About the Night (38 page)

And what did he know about her? He had not asked. But how could he have promised that they would see each other at every opportunity without knowing how she lived? What if she had a husband who, on summer nights, served her watermelon sliced into cubes and awoke early for work, kissing the children and disappearing until the evening? Was there meaning in what was not spoken, in what was not asked?

He found me, she nearly said aloud. He summoned me. He was waiting there for me in that hidden section of the hotel. He took me in his arms in that same old gentle, winning way, not only in his embrace but under his wing. In fact, she thought, he had come back into her life as though he had never been outside it.

Nomi’s dream of a pair of black patent-leather Mary Janes with a buckle came true after many days of standing and looking at them in the window.

“They’ll hurt at first because of the hard leather,” the salesman told her.

“No, they’re fine,” Nomi insisted.

Margo said, “Give me a good price. I buy from you every year.”

The salesman said, “This is the final price. You don’t like it, don’t buy them.”

Nomi was startled when her mother took her hand and began marching out of the store. She slackened her pace while her mother quickened her own. The salesman called out to them to come back, and he lowered the price. That night, Nomi slept with the shoes wrapped in her arms, the fragrance of leather in her nose.

On the day of the wedding, she removed them from the box and shined them with cotton wool. She wore white socks that she folded at the ankle and a white dress that had been sewn for her, with pink embroidery at the wrists, but it was the shoes that mattered most to her.

They drove to the wedding crammed into the Volkswagen—she, her parents, the baby, and Lila. Margo did not like weddings and other such occasions, and she had dire predictions with regard to the wedding hall, the menu, and the band. She had no doubt she was giving a larger gift than what she would be receiving in return as a guest. She had had her hair done—at a less expensive salon than Salon Hubert—and the ends were curled up and sprayed stiff. She had tried not to have to give a ride to Lila because she did not wish to enter the hall together with her, but Nomi had promised they would pick her up.

When Lila made an entrance, people did not try to hide their stares. The women’s faces said,
She’s not from here, so I’ll never be able to look like her.
The striking posture, the thin high heels, the black dress with the décolletage, the evening bag inlaid with gems, the silk scarf threaded with gold. The long white neck, the face full of glamour and hope.

“She walks like a Frenchwoman,” one woman said to a friend. “Maybe she practices with a book on her head.”

“She only has herself to look after,” said the friend. “No husband or children to run after.”

“What smooth skin,” said the first, sparks of envy flying. “They probably give her treatments at the salon.”

With her small body, Nomi tried to deflect the sparks so they would not reach Lila. She hummed to herself to banish the nasty things being uttered, recalling what Lila had said once in jest: “It’s better to get run over by a truck than to fall under the wheels of women squinting at you.”

The men who leaned in to kiss her received her hand, shapely and gloved.

“Why don’t these events ever start on time? And why can’t the ceremony be nice and short?” She removed a gold wristwatch from her evening bag, glanced at it, and returned it to its place.

“Will you be a good girl and bring me a glass of red wine?” she asked Nomi, as if asking for urgent medication. When Nomi returned, careful not to spill a drop on her dress, Lila was looking at her watch again.

“What wine,” Lila said, sounding disappointed. “It’s like the vinegar I use to clean the stovetop.”

Nomi brought peanuts and almonds, but Lila did not wish to deal with the mess. A band played a local version of Cliff Richard. Lila was clearly agitated, as if she had lost something.

“What are you looking for?” Nomi asked, worried.

“Nothing,” she answered, patting Nomi’s head.

This was a wedding that had been anticipated for years. Hezi, Nomi’s father’s youngest brother, was marrying sturdy Clara, with the golden braid and the thick arms, the only daughter of Holocaust survivors. Hezi had maintained his bachelorhood for nearly twenty years until Clara, nine years his junior, caught him in her net.

Nomi caught snippets of gossip as she passed around the room: “The bride’s parents have a vegetable shop, where Clara lifts crates from early in the morning. But that’ll come to an end now that she’s marrying a contractor who drives an American El Camino.” “She looks like a Russian peasant.” “That’s how it is with those people, one child and they don’t want any more.” “He’s taking her to Eilat for their honeymoon.” “Ashkenazim. Small families, few guests. Not like us.”

Nomi’s parents had gone in different directions the moment they entered the wedding hall, and as usual, neither sought her out. They figured she would stay with Lila.

The music suddenly stopped, but Lila’s foot kept tapping in the silence. The lead singer, his hair full and curly, announced “a song in honor of our soldiers.” The guests formed dance circles and broke out in a hora to the background of electric guitars and drums. Nomi tried to work her way in, but the grown-ups were holding hands too tightly. She went back to the table and came up to Lila from behind and squeezed her. Lila jumped.

Nomi’s little brother, who thought red wine was juice, had drunk a large cup and was sprawled sound asleep across two chairs that had been pushed together. Nomi managed to lift three dinner rolls from the buffet tables, which were being guarded by waiters in bow ties. “Want one?” she asked Lila.

“I’m not hungry,” Lila answered at once. She added, “Who eats at weddings, anyway?”

Nomi stood at Lila’s side during the ceremony, her hand cupped in Lila’s black glove. She could see nothing but the legs of the men in front of her, and the fannies of the women.

“What a long ceremony,” Lila said, bending to whisper into Nomi’s ear. “Boring, too. You’re not missing a thing. But your uncle, the groom, looks sweet.”

“How about the bride?” Nomi asked.

“She looks like someone who knows what she wants.”

Hezi crushed the glass to shouts of joy from the gathered guests. “Why do brides wear veils?” Nomi asked.

“So that the groom will understand that there will always be something blurry about his bride,” Lila said.

“Why?”

“Because that’s how it is with women. There is always something unclear.”

The band began playing again, and everyone pressed in to kiss the bride, who had removed her veil. Her face was bright and glowing, and she wore a glittering tiara on her head.

“La corona de brilliante,”
said Lila. “That’s the most beautiful thing at this wedding, the diamond tiara on the bride’s head. With that, every bride looks like a princess.”

Hassidic music flooded the room, reminding Nomi of Tevye the milkman marrying off his daughters.

Lila, who only a moment before had been holding Nomi’s hand, disappeared in the tumult. The guitarist dedicated the next song to “the conquerors of Jerusalem who gave us back the Western Wall and the Temple Mount.” Nomi knew some of the words to “Jerusalem of Gold” but she did not understand what it was about them that brought tears to grown-ups’ eyes.

“Where’s Lila?” Menash asked Nomi, whom he found examining women’s feet. “Where is she? I thought you were looking out for her.”

“She was with me,” Nomi said. She went to search for polished red toenails but instead was fascinated by fat and odd-shaped big toes or receding pinkie toes. Lila had told her it was all right to expose one’s feet only if they were perfect, but most of the women here were showing off their ugly toes.

“So go look for her,” Nomi’s father instructed her. “Bring her to sit with us at our table.”

He was handsome in his black suit, white shirt, and tie, his dark hair cut short and streaked with silver. His face was flushed with wine and happiness. Nomi knew that he would soon start dancing with the beautiful women in the room, and her mother would purse her lips and send evil looks at the dance floor; then, back at home, she would criticize all the women he had spun around until she ruined his evening.

Nomi set out for the women’s room, figuring she would find Lila in front of the mirror, applying lipstick. She peered under the doors of the stalls, but she did not find anyone there with black shoes and sheer stockings. The smell of food made her give up her search, and she raced in the direction of the kitchen to make sure that the parade of enormous trays of food had begun. She opened a heavy door to what she thought was the kitchen, but she found herself instead on a darkened street. An employee was emptying a trash bin into a large receptacle; then he came back inside, leaving the waste to the many cats waiting for him to leave.

For a split second, Nomi caught sight of a black shoe and the golden thread of Lila’s scarf. It was caught in a car door that shut quickly, and it remained there as the car—large, perhaps a Mercedes—drove away.

Nomi found her way back inside and discovered that a dish of chicken wrapped in phyllo dough had already been served. She sat next to Uncle Mano and was thrilled when two more portions were passed her way.

While she was eating, her father came and asked, “So, where is she? Did you find her?”

“She’s here somewhere,” Nomi said, intercepting a cabbage salad that had been hiding behind a bottle of juice.

The meal came to an end, the lights were dimmed, coffee was served, and the layer cake was cut into pieces. Shards of light flickered over the dance floor, and the bride and groom shared their first tango. Lila always rose from her chair to dance a tango; it didn’t matter if she was at home or at Salon Hubert, she would be up and dancing. Rhumba, too. When she danced, the music set its rhythm to hers, to her long, strong legs; her beautiful strides. The witches at the wedding were eager to see which poor fool would fall at her feet by the end of this dance. But for once, Lila could not be found on the dance floor, or anywhere in the hall.

Nomi walked outside, full and sated. The nights were pleasant, and the breeze carried a honeyed scent. It was a summer evening, and the heavens were strewn with stars and the moon floated through an expanse as black as Lila’s dress. The sound of Arabic could be heard from the balconies of apartments up and down the street, where television sets were broadcasting foreign stations.

A man in a white undershirt stood smoking on one balcony, his legs spread and sturdy. A woman in a camisole appeared, cat-like, behind him, and leaned into him. He tossed his burning cigarette over the railing and wrapped his arms backward around her, pulling her close to him. Nomi watched the small red light from the burning butt as it disappeared into the bushes.

A large car slowed down as it approached the wedding hall and continued slowly to the end of the street, where it stopped and its lights went off. Nomi knew cars by name, and now she was sure: this one was a Mercedes. A moment later, a woman got out of the car and slammed the door. She walked quickly away from the car.

It was Lila, but not the Lila Nomi knew, with erect posture and a slow gait. She reached her, walking quickly and breathing heavily. She did not ask what Nomi was doing alone outside in the dark.

“I was waiting for you,” Nomi said.

Lila took several deep breaths, as if she was trying to bring something under control. She sat on the curb next to Nomi, her head drooping. It seemed as though she did not have the strength to lift it up.

“They were asking where you were,” Nomi said.

“Let them,” Lila said, looking at Nomi. “What do I care?” After a moment she said, “
Who
asked?”

“Daddy,” Nomi said. “I told him that you must be walking around in the crowd.”

“Do they know you’re out here?”

“No,” Nomi said. She twirled Lila’s pearls, fixed her bangs, and said, “Your eye shadow is smeared. You need to fix it.”

Lila used her compact to clean herself up. “Come inside in a little while. I’ll go in first,” she instructed Nomi. She collected herself, as if forcing herself not to fall apart; then she went into the wedding hall.

Nomi counted to twenty and stood up to go inside.

Suddenly, the Mercedes pulled up to the curb, and the driver motioned her to approach. For a second she froze, and he waited. He had a kind face, though, so she drew near the open window of the passenger seat.

“Do you know who Lila is?” he asked her.

She nodded.

“Can you give her this?” he asked, handing her Lila’s scarf.

She took it. The man in the car said a quiet thank-you and drove off. Nomi stood for a moment longer with his pleasant voice and a wisp of his scent, a trail of talcum powder mixed with tobacco.

Inside, someone grabbed her by the waist and lifted her into the air. “You’re as light as a string bean,” Uncle Mano told her. “Come dance with the bride and the groom.” He led her to the dance floor, shouting in her ear: “They’re playing a song from Sanremo, ‘Dio, Come Ti Amo.’ It’s a great song!”