A Possibility of Violence (6 page)

The station was quiet and most of the doors were closed. He stayed until the afternoon, thought things over, reviewed the notes in his pad. In addition to the information about the phone call, two new names were written in his notepad:
Orna Chamo
and
Chaim Sara
, a young mother and an older father. Next to the mother's name were written the words
scuffle almost broke out
. And next to Chaim Sara's name
almost violently attacked
. It would be necessary to call the two of them in for questioning. At the bottom of the page
WOMAN'S VOICE
was written in big letters.

He decided to pick up again after the holiday, in part because the daycare would be closed for the next three days and so the children were in no imminent danger. Saban got back to him that afternoon, when he was already home, and supported the decision.

On his way home the stores were closed and he bought a six-pack of Heineken and three packs of cigarettes at a kiosk.

It was the last day of the year.

The year in which he met Marianka.

Without knowing why, he got in his car and went back to the sea.

The beach was empty, and the sand between his toes felt soft and warm. He took off his clothes and entered the water until it reached his chest. He looked at the flat, brilliant horizon for a long time. Afterward he floated with his eyes closed. At dusk, when he walked the few streets that separated his apartment from that of his parents, he didn't think about an old suitcase with a handle of greenish leather, nor about a warning call that Chava Cohen knew of and hid. Nor about Amos Uzan, who it seemed did in fact leave his home in the morning merely to breathe some fresh air and to buy a few things at a local shop.

“You're not cold in a short-sleeved shirt?” his mother asked him while he stood in the doorway. “You didn't notice that the summer is already over?” His father kissed his cheek and said, “With her the winter starts in July. He should wear a sweater, right? A parka!”

In the past, this sort of banter might have annoyed him, but it didn't anymore.

They quickly ate the holiday meal, without prayers of any kind. Like every year, his mother served chopped liver on a slice of tomato and fresh chicken soup and a pot roast with a texture that always made Avraham a little nauseous. They raised a glass to the coming year and wished one another “only health,” because you don't need anything else, and afterward they turned on the television. When his father fell asleep in his armchair, his mother asked him questions about Marianka, when was she going to arrive, and if everything in the apartment was ready for her to come, and if in fact they'd already decided to get married, and he answered briefly, even though he was thinking only about this, about the weeks to come, about the day Marianka would land, how they would travel home from the airport.

He recalled the day he went to her in Brussels.

The plane landed at five in the morning and Marianka was waiting for him at the airport.

Only a week had passed since they said good-bye, but suddenly a surprising, perhaps even shocking, distance had arisen between them—and now to think that all this was indeed happening, that he'd taken a leave of absence from his work and traveled to her. In the taxi to the city they'd sat close to each other but their hands didn't touch. He said, “You're tired. When did you wake up?” and Marianka said she hadn't slept. He was already searching her face for signs of regret, but she smiled at him and said, “I was waiting up.”

They entered her apartment on tiptoe because her housemate was sleeping. Marianka's room was wide, but when they rolled his suitcases into it and stood next to them, in the space between the bed and the closet, the two of them asked themselves if two people would really be able to manage there over the course of an unspecified amount of time. He restricted his movements, sat on the bed only when she said to him, “You can sit.” His knees were rubbing against the suitcase, and he shook his head when she asked if he wanted to eat breakfast. When he lay on his side, in his shoes and still wearing a jacket, she pulled his arm. His face was near to her face and he thought that she wanted him to kiss her, but she said, “I need more time to look at you.”

Obviously he didn't tell his mother any of this and a little after ten o'clock said good-bye to her and returned home.

4

ON THE EVE OF ROSH HASHANAH
the children fell asleep just after midnight, exhausted from many hours of playing with their cousins in the backyard. Shalom fell asleep in the living room in his holiday clothes, and Chaim moved him to the mattress and undressed him. Ezer took off his shirt and pants himself, and his eyes closed a minute after he lay down on the sofa bed, which was prepared with a sheet for him. Both of them had gotten very wild, elated to be with their cousins. Ezer still appeared distant and guarded but also laughed and participated in the games. And didn't say a word about the first father or the suitcase, Chaim having forbidden him to mention them.

He looked at their silent breathing before leaving. Their hair was damp with sweat and their faces were red. They slept in the small room, which had been his room during his childhood, with the rectangular window facing the backyard and the white curtain over it. A bed was made for him in the next room, which was once the room of his younger brother and sister.

 

DID HE ALREADY HAVE A PLAN
then?

It seemed he did not. For a moment he thought that he had to escape, to disappear with the children immediately, and the next moment he thought that he might as well just relax and wait. There was no reason to escape. He had to wait for the suitcase to be forgotten, and till then simply stick it out.

He knew how to do this. He had lived like this for many years. Maybe this was his only plan: that other things would happen and erase him from memory. He had no doubt he would be forgotten. When he listened to the news, he expected to hear a report about violent acts in the area. Before the holiday they reported on the radio about an attempt to assassinate a criminal on Shenkar Street.

On the eve of the new year he still didn't know for certain if the police were continuing to investigate who placed the suitcase, because he was only called in for questioning after it. Before being called in for questioning, he didn't think they'd get to him, in part because of the man who was arrested trying to flee and was caught right before his eyes. And even if they released the man who was arrested, how long would the police investigate a fake bomb in a suitcase next to a daycare that didn't harm anyone?

He tried not to think about his bad luck, because that only wore him down. And anyway, time was his prescription for the boys as well. He had to give them time. Even if he didn't have a plan, he had a goal: to protect them. To make sure they wouldn't know a thing, so they wouldn't get hurt. To prevent them from feeling pain, as much as he could, and to continue searing his image into their memory. To bring Ezer, from whom he had grown distant because of Jenny, close to him again.

The more days that passed, the more things would be forgotten.

Life taught him that things were forgotten, even if he actually remembered.

 

AFTER HE LEFT THE CHILDREN'S ROOM
he told his mother to rest and straightened the living room, folded up the small tables that had been attached to the dining room table, and stacked the plastic chairs in the courtyard. Adina did the dishes in the kitchen. Only once over the course of the meal did his sister ask about Jenny, and his mother told her in their language not to talk about it in front of the children. Because he was the firstborn it fell on him to read the prayers.

After Adina left, he made his mother a cup of tea. This was their first chance to speak, and she said, “They look good.”

“They're getting used to it,” he said. Ezer had smiled more than he smiled before, and had even joined the cousins when they sang the holiday songs.

She asked if he wasn't going to have something warm to drink and he changed his mind and made himself a cup of tea.

“See that things are better for them. She didn't care for them like a mother. Put in Sweet'N Low, not sugar.”

He waited for the water in the kettle to boil again.

“And you're sure everything is okay at the daycare?” she asked, and he said, “Yes.”

Again she said to him, “It's good that you shouted at the teacher. She won't be so bold next time. And how is Ezer doing at school?” and he answered, “Fine.” He still hadn't told her a thing about the suitcase, because he knew she'd get stressed out and increase his stress.

“Do they ask about her a lot?”

“No. They ask sometimes.”

“Children don't understand much.” She sighed. Afterward she asked him, “And what about money?” and he answered, “We'll manage.”

 

THE HOLIDAYS WERE ALWAYS DIFFICULT. EMPLOYEES
of the Ministry of the Interior and the Tax Authority in Holon, his main customers, went on vacation, and even when the offices were operating normally, some of the employees were on leave. More people brought in food from home, whatever was left over from the holiday meals. All in all, during these weeks he prepared and sold less than half the amount of sandwiches that he sold in the winter.

He had ideas for increasing income from the business, but in the meantime he hadn't implemented them. He planned to sell hot meals again, a meat dish with a side of rice and salad, as he had done when he opened the business, before the recession. He hoped that if he offered a dish at twenty-five shekels, there would still be demand. And it might also be possible to offer drinks in bottles and cans, but he would need to sell them cold and at a price below that of the vending machines. Beyond this, he wanted to check with his cousin who arranged the Ministry of the Interior account for him in Holon if it would be possible to sell at other branches, perhaps in Rishon LeZion or Ramat Gan. Another possibility was to take advantage of the available morning hours for making deliveries, but he feared heavy loads and long hours of driving. Either way, he would be forced to work more, not just during the day but in the evening as well, at home. This didn't scare him. Anyway, in recent months Jenny hadn't worked and they had been living on only the earnings from the business.

His mother said, “Adina will come and help you with the children,” and he said, “No need. I want to be with them more.”

“But did you see how well she gets along with them?”

He saw. His mother sat Adina next to Shalom and she looked after him throughout the evening, took the bones out of the fish for him, rinsed his hands when he got messy from oil, everything that Jenny didn't do. When he got hit by one of the cousins and cried, out of all the people there he ran to her. She was forty-five years old, divorced, with no children, and started cleaning at his mother's place two years earlier. She lived nearby and they became friends. She was grateful that his mother invited her to their Rosh Hashanah dinner. “It's a pity God didn't bless her with children. She would be a good mother,” his mother said, and he got up from his place and set the cup of tea in the sink.

When he lay down in bed he heard her turning the faucet on and off in the kitchen and afterward flushing the toilet in the bathroom. He thought that perhaps it was a mistake to come to her with the children for the holiday, even though he didn't know what he would do with them for four days by himself. The two of them were happy to sleep at her place, especially Shalom, the younger one. He asked what would happen if Mom came back and didn't find them in the apartment and Chaim calmed him down. He said she wouldn't come back over the holiday. But again he hadn't talked with them enough, as he had promised himself he would. He let his mother talk to them instead, as if something in her weakened him, although she herself was weak and was only trying to help. She was already eighty years old. His father was many years older than his mother and died when he was fifty-six.

 

THE NEXT DAY, CHAIM WENT TO
the synagogue that his father had attended.

He had slept well and was refreshed and more certain of his strength. His body felt younger and energetic. He thought that it would be difficult to find a place to sit in the synagogue and prepared himself to stand during the service, but the small room wasn't full. Most of the worshippers were old, perhaps his mother's age. A few of them recognized him and greeted him with a nod or wished him a happy new year. He sat next to Shlomo Achoan's father and tried to pray with great conviction, but he lost his place in the prayer book. And missed his sons, who were still sleeping when he left. He wanted to take them on a hike through the orchard where he played with his father as a child. When he returned, before noon, they were on the carpet, quietly watching television. The shutters were closed against the sun and the house was almost completely dark. Ezer sat cross-legged and his younger brother was lying next to him. His mother sat on the sofa behind them, holding a saucer with shelled hazelnuts and almonds. Perhaps because of what he saw in Ezer's gaze Chaim suddenly said, “Do you want to call Mom?” And Shalom jumped from his place and hugged his leg. Ezer looked at him with his distant eyes and he saw joy in them. Is this in fact how the plan began to unfold? He went into his mother's bedroom, dialed the number, and waited. He sat on her bed while the two of them stood next to him, their eyes fixed on the phone. Afterward he heard his own recorded voice announce, “You've reached Chaim and Jenny Sara. We can't answer at the moment. You can leave a message when you hear the beep.”

He put the receiver down and said, “She didn't answer,” and Shalom said, “Why didn't she answer?”

“Maybe she's sleeping.”

“Maybe she doesn't want to talk to us?” Shalom asked, and Chaim said quickly, “We'll call again soon.”

Ezer was silent, and in his eyes, which actually smiled the day before, Chaim saw tears, and so he said, “I already spoke to Mom this morning, before you got up. We'll give her another call soon.”

His mother entered the room and said to him in Farsi, “Wouldn't it be better for you to tell them that she's not coming back?”

He didn't answer.

None of this had been planned.

And he wasn't sure that this was a good idea, even though the promise made them so happy at first. They left the bedroom and Shalom said to his father, “I get to talk to Mom first, before Ezer, right?” and Chaim said, “The two of you will talk at the same time.”

They lay down on the carpet again in the dark living room.

His mother suggested to Shalom that he gather up leaves in the backyard, but he said, “I just want to stay with Ezer.”

Even though Chaim knew that she wouldn't answer, he took them into the bedroom again and they argued over who would be closer to him when he dialed the number and he waited and instead of Jenny's voice he heard his voice again. “You've reached Chaim and Jenny Sara. . . . You can leave a message.” The next time only Shalom went with him and Ezer remained seated in front of the television.

 

THE HOLIDAY'S SECOND DAY WAS FRIDAY
and his mother took them to Adina's in the morning. She said that Adina had prepared plates for them with sweets and apple slices in honey and filled the house with toys. She invited her sister's son, who was a few years older than Ezer, and they'd play ball. Afterward everyone would eat lunch at Adina's place.

Shalom was glad to go, especially after he heard about the plates of sweets, and Ezer went without an expression on his face and without a word leaving his mouth, as if asleep. After they didn't succeed in speaking with Jenny, his face had closed up again. Chaim fixed the wall in the bathroom. He sanded off the damp, crumbling layer of paint in which a dark mold had spread due to the humidity, and after the plaster dried he put on a new layer of waterproof paint. On all radio stations songs were playing and no one said a word. He thought of how he could get closer to Ezer. Afterward he took the radio out to the courtyard and finished filling in the concrete path leading to the house. The heat was again unbearable, and he removed his shirt. His back hurt. Despite this he worked quickly and tried to keep from thinking. If it were possible, he would have chosen to remain there despite everything. Far from their shared apartment, and far from the children's small room into which the lights from the adjacent building were reflected at night. Was he less afraid here because his father's strength was more tangible inside it, as if he were still to be found within the house's walls? He warmed up rice and chicken and ate in the kitchen by himself. And then he suddenly crashed. Without knowing why, he went to his mother's bedroom and collapsed onto her bed, but didn't dial the phone. Afterward he lay down on it properly and fell asleep. He didn't make it back to the synagogue, as he had hoped.

The next day his younger brother came with his children and took the boys to the pool.

 

IT WAS ONLY WHEN THEY RETURNED
to Holon, on Saturday night, that Ezer suddenly spoke up.

They passed through Jaffa on the way, because the stores were open there, and Chaim bought vegetables and eggs and cheese. He called the Brothers' Bakery and left a reminder on their answering machine that tomorrow he'd need only half the regular number of rolls. Shalom fell asleep in the car because he hadn't slept that afternoon, and Chaim carried him in his arms to bed and afterward brought up the groceries. It was early and Ezer watched television, and when his program ended he turned it off himself. Chaim boiled eggs and chopped vegetables in the kitchen. When he walked into the living room he saw Ezer standing next to the window, looking out through the shutters. His body was small in his white T-shirt and his legs were thin and dark.

He asked him, “Did you do all your homework?” and Ezer said, “Mom doesn't want to stay with us anymore?”

Chaim felt as if someone had struck him in the face.

“She went away for a while and she'll come back,” he said, and felt that now he'd have to say more.

Ezer turned and looked with his strange eyes at his father. “Why did she go away?” he asked.