Five Seasons (13 page)

His brown valise arrived, and he took a taxi to his hotel, whose address was clipped to a page of his passport. Considering the early evening hour, the streets of the city appeared civilized and tame. Never, he calculated, looking up at the reddish sky, which glowed as though stoked from afar, had he been so far north. The thought that his wife was born and spent the first six years of her life in this city made him smile. He should have asked his mother-in-law for their old address, but that would only have made her inquire about the reason for his trip, and what could he possibly have told her? The taxi was now jolting over cobblestones, threading its way through narrow streets that clearly belonged to some old neighborhood. At last, it stopped in front of a small hotel that appeared to have only a few rooms.

The lobby, though small, was clean and uncluttered, its walls paneled with reddish wood and decorated with pictures and prints of the Nibelungs, ancient nautical maps, and glass cabinets with old swords and daggers. And yet, though it had a style of its own, Molkho suddenly found himself missing Paris, his wife's cousin, the baby, the snow, the crowded streets. Would he have to make love to the legal adviser in one of these German rooms, he wondered, putting down his valise and reaching for his passport, or would they be content to develop their relationship through a few hugs and kisses? And yet how ludicrous for people of their age and experience to neck like teenagers! The catch was that he didn't feel at all sexy. Not even Paris had awakened that side of him. Why, how could he even kiss her when he had no clear notion of her body yet? Not that the lines in her face were a problem—they were light and not deeply etched—but how did he know where they led when her waistline was unbeatable and the shape of her legs still a riddle? If only it were summer, he thought, there wouldn't be so many question marks. He would have known where he stood and what he was capable of, and he would not have had to put her through all this or to fear that, if disappointed, she might take her revenge in the office. Meanwhile, the female receptionist, whose English was exceedingly primitive, had given him some forms to fill out, after which she handed him a large copper key attached to a leather holder in the shape of a dove that had the number 6 on it.
“Seeks,”
she said to him, and he repeated it easily after her. When he inquired about the legal adviser, however, asking if he and she were the only Israelis registered, he was astonished to be told that he was the only guest in the hotel so far. And, indeed, all the other keys were hanging in front of their cubbyholes, eleven little doves minding their nests. The thought that she planned on sharing a room with him alarmed him. It can't be, he told himself, asking the receptionist to check again—and indeed, this time she found the legal adviser's name, booked for another room. Taking his key with relief, he started for the elevator, as conscious of the adventure getting under way as if watching himself in a movie. He was glad, at least, that she was no longer young, because he couldn't count on an erection; no, if they could think of this simply as a first step, like warming up a motor, it would be a good beginning. Could he have imagined several months ago that he would soon be so free and so far north? On the walls of the small but modern elevator were more old maritime maps and another little dagger in an elegant case. Berlin must be a safe place, mused Molkho, if the management needn't worry that some drunk might grab a weapon and start using it.

His room, like the lobby, was small but clean, smelling of soap and starch. It had neither a television nor a telephone, and only two stations could be gotten on the radio, one with Germans singing and one with Germans talking. He went to the bathroom, not having relieved himself since Paris, but surprisingly, all he produced was a thin dribble, as if all the coffee, tea, and wine that had gone into him that morning, on the ground and in the air, had vanished somewhere in his bloodstream; then he opened his valise and hung all his shirts and jackets in the narrow closet. The last item was a book, Volume II of
Anna Karenina.
It was a novel he had never read, and seeing how Jane Austen had him stymied, his daughter had given it to him with a warm recommendation. “At least try it,” she said—but now he saw she had given him the wrong volume. He took a long shower, put on fresh underwear, and lay down on the bed with his head on the pillow, beneath which he felt something hard. It was another book, the New Testament, and he opened it, feeling that room service expected no less of him. It was in English, and the simple, homey story of Jesus and his disciples in Jerusalem made Molkho think of the Jerusalem he had known long ago, before the 1948 war, a summery city full of tension and fear, yet also of great promise and activity, with its Jewish Agency officials in dark suits, the very embodiments of Integrity and Justice, standing by the chiseled stone walls of the Terra Sancta Building and planning the Jewish State. He turned the pages, now and then stopping to read the unfamiliar tales: they may not always have been likable or logical, he thought, all those people who ran after Jesus, but they knew enough to ditch the Jews in time and cover their tracks by vanishing among the Gentiles. Shutting the book, he went downstairs, where the receptionist now was an older man with a mustache like Hitler's, only white. The legal adviser, he told Molkho, had called just a minute ago to say she was delayed because her conference wasn't over yet. She would be there no later than four.

H
ER LATENESS ANNOYED HIM
, as if it was her way of saying that, unlike him, her sybaritic companion, she was here for a practical purpose. Though the hotel's rates, which he now inquired about at the desk, were not high, he was sure she would find some way of putting them on her expense account. Not that he could do anything about it, but he had gone over enough bills at the office handed in by junketing officials to know all the tricks. In any case, he would not wait to lunch with her, as he would no doubt have to treat her to dinner and might as well have his main meal now alone; that way, they could order less later, and anyway, she was no doubt being fed at the conference. He drank coffee and ate an order of french fries with two frankfurters while jotting down some things to talk to her about in the days ahead, for he felt rather intimidated by her intelligence. Then he strolled down a long, narrow street, making sure not to lose his way while peering into clothing stores and groceries.

It was three-thirty when he returned to the hotel. This time the receptionist was a man his own age who told him in excellent English that madame had called fifteen minutes ago and was on her way to the hotel. He decided to wait for her in the lobby, by a column next to the elevator that was festooned with old maps and swords, from where he saw her rush in anxiously, followed by a cab driver carrying two suitcases. His first reaction—for he had expected her to be dressed differently—was surprise at seeing her in her familiar clothes, over which she wore her short leopard-skin coat. The receptionist, to whom she spoke in fluent German, seemed to know her well; perhaps she brings all her lovers here, thought Molkho, deciding she was definitely a complicated woman whom three years of widowhood had not simplified. With whom, he wondered, had she left her daughter? Though the receptionist was pointing in Molkho's direction, the legal adviser was still too busy filling out forms to look up; finally, just as someone in an apron appeared from a side door, bowed, and took her luggage, she finished the last of them and glanced around. For a moment he thought of getting even by hiding behind the column; but she knew he was there, and so, with a dancerlike grace, he stepped forward, putting on his best, warmest smile and gently embracing her in the gloomy light of the short winter afternoon. The soft fur of her coat made him think of a cold dog.

She was heavily made up and had on a new perfume. “I just couldn't get away from the conference,” she apologized. “I was elected to chair a committee and had no choice.” For the last two hours she had been on pins and needles; twice she had called the hotel to leave a message. Yes, he had received it, Molkho reassured her, but anyhow, it didn't matter; the main thing now was for her to rest and be ready for the evening. “Rest?” she protested. Her luggage was already in her room, and she was all set to go out; perhaps she would come back to change before the opera, but she would take the tickets with her just in case. “You mean you'll go as you are?” he asked in astonishment. “Of course,” she replied, “why not?” The opera in Berlin wasn't formal. People came for the music, not to show off; he would see as much for himself.

There was an easy matter-of-factness about her. One could certainly learn to like her, thought Molkho, one could even learn to live with her wrinkles. “Who is your daughter staying with?” he asked. But the girl, it seemed, was independent and had preferred to stay by herself. “She even does her own cooking,” said her mother, “and it's not the first time I've left her alone like this either, although she does have an uncle two blocks away.” Even if she did, replied Molkho, he was impressed by such maturity.

Once they were out in the street, she began telling him about Berlin, in which she had been before. Tomorrow, of course, they would tour the city; she already had it all planned. She was looking forward to it herself, having been cooped up at the conference for three whole days, and indeed, Molkho saw, she was window-shopping avidly, stopping every few steps to look at some new display. Once again, he felt a pang: his wife's last dresses had been made at home by a seamstress and he hadn't looked with a woman at a shop window for over a year. And this particular woman, with her waistline that was too low and her body that seemed rather hastily thrown together, was not even as attractive as his wife. Still, did she not have her redeeming features—a certain intellectual animation, indeed an almost feverish intensity? And she was certainly high up on the bureaucratic ladder, he thought, listening to her tell him about the conference. Was her car paid for by the office or was she not as senior as all that? He made a mental note to ask her, inquiring in the meantime about the Berlin Wall. “Would you like to see it?” she asked, stopping to look at him. “Come, I'll show it to you now.” And turning to the right, she led him into a broad, empty thoroughfare.

A frigid wind lashed at them, laced with driving rain. “It's damn cold,” said Molkho. “We're almost there,” she assured him, though the wall was nowhere in sight. On the contrary, though they had entered a rather desolate area, in front of them, like a purplish gash on the horizon, were nothing but factory chimneys. And yet when he suggested asking directions, she told him she knew the way. “It can't be far,” she said, “the wall rims everywhere,” and they plodded on block after block, the rain whipping them crosswise, Molkho, loath to be thought finicky about getting wet, saying nothing more. At last, however, she stopped to ask two passersby, who pointed in the opposite direction, and after challenging them briefly, she confessed, “I'm afraid I lost my way.” Suddenly he pitied her. After all, she had meant well, had wanted to make him a gift of the wall. And so, gripping her lightly by the elbow, he said, “Never mind,” and put his arm around her, the sidewalk being quite slippery. At once, as if she had been waiting for that, she leaned her weight against him. What an old squirrel she is, he thought, amused by his own image, for he had hardly seen a squirrel in his life. Thus, he told himself, steering her by the shoulder, the grand betrayal begins.

And perhaps his wife wasn't born here after all, but rather in East Berlin, though of course it was a single city then. The rain was falling harder now, sleety and sharp, and they took shelter from it in a clothing store, where he could finally release the legal adviser from his grip. It was a large, nearly empty establishment, on whose listless young salesgirls their entrance made no visible impression. Aimlessly they walked past rows of pants and jackets and shelves of sweaters and knitwear, all equally sexless, until they reached a large straw basket full of hats and began to rummage through it. He watched her try on hat after hat, each pert toss of her head in the mirror a drop of refreshment on his parched heart. One, a red woolen one, was particularly becoming. “Why not buy it?” he urged, helping her translate the price from marks into shekels while thinking so hard of his wife and her lost breasts that the tears came to his eyes, for here, snugly out of the rain with him before stepping out to the opera, another woman was by his side. Though he would gladly have bought her the hat himself, especially as it was cheap, he feared this being taken for a promise he would not be able to keep. We'll see, he thought; if all goes well, I'll buy her something tomorrow—and anyhow, I'm treating for dinner. Meanwhile, having moved on from the hat basket, she was now browsing in the pants department. Something was pressing on Molkho's bladder. “Just a minute, I'll be right back,” he said, remembering how he had gone to the bathroom that night in her house. Now she was sure to think he had some disease! Well, let her, he thought; it will cool her off a bit. But if he ever really were sick, who would take care of him?

While the store was modern enough, the bathroom appeared to date from a different era: its large copper faucets were tarnished with verdigris, its toilet seats were high, narrow, and stern, its rough bars of gray soap smelled of antiseptic, and an icy draft blew through it. Urinating quickly, he returned to find the legal adviser trying on a pair of sleek black pants. Now he had a better view of her waistline and rear, which were indeed low and flabby-looking—unless it was just the cut of the pants, a new style from India. At last, without making a purchase, she promised the salesgirl she would return, though no one particularly seemed to care whether she did or not.

They walked on through the gathering dusk. It was time to eat, and after considering a few spots, they picked a modest restaurant, where they sat in a cozy corner apart from everyone, as if in a bubble all their own. He was glad their first date was not taking place in Haifa, where someone was sure to have recognized them. She ordered quickly, and her choices, he noticed, were not particularly expensive. Though she was eager to tell him about the conference, he preferred to turn the talk to her late husband, refusing to change the subject, despite the reluctance with which she answered his questions. “Very suddenly,” she said when asked how he had died. He never complained of a thing. One minute he was washing dishes in the kitchen and the next he was dead on the floor. “At first we thought it was just some pot that had fallen.” “Did he like puttering in the kitchen?” Molkho asked. “No,” she said, “not especially. He just happened to be there when it happened. And his death left a terrible vacuum.” For a whole year afterward, she hardly slept a wink, so shocked had she been. Perhaps he, who had had so much time to prepare himself, found that difficult to imagine. Yes, he had been ready for Death, admitted Molkho, struck by how, though she was doing most of the talking, her plate was empty before his. Though her table manners were impeccable, she ate much faster than he did.