“You know, I myself sleep in it part of the time.”
“Why only part of the time?”
“Because sometimes, in the middle of the night, I miss my childhood bed.”
“Are you aware of all the possibilities offered by this electric bed?”
“I should hope so. I have the quick fingers of a harpist, and your bed doesn’t have forty-seven strings or seven pedals.”
He laughs. “Not quite. But I do think it has a few possibilities you haven’t discovered. This was originally a hospital bed designed for gravely ill patients, designed to meet many needs, but so a healthy person could also enjoy it, I installed an upgraded electrical mechanism. Come on, I’ll teach you, because I’m not sure you’re aware of all the options.”
“What I know is enough for me. I’m only here for a short time.”
“Even so, it’s a shame you won’t enjoy it more.”
His excitement is almost childish, but was apparently appreciated by her father, who had appointed him as his successor at the water department. And so, after writing down the measurements for the bolt and the hook, Abadi strides into her parents’ bedroom, sheds his shoes, sprawls on the bed and begins to jiggle its controls, elevating and lowering its sections, activating internal vibrations, raising the whole bed levitation-like and finally tipping it over like a canoe, ejecting the recumbent man, who lands on his feet.
“You see?” he says, his eyes sparkling. “You didn’t know it could do that!”
“True,” she admits.
“So come here and I’ll show you how.”
It’s hard to say no to such enthusiasm, and she too removes her shoes and carefully lies down on the bed, and he bends over her, and she can feel his steaming breath, which steams not for her but for his machinery, and he gently takes her hand and guides it to a hidden lever, slick from machine oil. But when she pulls, nothing budges, and a furious gargle emanates from the engine box.
“The machine is rejecting me.”
“Impossible.” He places his hand on hers, to pull harder, but still nothing moves, and the same furious gargle is heard. He then slides under the bed to patch a frayed connection. But something goes awry: there is a sharp pop and the apartment is plunged into darkness.
“Be careful,” she says softly.
“It’s okay,” he assures her, and springs nimbly to his feet. “Don’t move. I know where to find the fuse box.”
And he goes to restore the light.
The bedroom windows are open to the clear summer night. The moon is late to appear, but stars are shining. The electric lights in the neighboring windows are dim, frugal. Her eyes can make out the objects around her, though she has yet to rise from the bed. She is waiting for the light to come back on. But Abadi is finding it difficult to replace the fuse in total darkness. “Your mother doesn’t have any candles?” he calls out to Noga, who remains as immobile as the electric bed she lies on.
“What for? She doesn’t light Shabbat candles. But the upstairs neighbor has a million candles. Maybe you should go up there.”
“What’s her name?”
“Mrs. Pomerantz. She’s the grandma of the little bastards. I have no strength for her right now.”
He walks out but does not even try the light in the stairway, despairing of that one too. She sits up in the bed but can’t bring herself to leave it. A light begins to flicker on the stairs. Abadi descends, carrying a candle of majestic proportions. She hurriedly gets up to greet him and sees he is not alone. The two boys are following him down with lighted Hanukkah candles in their hands. Brazenly they enter the flat through the open door and stand at attention before the dark, silent TV screen.
“That’s it.” She laughs. “No more television.”
“It’ll come back,” the older boy says quietly, and the little tzaddik turns his angelic face to her, adding, “With God’s help.”
Seventeen
IN THE MORNING she goes to the bank to check her balance, which is noticeably higher than expected. She phones her brother to clarify if by any chance he might be giving her money she’s not entitled to. “You’re entitled to all of it, sister,” he jokes. But is it possible that she had made that much for four jobs as an extra? “Apparently you were outstanding,” Honi says, “and they gave you a bonus.” Finally he admits that yes, here and there he “rounds upward” the amounts paid to her. “Please,” she objects, “don’t round anything, the experiment is already costing you enough, and I have only seven weeks left and want to live them with integrity. I lack for nothing. I even enjoy running the apartment,” and she tells him about Abadi’s visit.
“Fine. And if you need more repairs in the apartment, don’t hesitate to call on him. He’ll do it all happily. He was close to Abba and he also owes us — Abba promoted him and made him his successor. During the thirty mourning days, after you’d left because of an ‘urgent’ concert, Abadi and his wife insisted on bringing us meals, which got out of control, but of course we couldn’t offer them to the haredi neighbors since we weren’t sure if the food was kosher enough. And, of course, the electric bed…”
“What’s his wife like?”
“Pleasant and polite like him, and kindhearted.”
In the early afternoon Noga goes to Mahane Yehuda and heads for the bar that in the daytime becomes a restaurant. The little nighttime tables have been joined together into long ones covered with checkered oilcloths, and the customers sit in rows, facing one another, all of them male, for some reason—shuk people, greengrocers and butchers, workmen and porters, who satisfy their hunger quickly with large, identical servings of warm hummus with mashed hard-boiled egg, plus a red meatball garnished with whole chickpeas and fresh parsley.
She pushes her way among the sturdy patrons, and the moment she sits down and looks for a menu, a plate of the standard meal is plunked down in front of her, with two piping hot pitas tossed alongside and a bottle of soda water with a black straw. She turns to the elderly customer who sits across the way, sizing her up. “What is this,” she asks, “a restaurant or a military base?” He smiles. “A restaurant, but only for believers.” “Believers? In what?” “Believers in the holy trinity of hummus, egg and meatball,” he says, motioning for the waiter to give her more hot chickpeas, which in his opinion are the pinnacle of this dish.
The taste of the hummus surprises her, and she scoops it ravenously down to the last scrap of pita, to the delight and fascination of the elderly man, who resists yielding his seat to waiting clientele.
“And what do you do in life?”
She is wary of replying “Harpist,” and instead simply says, “Musician, a player in an orchestra.”
“An orchestra I could go hear?”
“No, it’s an orchestra far from here, very far,” and she tilts her head back and waves a hand to indicate how far away her orchestra is, and suddenly sees, up on the ceiling, the camera with the big shiny eye, still nesting like a black bird of prey. What’s going on? What’s the truth? Was a film really shot that night? Did it have a plot? Or is this actually a security camera? She wants to ask the elderly diner, but he is gone, apparently rebuffed by her faraway orchestra.
The meal and the afternoon heat make her drowsy. And since Abadi’s hook and bolt will not arrive until tomorrow, she blocks the front door with two chairs, locks the bathroom door from the outside, lets down the blinds and puts on a nightgown, ready to dive into sweet slumber in her childhood bed.