I remember it well, the last days of summer, mild and clear, the house full of silent people, most of them old. All the time the door opening and someone arriving on a visit of condolence. All his friends, former officers in the secret service, labour leaders, all those who had shunned him after his disgrace, those with whom he had most of all lost touch, decided now to come and be reconciled with the dismissed former leader whose grandson had been killed in a road accident and who was himself slowly dying. They arrived diffidently, nervous about seeing him, and he received them in groups of two or three, sitting in a big armchair on the shaded balcony, in the light of the approaching sunset, all white, a light woollen blanket covering his knees. His face calm, his eyes uplifted, staring out to sea, hearing words of self-justification, of loyalty, words of consolation, even secret information. And to one side, at a distance, sat the old ladies, drinking tea and whispering in Russian. The days of mourning were for him the days of great reconciliation with his enemies.
I walked about the house like a stranger. Afraid even to go into the kitchen. Coming home from work and after a while they call me to eat a meal cooked by one of the old ladies. Erlich, my father’s former business partner, arrived on a visit of condolence and offered to help out in the garage. He began to work with me on the accounts and he gave me some good ideas. After a while I suggested that he return to the garage as an employee and to my surprise he agreed. I used to sit with him after work, waiting until dark, going home late in the evening and finding the house full of people and Asya sitting in a corner, and they bringing her a meal, and scolding her for something.
After months her parents left, though we implored them to stay. Her father was now in a critical state.
Only then did we realize how empty the house was. The nursery was bare. We went back to sleeping in our bedroom, though in fact I slept alone, she continued in her insomnia, her night wandering. I had no thought of touching her, but it was a little strange that she didn’t want to sleep in her own bed. A week went by, two weeks, she was growing very thin, her face was pale, but she went out to work, organizing herself as usual, only continuing to doze in armchairs, fully clothed. Perhaps now is the time to part, I thought, perhaps the time has come to leave her, but my longings for a son were painful, I wanted another son, even another deaf son, I didn’t care, I wanted to start again from the beginning, to bring him back. But there was to be no touching her, none at all. She said, “I don’t have the strength to start again.”
I was unshaven and untidy, she looked pale and neglected, we were in no fit state for love. I gripped her forcibly, without desire. She resisted: “What is it that you want?” Then I fell on my knees, kissed her feet, trying to arouse my desire for I had no desire.
DAFI
Sabbath eve. No movement in the air. They’ve gone out to visit friends. When they’re at home you hardly notice them, but when they go out you know that they aren’t there. I walk around the house, alone. It’s very unusual for me to be alone on a Sabbath eve. But there’s no chance of getting together with Osnat, because they’re having a big party at her house. Her brother has suddenly got leave from the army. I phoned her at nine o’clock to arrange something but she said, “We’re in the middle of a meal, my brother’s home and he’s got a lot of stories to tell and I’ll phone you later,” and she hung up, and she hasn’t rung yet. Tali’s gone with her mom to visit her Grandma in Tel Aviv. Every two months her mom takes her to see her Grandma, to show her how well Tali’s growing up and how well she’s being looked after, and perhaps she’ll increase the maintenance that she pays in place of her son, Tali’s dad, who ran away. I’ve got so used to spending all my time with those two that when they aren’t there I’m completely lost. I shouldn’t have quit the Scouts so soon, they’re always good for dead evenings like this.
Ten o’clock. I phone Osnat. They’re on the last course. A real feast. She sounds impatient, doesn’t think she’ll be able to come over tonight. I hinted that I could go around to her house but she pretended not to understand, guarding her brother so jealously, not wanting anyone else to have a share in him.
Such heat. From the balconies of nearby houses come voices and laughter. The students who are renting the house opposite have turned the lights out, they’re dancing now to some sexy melody. There’s one couple hugging and kissing out on the balcony. I walk around the stifling house from room to room, turning out the lights, maybe that’ll make it a bit cooler. Stopping at the kitchen door so as not to see the pile of dishes in the sink. After supper there was an argument over the washing up. Daddy decided to interfere, insisted that I do the washing up, he snatched the sponge out of Mommy’s hand, even though for her it’s a two-minute job. In the end I promised to rinse them and I shall rinse them, but not yet, the night is long, the job requires a bit of inspiration. It’s so awful having to work on my own, if only I had a little brother or sister that I could talk to when I’m working, someone who could help me, drying the dishes beside me. These silences, this stillness, it’s all so depressing. To think that I could have had a brother too, he’d be nineteen now, in the army too. And they just let him get killed in the street. A boy of five, you can tell from the old photograph how sweet, very solemn, they couldn’t get a smile out of him, as if he knew he didn’t have long to live.
When I was ten they told me about him for the first time, and they said he’d died of an illness. It was only a year ago that Daddy told me about him for the first time, that he was killed in a road accident, he even showed me exactly where it happened. How is it that they kept no trace of him in the house, how have they managed to forget him all these years? Lately I’ve been more and more interested in him, my life could have been so different. I grieve for this brother. I talk to him in my imagination, sometimes he’s a youth of nineteen, sometimes he’s just five years old. Sometimes I help him to undress, make his supper and wash him, and sometimes he comes into my room, a tall smiling youth, to talk to me.
Ten-thirty. Not a breath of air, everything’s white-hot. The sky’s standing still, the moon and stars are covered with a milky mist. I move slowly from chair to chair. I’d take a shower and go to bed and set the alarm for seven o’clock in the morning and get up early to wash the dishes, but Daddy’ll go crazy if he sees the sink full. Why should he care who washes them? I glance at the newspaper. Life is all so intense, and around me are the music, the voices and the laughter. And I’m alone here, where am I in the middle of all this?
I get up and go hurriedly to the kitchen. How can such a small family use so many dishes? First I move aside the two saucepans and the burned frying pan. They aren’t my responsibility. On the rest of the dishes, without touching them, I pour out a lot of washing-up liquid, turn on the tap, a gentle stream of water, must soften them up first. What kind of a job is this for Sabbath eve? I go out of the kitchen, putting out the light, sitting down at the big table, listening to the water running in the kitchen, perhaps the dishes will wash themselves. Sitting and watching the flames of the two Sabbath candles. I’m the one who’s insisted on them lighting Sabbath candles this last year, they wouldn’t have thought of it by themselves, neither of them believes in God.
The heat gets stronger, I strip off my clothes, in my underwear, in the dark, I sit watching the flames, hypnotized. I could sit for hours watching them being consumed, wondering which one will burn longest. The siren of an ambulance in the distance. Long thin insects with delicate wings walking on the walls, on the table. I start to doze, the light dances in my closed eyes. The lapping of water at my feet wakes me. Water? Where’d all this water come from? Oh God, the floor’s flooded. The tap.