You didn’t want to wash the dishes and now you’ll have to wash the floor as well. It’s nearly midnight. They’re not home yet. I run to fetch rags, start to mop up, cleaning, bending down and scrubbing. Chasing the water as it runs under the cupboard, wetting a little old suitcase that’s hidden behind it. I clean, mop and scrub, streaming with sweat. Going to the kitchen and washing the damn dishes, scraping the saucepans and the frying pan as well, polishing them. Working like a demon, washing, drying, putting things away in the cupboard. At last I go and take a shower, putting on a dressing gown and sitting down to look inside that old suitcase that I never noticed before. Some moth-eaten old children’s clothes, mine or his? Who can tell? They can’t have thrown everything away. I put them back in the case, put the case back where I found it, dead tired but waiting up for them. What’s happened to them? Outside the voices are fainter. The music stops. A cool breeze passes through the house, the air stirs.
I only remember that suddenly they were beside me. I didn’t hear them open the door or come in. Daddy lifts me up, supports me, leads me to my bed. Through my sleep I hear Mommy say, “She’s gone mad, she’s washed the whole house.” And Daddy laughs suddenly: “Poor Dafi, she took me seriously.”
ADAM
So really, is that the way to describe her? Starting with her smooth little feet, so wonderfully preserved, the fleshy, smooth and silky curve, the feet of a pampered child, not belonging at all to this gloomy woman with wrinkles in her face, who seems to insist on growing old before her time.
If only someone was to touch me, quietly, out of genuine friendship, good will, interest, let’s say on a Sabbath eve at one of those social gatherings at a friend’s house, teachers from Asya’s school or friends from our school days, former neighbours with whom we’ve kept in touch. At one of those gatherings that we get invited to every few weeks, where most of the faces are familiar and after a while the conversation breaks down and the one who’s dominated the proceedings falls rather silent and starts to eat his cake, or gets up to go to the bathroom, and the great discussion of political problems, of the meanness of contractors or a visit to Europe is broken off and the minor conversations begin, echoes of whispers, the women discussing obscure feminine disorders, the men getting up, to stretch their legs, going out to the main balcony, someone even switches on the television at low volume, and I’m still marooned in my chair, picking at the shells in an empty dish of nuts, silent as always, already thinking of moving homeward, if only someone, a good friend, a childhood friend, was to turn to me, put a hand on my shoulder, touch me gently, with a good-natured smile, seeking a genuine connection, and whisper for example, “Adam, you’re always so quiet, what are you thinking about all the time?”
I’d tell him the truth at once. Why not? I don’t mind.
“You’ll be surprised, but I think about her, I can’t think about anyone else.”
“About whom?”
“About my wife …”
“About your wife? Very good … why not? Sometimes it seems that your thoughts are far away and all the time you’re thinking about her.”
“I’m busy with her constantly …”
“Has something happened?”
“No, nothing’s happened.”
“Because you seem so good together, I mean a steady sort of couple without bickering or strains. We were a bit surprised at the time when she married you … she’s such an intellectual type, sitting over her books all the time, and we thought it was strange that you, out of all her friends … you understand? No offence … you understand?”
“I understand, I understand, go on.”
If only one of our friends, and we don’t have many, one of the three or four that we see regularly, who’ve been close to us for years, was to touch me once with friendship, with sincerity, even with all the noise, even in a small room, there’s always an opportunity for a little private, personal conversation.
“We lost track of you in the middle of the school course, you went away to work, the years went by and suddenly — the two of you. It was a surprise.”
“For me too.”
“Ha ha, and we were sure that all the time you were secretly in love.”
“I …”
“Yes, you. We remember that affair of hers. But now the bond between you seems so natural, when we talk about you it’s always with good will, believe me, it’s always good to see you among us, even when you sit there without saying anything. No, don’t think it’s annoying, the opposite, really, I don’t know how to say it, Adam …”
“Thanks very much. Thanks very much. I understand.”
“So what do you think about all the time?”
“About her, I’ve already told you.”
“No, I mean what are you thinking about her, if you don’t mind my asking.”
“Not at all. I think about her feet.”
“Pardon? I didn’t hear you. All this noise … about what?”
“About her little feet.”
“Is something the matter with them?”
“No, nothing in particular, I just wonder, incidentally, if you’ve ever seen them. The sweet girlish curve, the legs of a pampered child, she isn’t quite … as she seems.”
If someone was to lay his hand on my shoulder, taking me aside in a friendly way, with affection, with a whisper, with arrogance even, with curiosity, but still talking to me with genuine affection, looking me straight in the eye.
“But of course … how could I have known, forgive me. Her feet, you said? But how could anyone know … except for you of course … forgive me … she wears … forgive me … such heavy shoes with flat heels … I mean … I don’t know much about these things but I’m surprised … my wife mentioned it … that dress … something a bit shabby about it … I don’t think she does herself justice … when she was young she was so charming, not pretty but quite attractive and now she’s ageing so quickly, that is, not ageing, far from it, but she’s deteriorating a bit, perhaps because of that tragic business with the boy. I understand, but people mustn’t be allowed to age like that, we all have a responsibility, we must look after one another, warn one another, we still have a long life ahead of us …
“I know … I’m sorry.”
“Oh, Adam, forgive me. But I spoke as a friend. We’ve known each other for such a long time, right? You understand?”
“That’s quite all right, go on.”
If only someone was to approach me, casually, when it’s nearly midnight, even a little drunk, when they’re all getting up and moving about the house, because a young couple has to go and relieve their baby-sitter, and the rest are wondering whether to stay a little longer or to leave, starting to wander about the house, going into other rooms, weighing themselves in the bathroom, pacing about on the balcony, and the hosts run around after the guests, urging the undecided to stay, running to the kitchen and fetching hot rich soup and slices of bread, the leftovers from the Sabbath-eve supper, or what they’ve prepared for the Sabbath lunch, gathering the guests together, handing the plates around, pouring out the strong reddish soup, putting on a record of Greek songs, then the drowsy conversations begin, and if anyone comes to me it’s only to discuss car prices or to hear my opinion of a new model that’s just arrived on the market, or to consult me about how tyres should be crossed, they stand there holding plates and cups and listening with respect, on such subjects I’m the supreme authority.