Knowing that the farewell concert would be attended by the general public, some receiving free tickets, Dennis van Zwol asked the musicians to play the Haydn symphony at an especially sprightly tempo, but with the Debussy he would allow no compromises. During the many exhausting rehearsals, the orchestra had perfected various refinements, and any deviation from them would ruin the musical flow.
Having gotten past her torment over leaving the tour, Christine was newly serene. She no longer bothered to hide her pregnancy, and under the long wool dress that smelled slightly of camphor, the bulge that would force the Belgians to grant full European citizenship to her partner was clearly visible.
The dialogue between the two harps was executed flawlessly in the concert’s second half. Sometimes the first sang out and the second answered, sometimes they sang in unison, till the second subsided and the first went on to trill another phrase. The breathtaking glissandi played by the two evoked the sparkling foam of the waves, cresting and ebbing. The conductor was focused on them, and they felt his constant presence. Since the harpists sat on a riser above the other strings, the eyes of the audience were fixed on them even as they rested, waiting for the moment when the two women, with perfect timing, would tilt their gilded, regal harps toward their hearts and spread their fingers on the strings.
The cheers at the conclusion of the Debussy were loud and long. Backstage, a chattering crowd of friends and relatives said their goodbyes to the musicians. Christine was upset and parted from Noga in tears. She too had yearned to travel with the orchestra instead of returning this very night to a small apartment in Antwerp with the knowledge that perhaps until the birth of her child, and perhaps thereafter, she would have no opportunity to perform. Moreover, it was reasonable to assume that an orchestra that had been dealt so severe an inconvenience would never again invite her to play. The father-to-be showed up at the concert not in overalls but in a suit and tie, and interpreted the musical struggle between the wind and the waves in his own fashion, perhaps as a port worker.
He studied Noga with a friendly look, and at the moment of parting dared to hug her, feeling the chill of her bare shoulders. She sensed he bore her no grudge over the words they had exchanged, and thought of telling him about the dear father who feared the death of his daughter in childbirth. But was this man the right audience for such a strange confession?
Forty-Nine
ONLY AFTER SHE RETURNED from the concert to her apartment did Noga begin to fear that the following day, amid the rush of preparation for the long journey, she would not have time to say a proper goodbye to her mother. It’s late now in Israel, but she knows that the lonely mother would be pleased to wake up and hear her voice. But the phone rings in Jerusalem with no reply, giving rise to a new worry. Were we too hasty to rule out assisted living? She calls her brother, a sound sleeper, and her sister-in-law Sarai, who tinkers with her eccentric paintings into the wee hours, answers and reassures her: “Your mother hasn’t vanished. She’s here, sleeping in the kids’ room. She arrived two days ago, supposedly because she missed the children, but it’s really because she’s worried.”
“About whom and what?”
“Hard to know,” Sarai says. “Maybe herself, maybe you.”
“Me? About what?”
“Not clear. Maybe your trip? I’ll wake her up. She’ll be happy to hear your voice, and you can find out what’s eating her.”
“No, no, don’t wake her,” says Noga, flustered. “I only wanted to say goodbye, but if she’ll still be there tomorrow morning…”
“She’ll be here, she’ll be here. She doesn’t seem in any hurry to go back to Jerusalem.”
“In that case, I’ll call before we leave for Japan.”
“Japan… Japan…,” sighs the sister-in-law. “Wonderful. I envy your freedom.”
“Don’t exaggerate. It’s not about freedom, it’s just a path to the music I’m starving for.”
“But you at least have an orchestra to help you satisfy your hunger. I’m all alone here, wrestling at night with my unfulfilled artistic ambition.”
“But you have your children to make you happy.”
“They don’t always make me happy, and even when they do, they’re not relaxing.”
Noga is sorry that her work as an extra didn’t leave her more time to spend with her sister-in-law.
“Maybe after we get back from Japan you can come for a little vacation here and leave Honi and Ima to look after the children.”
“Thanks. But so long as your mother doesn’t let go of Jerusalem, she won’t really be able to help us.”
After she hangs up, Noga finds it hard to fall asleep. Lacking an extra bed to seduce the elusive slumber, she swallows a sleeping pill, hoping to awake refreshed, ready for the trip to a distant land where she may or may not be called upon to perform.
Under the influence of the pill she plunges into solid sleep, and in the depths she meets her father, who since his demise has appeared in none of her dreams, but here he is, lying innocently in the electric bed, unaware that it was built after he had died. But is this the childhood apartment she had been assigned to protect? The waves of the dream wash over familiar furniture and kitchenware, lingering on the cumbersome television that won the hearts of the little boys. Yet the flat has undergone a major upheavaclass="underline" the living room has expanded and her childhood bedroom has shrunk, and a thick, tangled tree she has never seen thrusts its branches through a window that never existed.
The father is pale and silent, and though he slowly turns the pages of a newspaper, it would seem that death discourages reading. Nevertheless, he doesn’t look pained or depressed, as if death had been a difficult but successful surgery, and is relieved because further death will not be necessary. Would it be right, wonders the dreamer, to exploit the gift of his resurrection to bid farewell to him too before her trip? She heads into the kitchen to ask her mother whether saying goodbye to a living-dead person would add to his pain, except the kitchen has relocated to some unknown corner of the apartment, and in its place is a small, dark bathroom, its window bolted shut. A pale woman, immersed in reddish foam, lies in the bathtub, her eyes closed, not her mother but a total stranger. The eyes of the woman open wide. She is young, though apparently the owner of the apartment.
In the morning her mother phones, apologizing for calling so early.
“You were looking for me last night, so I’m calling before you vanish in the distance.”
“You did well. It’s time for me to get up. But what’s going on? Only a few days in Jerusalem and you’re back in Tel Aviv. Do you actually regret not sticking with the assisted living?”
“Regrets are also part of life,” says the mother evasively. “But not to worry, my daughter, we won’t draft you again for any experiment.”
Noga provides her mother with details of the orchestra’s trip to Japan. She spells out the names of the cities letter by letter and, for emergencies only, tells her how to get through to her cell phone with an entry code, and of course reminds her of the high cost and the time difference. But she doesn’t mention the second harpist who dropped out at the last minute and the possibility that the whole trip might be in vain.