She gave Sami a pleading, begging, almost ingratiating look, and when she encountered his eyes she was trapped in them for a long, bitter moment that quickly branched out into an endless maze, from Joseph Trumpeldor and the riots of 1929 and 1936 all the way to Avram’s dick. She got out of the car and walked to the back door. Avram sat up with great effort. “It’s that pill,” he apologized.
“Give me your hand.” She dug her heels into the ground and readied her back for the blow to come. Her hand hovered unmet. He nodded with his eyes closed. He wrinkled his face a little and smiled with relief, and she watched as a big, dark stain spread slowly over his pants and onto the new leopard-skin upholstery.
A few moments later the two of them were outside with their backpacks tossed nearby, and Sami was charging away madly. As he zigzagged across the white line, he shouted and bellowed bitterly into the night mist, cursing both the Jews and the Arabs, and mainly himself and his own fate. He beat his head and his chest and the wheel of the Mercedes.
NOW THEY ATE PRUNES and Ora buried the pits in the sludge and hoped two trees might grow there one day, trunks intertwined. Then they said goodbye to the lovely spot, loaded up their backpacks, his blue and hers orange, and everything Avram did took forever, and it seemed that each movement he made passed through every joint in his body. But when he finally stood up straight and glanced at the river, a slight vernal brightness ran over his forehead, as though a gleaming coin had shone its golden luster on him from afar, and she entertained a fleeting idea: What if Ofer were here with us? The notion was utterly unfounded. She had only been able to sneak Avram tiny crumbs of information about Ofer, as she’d been forbidden to talk about him or even mention his name all these years. But now, for a brief moment, she saw the two of them here, Ofer and Avram, helping each other cross the water, and her eyes shined at him.
“Come on, let’s go.”
After no more than a hundred steps, beyond a small hill, the path led them into the stream once again.
Avram stood defeated. This turn was too much for him. For me too, Ora thought and sat down angrily. She took off her shoes and socks, tied them and fastened them, rolled up her pants, and walked firmly into the freezing, snow-fed water, unable to stifle a tiny shriek. Avram was still stuck on the bank behind her, confused by the forces that both pulled and pushed him. Desperate as he was, he knew that the bank Ora was moving toward now was the side on which they had begun their trek, and there, it seemed, was some stability, perhaps because that was the side of home. He sat down and went through the motions, tied his shoes to the backpack almost without seeing Ofer’s pair, and waded into the cold water with his lips pursed. This time he took resolute strides, kicking up a big commotion, and then came to sit down beside Ora on the bank. He slapped his feet dry and put his socks and shoes back on. Ora felt that he was at ease, not only because he was back on the familiar side but because he had seen that it was possible to cross over and back. And that is exactly what they did, three or four more times — they lost count — on that first morning of their Upper Galilee journey, which she was still calling a hike, if she was even calling it anything, if they even spoke more than a few words the whole day: “Come on,” “Give me your hand,” “Watch out here,” “Damn cows.” The path and the stream weaved and converged, and by the third crossing they no longer removed their shoes but simply walked through the mud and the water and climbed back up, sloshing around in their shoes until the water seeped out. Finally the path broke away from the Hatzbani River and became easier and earthier, an ordinary trail through the fields, dotted with big puddles of mud, pale cyclamens hovering on either side. Avram stopped glancing behind him every few minutes and did not ask whether Ora would know how to find the way back. He seemed to have realized that she had no intention of going back anywhere and that he was her hostage. He grew introverted, resigned to reducing his vitality to that of a plant, a lichen, or a spore. It must hurt less that way, Ora imagined. Why am I torturing him? she wondered as she watched him walk, frail and downtrodden, serving out a sentence he did not understand at all. He’s no longer part of me or of my life and really hasn’t been for years. She did not feel pained by this thought, merely baffled: How could it be that the person I thought was my own flesh and blood, the root of my soul, would not tug at my heartstrings when he is severed from me in this way? What am I doing with him now? Why did this fixation grab hold of me now, when I need all my strength to rescue one child — why burden myself with another?
“Ofer,” she murmured, “I’m forgetting to think about him.”
Avram turned around suddenly and walked back down the path, aiming himself at her with his faltering steps. “Tell me what you want, I don’t have the strength for these games.”
“I told you.”
“I don’t get it.”
“I’m running away.”
“From what?”
She looked into his eyes and said nothing.
He swallowed. “Where’s Ilan?”
“Ilan and I separated a year ago. A bit less. Nine months.”
He swayed a little, as though she had hit him.
“That’s that,” she said.
“What do you mean separated? From who?”
“From who? From us. From each other. That’s it.”
“Why?”
“People separate. It happens. Come on, let’s go.”
He raised a heavy hand and kept standing there like a dim-witted student. Under his stubble she saw his tortured expression. There were years when she and Ilan used to joke that if they ever split up, they’d have to keep pretending they were a couple, for his sake.
“What reason do you have to separate?” he growled. “I want to know what came over you all of a sudden. All these years you keep going and then you just get sick of it?”
He’s scolding me, Ora realized with some surprise. He’s complaining.
“Who wanted this?” Avram straightened up, suddenly full of power. “It was him, wasn’t it? Did he have another woman?”
Ora almost choked. “Calm down. The two of us decided together. And maybe it’s better this way.” But then she seethed: “Anyway, why are you poking your nose into our lives? What do you even know about us? Where were you for three years? Where were you for thirty years?”
“I’m sorry.” He huddled over, alarmed. “I … Where was I?” He furrowed his brow as though he truly did not know.
“Anyway, that’s the situation.” Ora spoke smoothly now, to compensate for her outburst.
“And you?”
“What about me?”
“You’re alone?”
“I … I’m without him, yes. But I’m not alone.” She looked straight into his eyes. “I really don’t feel alone.” Her attempt at a smile did not work.
Avram wrung his hands nervously. She could feel his body rallying to take in the news. Ora and Ilan are separated. Ilan alone. Ora alone. Ora without Ilan.
“But why? Why?!” He was riled up again, shouting into her face, all but stomping his feet.
“You’re shouting. Don’t shout at me.”
“But how … you were always …” He let his backpack drop and looked up at her like a miserable puppy. “No, explain this to me from the beginning. What happened?”
“What happened?” She put down her backpack, too. “Lots of things happened since Ofer enlisted. Since you decided that you had to, I don’t know, disappear on me.”
His hands crushed each other. His eyes darted around.