About the Night (29 page)

Several days later, Nomi was in the kitchen with Margo. She asked to make Jell-O. Margo stood nearby as Nomi tackled her first job at the stove, mixing the strawberry-flavored powdered gelatin with boiling water. It was there, on a stool, that she asked, “You weren’t really sick when they took you to the hospital, right?”

“What do you mean, not sick?” Margo said, answering Nomi’s question with a question.

“It was a miscarriage, wasn’t it?” Nomi continued stirring the Jell-O with a large wooden spoon.

“Who told you?”

“Nobody. Where did they put the baby that fell out?”

“Are you making sure that the Jell-O stays watery? We have to take it off the fire before it hardens.”

“I want to put it into the bowls.”

“But carefully. It’s hot. You only fill the ladle halfway. Look, it’s already hardening.”

“When will we eat this?”

“This evening, after it cools in the fridge.”

“I get four portions out of the six.”

“Why?”

“Because I have to grow. Everyone says I’m too skinny.”

“Maybe we should put sliced bananas in it.”

“The bananas will turn brown, and it’ll be so disgusting that I’ll die.”

“Where did you learn to talk like that?”

“Was the baby a boy or a girl?”

“I think you should go to the store and get us margarine, flour, and a container of yogurt. I’ll make dough, and you can watch.”

“On condition that I can pounce it.”

“Pound it. Where did you learn to say ‘on condition that’?”

“Should I pay at the shop or add it to our bill?”

“Put it on the bill. And no candies.”

What was this thing she had for babies? Nomi was overcome with jealousy whenever Margo was around babies. She breathed in their skin, the purity, the long eyelashes and chubby cheeks, the tiny tear-shaped nostrils, the feathery hair. Only such babies could rouse Margo, reminding them of herself, her own pale skin with its milky touch.

“Babies,” Nomi overheard her mother say to Lila, “are helpless.” She was teaching Lila to crochet but was despairing of the results. “They love you unconditionally, and they cling to you with an animal instinct because they understand they will not survive without you. They worship you: your milk, your touch. They never disappoint. For them, you are the one and only on earth.

“But you know what the problem is?” Margo asked as she impatiently unraveled an entire row that Lila had crocheted. “They grow up. Sometimes they get ugly. They make demands; they don’t worship you anymore. They argue, they grow cheeky, they turn their backs to you, they disappoint. They’re not what you thought they were when you burped them.”

“What were you expecting?” Lila asked in astonishment.

“You wouldn’t understand,” Margo said, shooting her most terrible arrow.

Lila turned red to her earlobes and wallowed in her humiliation. Margo offered coffee.

Lila said, “A writer doesn’t have to commit suicide to write about it. A doctor doesn’t have to contract tuberculosis in order to cure someone who has it. An animal trainer doesn’t have to be a monkey in order to make monkeys dance. And I don’t have to have given birth in order to understand motherhood.” She stepped into her shoes, indicating that she was about to leave.

Margo was quick to say, “All right, never mind. Let’s see how you manage with regular knitting.”

Nomi breathed in relief; the friction had dissipated, and Lila would stay. But Margo’s words about how babies grew into disappointing creatures remained, hanging in the air and not quite clear.

The next day, Margo went to visit distant relatives who had just had a baby, a firstborn male. She wished to hold the baby boy in her arms and pray for one just like it, but the women of the family who passed him from one to the other avoided handing him to Margo. She could read their lips as they whispered to one another: “She can’t hold on to her babies.” Upon returning home, crushed and humiliated, Margo took to her bed and engulfed the apartment in her wailing until night finally fell.

Menash was scrubbing the sink. In his despondency, he forgot to make dinner for Nomi, and she was left alone. They wanted her to grow up on her own and not bother them, but on that particular evening she felt like something was stuck in her throat, and all she wanted was for them to look after her and take care of her. Upset and feeling rejected, she opened the door and left the apartment, the lock clicking shut behind her, indicating no return. Nomi felt brave when she crossed the street without looking both ways and a taxi honked at her. On the street leading to the open-air market, she caught sight of a couple with their young daughter eating dinner on a balcony filled with climbing plants. Nomi passed under their family meal, hoping they would take no notice of her walking about the streets at an hour when all the children were in their homes.

She thought of a boy who caused her knees to go weak simply by hearing his name. She imagined him sitting around the dinner table in his home, his mother in her nurse’s uniform preparing fried eggs and salad, his sisters quarreling with him, their parents looking on with smiles. You could see that he was loved by the shy, sweet smile on his face.

In the meantime, the neighborhood had emptied of people, the shops had closed, and Nomi plodded home and up the stairs of her building. She put her ear to the door, but no sound issued from inside. They had not noticed her disappearance; they were not overcome with worry. So she would show them what worry was.

She climbed the stairs to the roof of the building, walked to the railing, and looked down, but the height terrified her, and she backed away and stood between two water tanks. That was how she kept the cold at bay, and the darkness and the fatigue. The desire to make her parents worry gave her strength. She hugged her knees to herself and bit into their flesh. They would look around and go down to the street and call her name and phone the police and Margo would bawl and her eyes would redden and she would tell Menash to make milk pudding with cinnamon for the girl.

This was what Nomi dreamed up, but in fact they did not go looking for her. No one noted her absence. She could starve to death up there, but nobody would notice. Only in the morning would they find her, dead of cold and starvation, and then they would understand. Her mother would perhaps feel remorse; her father would continue to run after his wife in his black rubber sandals, tired and broken and depressed.

Menash opened the door for Nomi when she returned home, exhausted and drooping with embarrassment. The apartment was dark, and the blinds were down. He did not ask where she had been. He quietly informed her that there was no more hot water and that she should go straight to bed so her mother would not wake up. Nomi rushed to put on her pajamas and climb into bed. Her eyelids shut, their saltiness heavy. Tomorrow she would wash herself and drink and see the boy’s smile at school.

The table had been cleared after the meal before the Yom Kippur fast. All the food had been removed, the dishes washed, and not a crumb remained in the kitchen. Nomi’s father and uncle went to the synagogue in pressed white shirts and rubber shoes. The women tarried in front of the mirror.

Lila said, “Pleasures are not allowed, but it’s still a commandment to look nice.” She was wearing a white dress made of two layers of lace sewn together, her shoulders wrapped in a silk shawl. She told Margo that in her new white suit she looked like Grace Kelly at a cricket match. Margo left a light on in the kitchen so they would not have to turn it on when they returned from services.

They drew appreciative glances from the men’s section as they made their way to the benches in the women’s area of the synagogue. A murmur arose that was quickly silenced. When the Torah scrolls were removed from the Holy Ark, Lila held her breath, the silver ornaments tinkling as the scrolls moved. Several men were called upon to carry the scrolls in their arms, and Lila wished that someone close to her could do it on her behalf; she would love to have done it herself if only it had been permitted. The men carrying the scrolls seemed to be strong and respected and safe in their holiness. A bidding war was taking place on the synagogue floor:
One hundred fifty to Mr. Confino, two hundred to Mr. Musari, two hundred fifty to Mr. Abadi
.

“What are they bidding on?” Nomi asked.

“The right to put the ornaments back on before the scrolls are returned to the ark,” Lila told her.

Just before sunset, the crowd was palpably excited. The men wrapped their heads in their prayer shawls.

The rabbi said, “Yom Kippur cleanses us, because on this day our sins are atoned for and we are made pure, and it shall be a law unto the generations on the tenth day of the seventh month.”

“Who bought the Kol Nidre prayer?” Margo asked.

“Aflendari,” a woman nearby told her. “One thousand liras.”

“Big spender!” Margo said. “Point him out to me.”

“There he is,” said the woman, but from above the men all looked the same, huddling under their prayer shawls. “The one with the gold watch.”

Nomi was about to ask something, but Lila hushed her with a tap to her shoulder.

The congregation was on its feet and fell silent as the cantor began the Kol Nidre prayer, reading it three times, the crowd following with three repetitions in order to annul all oaths and cancel all bans, starting the new year free and unfettered. The prayers swept through the congregation with great emotion, and the two women stood by each other with damp eyes. Lila thought about Margo, whom she still considered young and in need of support. She indicated that she should close her eyes, and then she held Margo’s hand until their arms trembled. From under the scarf she wore over her face, Lila prayed for two miracles by the following Yom Kippur: the baby boy for Margo and the full-grown man for herself. While everyone else was annulling oaths, she was swearing a new one.

Out in the street there was a holy atmosphere full of awe. The buildings were dimly lit, and the only sound was that of people talking in hushed tones. No cars passed by, no radios blared. People walked down empty streets, the white of their clothing contrasting with the black of the asphalt. They walked slowly, moderately, for the evening was long and the heavy fast had begun. A breeze, a harbinger of autumn, fluttered the women’s scarves.

“This holiday is the time for self-scrutiny,” Lila said. “What we did right, where we erred. What kind of people we were in the passing year and what kind we’ll be in the coming one.”

Menash, who usually whistled as he walked, silently stroked the velvet bag of the prayer shawl tucked under his arm.

Margo said, “It was a cursed year where nothing good happened at all.”

“The good may tarry,” Lila said, trying to soften Margo’s outburst, “but it will come.”