Jephte's Daughter (39 page)

He got off the bus in the center of Jerusalem’s shopping district and walked along the Ben Yehudah pedestrian mall. And because he had often enjoyed sitting in an outdoor café watching the people go by, he walked into the Café Atara and sat down, ordering an Israeli breakfast.

He watched the people passing by, listening to the humming, friendly sound of their combined voices. After all those thousands of years, this is what is left, he thought, with strange pride. This incredibly young, vital people. He felt the hope, the bounce in their footsteps, as they passed him, going off to jobs, to look at pretty dresses. And all those children. The city rocked with them, teemed with them. Wherever you looked there were young children, babies, and pregnant women. This chapter, following the others, seemed the most incredible of all. How is it they survive, he asked himself. Where does this endless strength, this tenacity, come from?

He took his elbows off the table and leaned back as the waitress bent over him, placing steaming coffee and fresh rolls and butter in front of him. And as she did this, a glitter caught his eye. He reached out impulsively, catching her gold necklace in his hand.

“Please, sir!” The girl backed away and he saw that he had offended her and she had misread his intentions in the obvious way. But all that did not matter now, he told himself. He felt himself on the edge of some tremendous discovery that would change his entire life. “Where, what…where did you get that?” he asked her, first in English, and then, when he saw she did not understand, in impatient Hebrew: “May ayfo zeh?” He stood up. He simply could not sit another minute, not another second.

She backed away still farther. But he saw something had calmed her. Tourists were allowed their crazinesses, he supposed.

“I received it…eh, how you say?” she bit her lower lip in concentration, “got it, yes, in the store.” She pointed down the street.

Like the air that rushes into a balloon and then rushes out again at the tiniest hole, his euphoria now left him. She had bought it at a jewelry store, a tourist trap, this, which he had considered a rare and priceless heirloom. But how? Why? His excitement began to swell. This at least was a trail to follow.

He rushed with long, deliberate steps to the place she had pointed to and looked into the display case. He sucked in his breath. There, displayed like common souvenirs, were hundreds of them, the little golden charms in the shape of hands, exactly like the one that had been his mother’s most cherished heirloom. He took out his watch chain and held up the little golden hand that never left him—it was supposed to be a good-luck charm. But now, for the first time, he felt that it was the sign he had prayed for, the hand of fate finally pointing him in the inevitable direction his life was meant to go.

The hand, he learned from the
Encyclopedia Judaica
at the National and University Library, was an ancient Jewish amulet called a
hamsah
. Inscribed with a mysterious Kabbalistic combination of Hebrew letters defining God’s name, it was used by Jews in North Africa, Morocco, and Spain to ward off evil spirits. A Jewish amulet. He closed the book, and like a drunk who has emptied one bottle, went off desperately in search of his next. His hands shaking a little, his lungs almost afraid to breathe, he took down the volume C-Dh and looked up the name Cresas:

He blinked; then, holding perfectly still, he allowed his eyes to wander farther down the page to the entry subheaded “Modern Times.”

He walked out into the sunlight and felt its power illuminate every dark, secret place in his body and mind. It was so bright, so incredibly, frighteningly clear. It all made sense now. The constant searching, the dissatisfaction, the endless questions that, until this moment, had had no answers. If one believed in Jung’s collective unconscious, the inheritance of certain basic insights handed down as a fully furnished room from generations of unknown ancestors, then he had finally opened that secret chamber that held the deepest key to his needs as a human being. He thought of his mother—that dark, intelligent face, a face like no other woman’s he had ever met until Batsheva—why, they might have been relatives, he realized for the first time. He had despaired of finding someone to fill the dark pit in his soul his mother’s death had caused, and he had fled instead to the dark mothering presence of the Church. But the Church could not hold him, as it had not been able to hold his ancestors.

He wanted to shout in joy, but instead he walked blindly forward, his feet taking him where his mind still refused to go. He followed the noisy, commercial streets of the city northward, climbing, always climbing. He felt the change. A quiet came over the people, as the streets narrowed into old alleyways. He heard the riot of birds flying in enormous packs over the black, mysterious complex of the Abyssinian Church. On the opposite side of the street was a large, modern building filled with black-suited teenage boys with long
payot
. The boys were studying the Talmud, and as their voices drifted out into the streets, he followed the chanting like a hungry stranger follows the scent of fresh bread.

The streets of Meah Shearim, so narrow one cannot walk two abreast; so narrow and winding one might get lost quite easily and find one had come full circle and was back in the modern city once again. He did not want this to happen. He wanted to find his place there. He wanted to do something irrational. To dance; to laugh out loud; to run up and down the street; to kiss startled little babies in their carriages; to carry the heavy baskets of bearded old men; to hug the pretty, bashful, long-braided little girls like a father. A hot swelling, a flash of love, lit him up inside. My people, he thought.

Back home, surrounded by the solid comforts of the life she had built alone for herself, without the help of a father, or lover, or friend, there, in that place, Batsheva felt her feelings slowly return to her, the way a frostbitten arm or leg slowly and painfully returns from its numbness. The interview with David’s father had been short. Something about “the best thing for both of you…and he’s only thinking of you…he is worried they might take the child away from you if you married a Gentile…” all said in this very kind, very sincere, even choked-up way. Oh yes, so very kind they all were. Lord Hope, and David, and her father, and Isaac. All, so very, very kind, so very good. They thought only of her, of her happiness, wanting to spare her, to love her, to provide for her future…to teach her…She had listened to David’s father wordlessly, the color draining from her face and her eyes going lifeless. There had even been a lingering smile on her face—frozen there from the wonderful dream of just hours before. And she had heard nothing really, but that he had left her of his own free will, without saying goodbye, without facing her.

She had thrown herself into work, preparing a one-woman show for a famous gallery. She had been pleased with the prospect before, but now she became obsessed with it. To make it on her own, to show them all—the arrogant bunch of them!—who she was, and that she needed no one. A few times a day she would stop working and stand perfectly still as her body trembled with rage, thinking: How dare he? How dare he! Was she this object, this plaything, this eternal child over whose body decisions must be made in which she was never to have a say? Who the hell did they think they all were, she would think in a white fury of hatred and bitterness and despair that took her captive. No one, human or Divine, she told herself, would ever control her life again. Let me be damned then. Yes, if this is what being good and obedient has brought me! And she would feel a potent poison, an evil, leap up, licking her heart like a flame, and she would become afraid. But it was beyond her control. She was in the grip of something so terrible she did not even understand its danger. The faith that she had taken for granted all her years, that she was born with as some children are born with a silver spoon waiting in a gift-wrapped package, had never yet been subject to such a test. A struggle began in her soul and she did not understand that it would be a fight to the death. She could not lose it and remain who she was. She would be reborn, a different person completely: hard, clear-eyed, needing comfort and direction from no one, trusting no one. This was what she felt she wanted now. To be totally separate and alone, to do exactly as she pleased without regard for anyone else; to use, instead of being used, for a change. And why not, she told herself, her eyes hard with a kind of animal glitter. And why the hell not?

So she worked hard at her photography, going out early and coming home late. She hired babysitters for Akiva and spent very little time with him. She did not want to feel the kind of softness he evoked in her. She needed to be hard now, to be totally ruthless, she told herself. Wherever she looked, she could find only ugliness and hatred, hypocrisy and violence, things she had seen before occasionally, but now saw exclusively, inescapable images that surrounded her like prison walls. They were good pictures technically, excellent really, like Diane Arbus photos: the cunning pleasure and horror in the faces of slum children bashing each other’s faces in; the lascivious, belligerent face of an old drunk sitting on a park bench. They were fascinating in the darkest, ugliest way—like newspaper reports on child murders.

She studied the pictures she had taken and felt confusion and a nameless fright. But what can I do about it, she asked herself stubbornly. This is what the world is. I am not responsible. What I did before was a sugar-coated lie, she told herself. Only now do I see the truth. The gallery owners felt puzzled and uneasy when they saw the pictures, but agreed they were excellent. They would include them if she promised to bring her earlier works as well. Well, I don’t care, as long as I get paid, she told herself. What did it mean to her? Only paper and chemicals.

She couldn’t stand to be near Elizabeth and Ian. All that happiness, that joy, she thought with dark cynicism. I know what marriage is, and so will they. Just bending and bending; even the best of men, that’s all they want, for you to be beneath them in all ways. All the rest is a lie. Someone to mold like putty, she told herself. Then why did David leave you? You were ready to give in, to be molded by him. But she would not listen to that kind of question; she smothered it, ignored it, made believe she hadn’t heard.

“You look absolutely…stunning,” Elizabeth said, looking her over. It was true, but there was something else there, too, that made Elizabeth uneasy. She had expected depression, sadness, after that disastrous weekend. But this was much worse. She kept trying to connect through the old lines of friendship and kept finding them cut off. The black-silk dress Batsheva wore was very low-cut in the front and back, not her style at all. It made her body look polished, like a young racehorse, but rather hard, too, as if she were mocking her own soft beauty. She gleamed with a svelte, cold loveliness one often saw in beautiful young women married to rich, dull men.

“Thank you,” Batsheva answered her vaguely, shifting her eyes, not wanting to make contact with Elizabeth’s. She couldn’t look anyone in the eyes. And there, in the glittering, crowded room, full of acquaintances and strangers, she did not have to. She stood over to one side, drinking a tall, cool glass of vodka and orange juice, and she felt herself grow calmer and colder. She watched with only the most cursory interest the way people stood before her pictures. A year ago, she would have been beside herself with excitement, every nerve quivering with expectation, alert to the slightest positive or negative reaction in the eyes and faces of the people facing her work for the first time. But now she felt oddly removed, contemptuous—of the people and of her work. Yet, still, she felt the inescapable horror of the artist, his utter vulnerability in having his inner vision, almost his soul, hung up for the first time before so many critical eyes. Despite her detachment and the alcohol coursing through her veins, it made her suffer. She was totally helpless. It was as if she were splayed up there, naked, and everyone was free to examine the most intimate details of her being.

Most people crowded around the pictures of Jerusalem. But she couldn’t bear to look at them. It was as if she were watching people look at her own dead body lying unconscious and helpless at a wake. She did not want to know what they thought of those pictures; she simply couldn’t bear it. It wasn’t her anymore. The girl who had taken those pictures had died. I just don’t want to remember her, the little fool, the helpless child, letting everyone step all over her. She wandered over to the corner where the new pictures were displayed. She saw discomfort and cynical fascination in the eyes of the viewers, an interest that was almost obscene. And suddenly she felt someone take her arm and whisper low.

“I don’t believe it. Batsheva?”

She turned and found herself face-to-face with Graham MacLeish. She smiled at him before she remembered who he was, and then her smile faded. The past.

“What…?” he began.

She lifted the drink to her lips and took a long sip. “How are you?” she said lightly, as the hot alcohol sent up a new supply of courage and indifference. “You look well.”

His blond head, gray now at the temples, gleamed with a slick shine. His hair was perfectly cut and parted, with just a slight curl over the broad, handsome neck. His body, aging now, looked well cared for.

“My God! What is going on? We thought you were…?”

“Plainly not. Come back to life.” She was growing incoherent. How much vodka was in that drink, she wondered with mild interest, taking another sip.

“Hello, Graham,” Elizabeth called out to him. The two gave each other long, appraising looks. Hers said: You look old and wasted. His said: You look beautiful and happy, unfortunately.

“All that about Batsheva was just a mistake, as you can see,” Elizabeth spoke quickly. “She is living here now.”

Graham was looking at her arm linked through Ian’s with a malicious kind of envy.

“Oh yes. My fiancé, Ian Hope.”

“Ah yes, the young poet of renown who has set London on its ear,” Graham said in his jeering voice.

Elizabeth’s jaw twitched in anger. “Ian, this is Graham MacLeish, an old friend.” She emphasized the
old
. “Graham used to be a critic.”

“Ah, my dear, still am, still am. Don’t write me off so quickly yet.” His eyes glittered with malevolence as her words cut into him. He turned to Batsheva and by some clever trick of manipulation, made his face look smooth and youthful. “You know, my dear, the last time we met there were so many obstacles in our way. But now we are both free. I’d like to show you the town.”

“Batsheva’s already seen the town, Graham, thank you,” Elizabeth broke in, putting her arm protectively through Batsheva’s. “Are you really free, Graham? My, my, coeds getting picky these days?”

Batsheva looked at Elizabeth carefully, surprised at the bitchy tone. She was obviously trying to get Graham away from her. Was she jealous? Was she being protective? She looked at Graham and saw something ungenerous and painful shine dully out of his tired eyes. She looked at her friend and saw alarm and—something else—desire? Hatred? But she didn’t probe it too closely, because she had already decided. He was just what she needed now. She smiled at him, took her arm out of Elizabeth’s, and slipped it through his. “Why don’t you wait for me after the show, and drive me home,” she told him.

“Batsheva,” Elizabeth whispered loudly, trying to tug her away, “may I speak to you privately?”

Batsheva shook her arm free. “You know, that’s the problem with everyone. They’re all so bloody considerate, full of such love for me. Leave me alone, Liz! I’m a big girl now.” Her eyes were dull and hard. Elizabeth stared at her speechlessly.

The rest of the evening, Graham stayed by her side like a dark shadow. People would come over to him, recognizing the face that had once been a familiar constant in the
Times Literary Supplement
, and Batsheva would hear the witty, meaningless repartee, so devoid of any real feeling, and smile inside. That was what she wanted, exactly that. Just a useful, surface relationship with people. Inside, she would be hard and hidden so that no one would be able to touch her again, hurt her so badly again. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Elizabeth and Ian hovering nearby, watching her, like two worried mother hens. But they could not do anything to interfere, she saw with bitter satisfaction. No, they would not interfere, but stand by and watch as what must happen, happened.

More people poured through the gallery doors, until the room was packed, until it hummed with the loud, insistent hum that voices take on when people want to be heard above a crowd. People crowded around her, introducing themselves and moving cigarettes and drinks out of their hands to shake hers. Some of the faces looked genuinely impressed, genuinely glad to meet her. They glowed with respect and recognition. She was afraid to meet those kind of faces. I don’t deserve your respect, she thought. But then there were other faces, full of self-serving friendliness and feigned interest: faces that wanted something from her, that felt she was worth cultivating for her beauty, her talent, her connections. They all looked a little like Graham, she thought; those big, plastic smiles and the lifeless, grim eyes. She could fend for herself among them, she thought, feeling the way a brave but foolish and untested young animal might feel surrounded by predators. But something of the ugly, self-serving hypocrisy around her filled her with an instinctive revulsion that seemed to cut off her supply of air.

She slipped out of the door before anyone could see her and walked through the dark streets of London. She walked quickly, wanting to feel her pulse throb, her aching heart beat faster and faster. She looked into well-lit windows and heard laughter, the sound of children crying, of families—the ordinary flow of life, and it tore at her insides. She felt so alone, so tired, in the foreign city. Homesickness washed over her with its relentless, shivering coldness, homesickness for the white city with its gentle hills. She looked up into the sky. Could those be the same stars, the same moon? Like God, they followed you everywhere. She clenched her fists and raised her eyes to their brightness, patches torn out of a black curtain revealing the brilliant light beneath.

God, she prayed. Why am I here? Why am I on this earth, dreaming this earthly dream? What does it all mean—our goodness and our evil, our trials and our failures? She felt so small, a bit of dust in the dark, meaningless universe. How must God see her? A tiny speck in His vast creation? Yet, why did she never, even in her darkest moments, ever stop feeling that He cared? Perhaps we are born with a piece of God within us; that is how He knows our thoughts, our hidden desires, our petty evils. Perhaps that is what the soul is. And if we are all Godly vessels, how we have debased Him with our terrible ideals, our awful failings. Why does He allow it? Allow Himself to be attached to our humanness, our weak, unworthy, sordid lives? Perhaps, she thought, Rabbi Silverman was right after all. Perhaps there is something so powerful and stunning in the choice, the purely human choice of good over evil, that only one such choice in a million is worth all the evil that went before. Like the birth of a star, it lights up the universe so powerfully, it leaves a trail of light that can be seen millions of light years away.

When she got back to the gallery, it had already emptied out. The owners were very pleased—the sales had been excellent. She saw Elizabeth and Ian hadn’t given up and were waiting patiently for her. Graham walked over to her and took her arm securely. She disengaged herself and walked around the room, looking at the photographs for the first time that evening. She was afraid, the way one is sometimes afraid to look into a mirror. But they were good, not perfect, not nearly as good as she felt they ought to be, but certainly a little worthwhile, she allowed herself. Almost against her will, she stood before her favorite, one of the pictures she had taken that afternoon so long ago on a Jerusalem hilltop, and closed her eyes. All the feelings of love and closeness to something ineffably sacred and beautiful came flooding over her, and the dam she had constructed with such bitter finality washed away, and she felt the dark flame inside her extinguish in the baptism.