And the matron went to her, took out from the old lady’s hair a little comb that was hidden there and started to comb her hair, smoothing it over her cheeks, pinching them gently. The old lady didn’t look at her, feeling nothing, staring at the window.
“I tell you, if she hadn’t gone into a coma she could have carried on for years … or perhaps it’s the opposite … it’s because she’s gone into a coma that she will carry on for years … come and see … come closer … don’t be afraid … perhaps she’ll recognize you … perhaps something in you will revive her …”
“You still have hopes for her?”
“Why not? She’s changing all the time. You don’t know, but I’ve been watching her, and seeing her progress. A year ago they brought her here and she was like a vegetable. A vegetable? Worse than that … a stone … a big silent stone. And very slowly she began to change. She began to move like a plant, like some primitive creature, do I know. But these last few months there’s been a dramatic change. You’re smiling? Of course you can’t know. But she’s a human being again, her eyes are alive, her movements are human. She doesn’t speak of course but she’s already thinking, speaking her first syllables. One night she even tried to get away, they found her outside in the orchard. Of course we have hopes. Have you given up hope, in the family? That Mr. Arditi, her grandson, he seems to have disappeared.”
Hesitantly I went closer to the bed, and suddenly the old woman turned her head and looked at me, screwing up her eyes as if trying to remember something. From the corners of her mouth, still full of porridge, two thin streams began to ooze.
“No, she doesn’t recognize me … I’m a distant relation … it’s many years since she’s seen me …”
“But even so you came to see her … that was very nice of you.”
The old woman was staring at me, simply staring, she couldn’t take her eyes off me, she even began to murmur. Strange sounds came from her mouth.
“The beard … the beard …” the old women around us began calling out excitedly. “The beard reminds her of something.”
The old woman’s hands were shaking, something was troubling her, she was fascinated by my beard, as if she wanted to grab it.
I felt a stab of panic, I started to retreat, afraid she might wake up and I’d get involved here. The dark-skinned nurse wiped away the streams of porridge.
“You’re doing a wonderful job here.”
“I’m glad you think so.” The matron’s face lit up. “Perhaps you’d like to have a look around … see the other wards … do you have time?”
She, at any rate, seemed to have plenty of time. For the sake of public relations she led me from ward to ward, to see the old men and women lying there, playing cards, eating a second breakfast. She stopped to talk to them, touching them as if they were pieces of furniture, adjusting their clothing, even combing the hair of some of them. And they smiled at her, a little frightened. Meanwhile she explained to me some of the problems of the institution, the rising cost of laundry, the cut in the government subsidy, fruitless attempts to interest benefactors. Nobody’s prepared to invest in a geriatric hospital.
“I’m prepared to,” I said suddenly, already at the door.
“What do you mean?”
“I’m prepared to make a small donation to the hospital.”
She was stunned, and blushing she clutched my hand.
“Perhaps we should go to my office …”
“No need … I’m in a hurry … but …” And standing there at the door I took out my wallet and gave her five thousand pounds.
She took the notes hesitantly, unable to disguise her joy, amazed at the size of the gift.
“Sir … sir …” she mumbled. “But what is to be done with the money? I mean, do you have any special requests?”
“The money is in your hands … you can buy games for the old people … or some piece of equipment … the only thing I ask is that you look after that old lady, don’t let her die …”
“Of course … naturally … you’ve seen for yourself …”
“I’ll be in touch again to find out how she is … and if anyone else comes here … Mr. Arditi …”
“You’re always welcome, we shall do all we can … even without the money.”
She was holding the notes in both her hands, confused, and very grateful.
“Perhaps after all some kind of receipt … I don’t even know your name …”
But I didn’t want to give her my name, didn’t want him to know I’d been there, looking for him. I shook the matron’s hand and said with a smile:
“Write in your books — an anonymous gift.”
VEDUCHA
The black hand wants to feed the eyes, to move the head and give ear. Caress of soft little white worms trickling down. Bitter milk that once was sweet. Sounds of orchards and smell of people. Wet below, a secret pool, a gushing fountain. And sunlight at all the windows. Count the people. Four six one three. But why has a walking broom come in a confusing man, an upturned broom moving about the room walking alone anxious and now approaching the radiant laughing woman wants to sweep her face. Wants too to sweep an old woman in her bed. Oh, oh, oh, come heavy broom, bearded face. I know this broom, there were many such brooms walking the narrow streets full of black brooms there there in the old place in these ruins. Suddenly not orchards but thorns, little bushes rocks and strong sunlight houses upon houses and slopes. What is this called? What is the name? Oh, oh, an unknown woman, a woman without a name, oh, oh, what is the name of the place? Must know the name quickly must think the name. A blank wall has fallen here, grey stones with little clumps of moss. How did they say? How did they say it? How did they say it? — Usalem. Oh, I have it — Usalem, that’s it, Usalam. No, not that, something else — Rusalem. Yes, Rusalem. An important place, a hard place — Rusalem.
But that’s not the name. Something very close. Find it find it. Oh, oh, inside all is shaking but find it, it’s important, think, oh, oh, find it inside, inside is a little light, a distant light. Oh, oh, little light.
Usalem? Usalam? But not so heavy, not lam, lighter, humbler — Usalim. Oh, Usalim. I have it. No, not that again? Rusalim. Rusalim. I’m sure they called it Rusalim. That’s the place, the rocks, the thorns, quiet now.
The broom has gone. What? The sun at another window. What? Yes, Usalem, Usalem again. What does Usalam want. Usalam has returned. A mistake, sorry, Rusalem. Now it’s clear. Where was she born? — Rusalem. Where are they from? — Rusalem. Next year where? — in Rusalem. But did they really say — Rusalem? Not that. Just like it, but a little different. I’ve forgotten. Must rest.
Black hands turning me. Pulling a sheet spreading a sheet. Light has gone, no sun. Dark at the windows. That place with wall and towers, with brooms, that place with a desert at the end. Suddenly a desert. What’s its name? Not Usalem — Rusalim. But there was something at the beginning. Gerusalem, Sherusalem, Merusalem, Jerusalem. Oh, oh, oh, Jerusalem. Jerusalem, Jerusalem. Exactly, but no. I weep. Great pain. Jerusalem. Simple. Ah, that’s it. Jerusalem.