a blanket on my knees, and then gliding out of the room, whose warmth and coziness combined with my depression to make me want to disappear or be absorbed into my surroundings.