“If not Mozart,” consoled the aged flutist, on occasion her discreet lover, “then together we shall play the Fantaisie by Saint-Saëns,” referring to a work for harp and violin where the violin part is sometimes played by a flute. “Only as an encore,” cautioned the harpist, “only as an encore. No fantasia can be a consolation for the Mozart.”
Honi was privy from afar to these deliberations, but hid them from his mother, so as not to upset her with the thought that the experiment might hamper the advancement of her daughter’s career.
Finally the date was set: after Passover, at the beginning of summer. Late one evening Honi arrived to pick up his sister at the airport, and when he saw her wheeling two suitcases on her cart, not just one as on previous visits, he hugged her tight: “Thank you. Thank you for coming. I know you don’t believe in our experiment, but even so, she’s your mother too.”
Plainly exhausted, his face pale but eyes glinting happily at the sight of his sister, he pushed her cart and talked of the previous day’s move to the garden flat, and of their childhood apartment in Jerusalem, now awaiting her.
“We threw some stuff out, then more and more. I was surprised Ima was more into it than I was. She had no mercy on Abba’s clothes and possessions, or her own for that matter. It’s a good thing the haredi charities are so efficient. They take everything, even furniture that’s falling apart. But Ima left a few old things of yours, so you could toss them out yourself.”
“Old things of mine? What are you talking about? I moved out years ago and didn’t leave a thing.”
“Oh yes you did, plenty of stuff, believe me. You’ll see for yourself — old toys, school notebooks, even clothes. And the little harp that Abba bought you, I took it down from storage. Go through everything and get rid of things — Ima and I threw out and gave away stuff with great enthusiasm, which is a sign, for me anyway, that the experiment you believe will fail will in fact succeed.”
“One hopes,” she whispered wearily, unaccustomed to the Israeli heat. Suddenly she stopped.
“Where are we going?”
“To the car.”
“You’re not planning to take me to Jerusalem.”
“Why not? To help you with the suitcases, to show you what hasn’t yet been tossed, and on the way there, to finalize our arrangements.”
“Absolutely not. You’re wiped out, and none of this is urgent. I’ll take a taxi, you’ll give me the key and go home to your wife and kids. What makes you think I can’t manage by myself in the house I grew up in? Just do it.”
For a moment he tried to protest, but she quickly got into a taxi, and Honi gave in and paid the driver, but held on to the open door. “I have a few ideas for you,” he said with a confidential smile.
“Tomorrow. It’s not urgent.”
But he pressed on.
“I also have something to tell you, something about your concerto.”
“My concerto?”
“The Mozart. I bought the CD and listened to it. Interesting, but—”
“But not now.”
He thought himself knowledgeable about music, and though she regarded his knowledge as spotty and superficial, she persisted in trying to edify him.
“And most important, lock the door securely, and the windows too.”
“The windows?”
“I mean in the bathroom, because the kids—”
“What kids?”
The taxi now needed to move.
“Okay, not now. We’ll talk.”
It was nearly midnight, but the Mekor Baruch neighborhood, which in her youth had been stone silent at such a late hour, was still whispering nervously, in search of sleep.
The apartment door opened easily, as if by the mere touch of the key, and when she switched on the light she was struck not only by cleanliness and order, never strictly enforced in her parents’ home, but by the new emptiness.
Honi was right, a great many things had been removed, including furniture, and the living room was shockingly bare. She went into her childhood room to deposit her suitcases. Her bed was neatly made, and a clean-smelling bathrobe was laid on it. Her heartbeat quickened as she entered her parents’ room, and to her surprise, the new electric bed, which she’d heard about from her mother, was also made up, as an alternative for sleeping. She opened her parents’ closet. Her father’s side was empty, his clothes were gone, but one suit, black and elegant, remained hanging, presumably because no worthy recipient had yet been found, and beneath it a pair of shoes sat waiting, with socks lying on top, as if the father or his successor were about to walk in. She pressed her tired face to the thick fabric to sniff a familiar scent, then mischievously took down the suit jacket and slipped into it, checking herself out in the mirror. Though her father had shrunk slightly in his last years, the jacket was wide and made her shoulders look bulky and square, and the sleeves swallowed her hands. With a little smile she slowly raised her arms and imagined herself conducting, with graceful rounded gestures, the harp and the flute in Mozart’s concerto.
The ringing of the telephone cut short the imaginary performance. Honi couldn’t fall asleep, had to know if she’d arrived safely, if she appreciated how much stuff was discarded from the apartment in her honor.
“In my honor? Why? I didn’t ask for anything.”
But excited by the experiment that was becoming a reality, he wanted to talk at this late hour about his specific plans for his sister. “Not now, it’s bedtime,” she protested, worried that from here on he would try to manage not just her mother, but her as well, and she hung up and unplugged the phone.
In the refrigerator there was food her mother knew she liked — hard cheeses, herring in cream, grilled cauliflower, potato pancakes. She eats a light supper, checks the bathroom window and lies down in the bed in her childhood room. After three hours of sleep she wakes up and walks in a daze to her parents’ room, sinking into her mother’s electric bed. But as dawn approaches she again feels drawn to her childhood bed, and the nocturnal shuttle between two beds promises to be an enjoyable experience for the duration of the trial period.
She reconnects the phone at ten in the morning, so her mother won’t worry. Sure enough, it rings at once, but it’s not the worried mother calling, it’s the brother, whose patience has run out and he cannot wait to present his sister with a surprising offer.
“A movie extra?” She laughs. “What? I’m not an actress!”
“You’re not supposed to act, but to be… just be… try it. What have you got to lose? Nowadays there’s a boom in film and television in this country, and many opportunities come up, and you’ll also meet new people, be part of other people’s stories and make a little money, which you’re unwilling to take from us. What else do you have going here in Israel? To keep chasing after music? Really, Noga, doesn’t music also deserve a break from you?”
Nine
THE DAY DWINDLES SLOWLY, the jury still sitting in two rows at the back of the gymnasium. Sometimes the camera closes in on their faces, sometimes it pulls back, at other times it seems to disappear entirely, though it is always there. “Please don’t be upset we’re keeping you so long,” a cameraman apologizes, “but this trial is important to the film, and the changing light outside, which in the film changes within minutes, will indicate that you’ve been here all day, listening carefully, and only in the evening are you supposed to deliberate and render your verdict.”
Other extras, not from Jerusalem, are scattered around the gym along with actors, from scenes that have been shot and scenes that will be, but the judge, the prosecutor, the defense attorney, the witnesses and the woman defendant are not yet present, presumably still rehearsing.