After the last invasion she wanted to go upstairs to the Pomerantzes and protest the shenanigans of their grandchildren. But then came a plea from the assisted living facility: “No, Noga, don’t go up there. Mrs. Pomerantz is very ill, barely knows who she is, and Mr. Pomerantz can’t control the situation. Most days he comes home only at night. Let’s give Abadi’s bolt a chance to prove itself.”
Indeed, the bolt installed by Abadi passes the test. Snug in her childhood bed, she hears the key enter the squeaky lock and turn the tongue, but when the handle is pulled, the door won’t open. The young intruder rattles the door in confusion, but the bolt steadfastly bars his way as the tiny tzaddik, lusting for television, wails desperately.
Noga wraps herself in her blanket and silently curses Shaya, who is presumably swaying over his useless books while he neglects the children, who now have no choice but to resume their crazy clambering on the stairs, their footsteps finally muted by the delicious onset of sleep.
And yet, for all its sweetness, the sleep is not long, and when Noga wakes up she first confirms the silence of the television, then removes the robe and walks naked into the bathroom, whose window is locked shut by its hook. She fills the bathtub, its iron feet like talons of a bird of prey, and pours blue bath salts into the water. And as she sinks with pleasure into the foam, she thinks she can see, beyond the steamed-up windowpane, the sad eyes of children whose path has been blocked.
In early evening Honi phones from Jerusalem. A dinner that was supposed to follow a meeting has been canceled, and he would very much like to share his hearty appetite with his sister. “So come to the house,” she suggests, “and you can also see Abadi’s bolt and hook.” “No,” he insists, “the bolt and hook you’re in love with don’t interest me, and our parents’ home just gets me angry. No, you’re entitled to compensation and consolation for the concerto that was stolen from you because of me. Hurry up, I’m at the table looking at the menu, and the chef is waiting just for you.”
In the heart of downtown Jerusalem, in a truly superb restaurant, he tries to win his sister over with delicious food. Between courses he updates her about the job at the opera that will be staged at the foot of Masada. Members of the chorus are supposed to serve as extras, but additional women are needed for background. There are many eager applicants, but he has fought for his sister, so that during her stay in Israel — a stay he imposed on her — she will be involved in live music, if not as a performer, at least as an extra. Yes, he sighs, the loss of the Mozart concerto still tugs at his conscience, but what can you do? He is a good son who is not prepared to have his mother live out her life in the midst of the barren fanaticism of their childhood neighborhood. But recently he has noticed a hesitancy on his mother’s part, and he therefore pleads with his sister to desist from romantic European notions of ancient cities and to stand with him in support of the move from a blackening Jerusalem to the White City, where she will be near her son, daughter-in-law and beloved grandchildren, and be able to find, at the assisted living facility, interesting friends and, just maybe, a new companion.
“Companion?”
“Anything is possible, Noga, and everything is permitted. Abba’s death didn’t weaken her or age her, and her loyalty to him for all those years surely makes her entitled. Don’t you agree?”
“If you say so.”
After dinner he takes her back to Rashi Street, but he has no time or desire to go up to his childhood home. “I saw enough of it in my life,” he says, “and I miss it not at all. The time has come for a final break.”
As she climbs the stairs, she wishes he’d have come up with her, because outside the front door he would have heard strange voices and the sounds of war, and as they entered he would have seen who was sitting in their father’s chair: a bare-headed boy in a white shirt, remote control in hand, tzitzit fringes scattered about, long black sidelocks framing his face like a billy goat; and his charge asleep at his feet, his angelic face glowing, his sidelocks golden.
Abadi’s bolt doesn’t secure the door when she’s out of the apartment, she recalls. Now she is shaken not only with anger but despair. She thinks about her small, orderly apartment in Arnhem, feels sorry for herself. And before she can speak a syllable, the older one launches into his refrain:
“Really, Noga, believe me, your mother used to let us watch war movies on TV.”
“‘Your mother,’” she says acidly. “Listen, boy, I am not my mother, and I’m sick of these games. So get out right now and go back to your grandparents and take this tzaddik with you, and I’ll come up later to tell them what’s going on here.”
“It won’t do you any good,” he answers softly, sadly. “Grandma upstairs doesn’t know anymore that she’s a grandma.”
“So I’ll tell your grandfather. He’ll know what to do with you.”
“How will he do that?” he wonders, his voice still calm. “Grandpa comes home at night with no strength left and goes straight to sleep. But listen, Noga, I swear on a stack of Bibles, your mother would invite us in so the television would calm us down. She took pity on a poor child.”
And as he speaks, he switches stations, from the History Channel to the Fashion Channel, and she again angrily attacks the television and disconnects it from the electric socket, and with a powerful hand grabs the boy’s white collar and yanks him from the armchair.
“Listen, what did you say your name was?”
“Yuda-Zvi.”
“Listen, Yuda-Zvi, you will not sneak in here anymore, because the next time I’ll whip you, you hear me? You and your tzaddik, watch out.”
But Shaya’s son coolly picks up the yarmulke tossed on the chair and puts it on his head, straightens out his rumpled shirt and asks, with a little smile:
“You have a whip?”
“I have one. I always had one.” And with the tip of her shoe she nudges the gold-sidelocked boy, who struggles to wake up, and says, “I’m a harpist, and I have a mighty hand, so beware of me.”
Twenty-One
THAT NIGHT, IN BED, she wonders with a smile where on earth that whip came from. Was it the sound of the word that enchanted her, or the whip itself? In any case, why not? If the grandma upstairs doesn’t know who she is, and grandpa drums Torah into students at night, and Shaya, that beautiful guy, has been abducted by an extremist cult, why not a whip to impose order? An actual whip that can be waved in the air and snapped to induce fear from afar. Because clearly this smart-ass kid won’t give up his TV, and so in the remaining weeks of the trial period she will protect her privacy not merely with a bolt, but with a whip, not symbolic but real.
She falls asleep with this bizarre notion, and wakes up with it too, and after breakfast she goes for a walk among the stalls of Mahane Yehuda, where she might not find a whip but can at least inquire about one. But so that an elegant, cultured woman won’t arouse laughter or suspicion by asking the vendors about a whip, she approaches an Arab porter who waits next to a fruit and vegetable stand with a big wicker basket on his back. The Arab is not shocked by either the question or the questioner, but cannot imagine that any of the Jews in the market still own a horse or donkey requiring a whip, and recommends that she look for one in the Old City.
“How do you say ‘whip’ in Arabic?”
“Why Arabic? Speak Hebrew — everyone in the Old City will understand you.”