Open Heart (23 page)

But the smiling middle-aged woman refused to sink, and blended instead with the familiar furniture and curtains of the room to which I had been brought at the age of two, when my parents moved to Jerusalem from Tel Aviv because of my father’s
government
job. And so I escaped into sleep, careful not to leave traces of my lust on the spotless sheets provided by my mother, who marveled together with my father at my sudden craving for sleep. They had grown accustomed to seeing me as a serious student who burned the midnight oil, a hard worker who got up early in the morning, and more recently as a doctor on call, capable of going without sleep for twenty-four hours at a stretch. “You’re taking us back to your days in boot camp,” said my mother with a slightly worried air when I entered the dim old kitchen at
twiligh
t
after sleeping the whole afternoon, feeling a pang of intense longing for the bright colors of the Indian temples. “It’s the
soporific
effect of the snow,” explained my father, in English, and he got up to give me my old place at the table, which he had taken for himself when I left home. “Yes, yes, you sit in your place,” he insisted when I tried to refuse, at the same time checking on my mother as she poured my tea and set it before me with a slice of crumb cake, on which I immediately spread a layer of jam to take away the dry, slightly moldy taste, which had depressed me even as a child.

“While you were asleep, your father went to town and had the photographs you took in India developed,” my mother said with a slightly embarrassed air as she handed me two envelopes crammed with pictures. “My photographs?” I turned to my
father
almost with a yell, refusing to believe that this quiet,
aristocratic
man had stolen into my room on his own initiative and taken the two rolls of film lying next to my bed while I was sleeping. In fact, it turned out that the initiative was my mother’s—she had gone into my room to check if I was warm enough, noticed the two rolls of film, and sent my father to have them developed in the center of town. She must have wanted to find out more about the trip to India, since I was too busy
sleeping
and too preoccupied with my thoughts to tell her. I suppose she can sense that something happened to me over there, I
thought, hanging my head and avoiding her eyes, but even her native intelligence would never dare to imagine what had really happened. “Don’t you want to see how your pictures came out?” she wondered, as I went on gripping the two envelopes tightly in my hand. “But they’re not all mine,” I explained quickly. “Some of them are the Lazars’, I lent them the camera when they went on a trip to the Taj Mahal.” My parents were astounded to hear that the Lazars had gone off together and left me by myself with their sick daughter, and even after I told them that it had been my idea to send them to see the Taj Mahal, they went on
criticizing
the Lazars for accepting my offer, though they were proud of my generosity. “Well, why don’t you show them to us already, and tell us all about them,” said my mother as she stretched out an eager hand for the envelopes. “Of course,” I said, “but I thought you’d already looked at them.” And a little panic took hold of me at the thought of confronting her image here, in my parent’s sad kitchen, and I stood up at once and put my cup and plate in the sink and went to the bathroom to wash my face and brush my teeth again, and when I returned the kitchen was flooded with light and the table was covered with colored
pictures
glowing with India’s reddish brown light, and already from a distance I saw her figure, which had miraculously managed to insert itself in more pictures than I would have imagined
possible
, and not only those taken by Lazar at the Taj Mahal. Was it her innate serenity and automatic smile that enabled her, in spite of her abundant plumpness, to look so natural and photogenic in every picture, even when she was surrounded by Indians in rags or sitting on a rickety bench in the twilight next to the Thai monastery in Bodhgaya? My father passed one picture after
another
before his eyes and requested detailed explanations, but my mother fell silent, and a new pallor covered her cheeks. “She certainly likes having her picture taken,” she said at last, and there was a note of complaint in her voice. “Who?” I asked innocently. “Lazar’s wife—or what do you call her?” My mother kept her head lowered, as if she were afraid of meeting my eyes. “It’s her husband, it’s Lazar. I lent him my camera,” I said in self-justification, my voice muffled by the wave of excitement that surged up in me again at the sight of the woman strewn in bright glossy squares all over our gray kitchen table.

That evening the snowstorm intensified, but I went anyway to
visit Eyal, a childhood friend who had studied medicine with me, and who was on call tonight in Hadassah Hospital, where he was doing his residency in pediatrics, after having been turned down by the surgical department. We sat in a little room with pictures of children stuck up on the walls, surrounded by the racket of sick children running up and down the corridor pursued by their harassed parents. We drank tepid tea from plastic cups and as usual compared conditions in our respective hospitals before
discussing
anything else. Then he asked me about my trip to India, of which he had already heard about from my mother, and at the sight of his friendly eyes fixed on mine, I felt an impulse to tell him immediately about the most important thing that had
happened
to me on the trip. I thought that Eyal, who had been living with his widowed mother for the past few years, would
understand
better than most people. But at the last moment I stopped myself. I had plenty of time; this wasn’t the right moment. And I began telling him about the medical aspects of the trip. He was very impressed by the night flight to Calcutta with the blood and urine samples, but seemed doubtful about the blood transfusion I had performed in Varanasi. “I hope that in your enthusiasm you didn’t infect the mother with the daughter’s virus,” he said with a smile. “Nonsense,” I replied, “how could I have infected her? I was careful to place her higher than the patient too.”

“That doesn’t make much difference,” he said knowingly, “but there’s no use crying over spilled milk. The main thing is for you not to lose touch with this Lazar—and don’t take any money from him, so he’ll remain in your debt and maybe he’ll influence Hishin to let you have another year in his department.” While Eyal was showering me with practical advice, he was urgently summoned to the emergency room to examine a young boy who had tried to kill himself. It was late, but I was curious to see how they would manage the case. The patient was about thirteen, tall for his age, jerking violently under the hands of the nurses
brutally
pumping his stomach. Since I was wearing civilian clothes, they took me for his brother or some other relative and kept ordering me out of the little treatment cubicle. In the end I
decided
to leave in spite of my curiosity. Eyal, who had thought that I was going to spend the night keeping him company,
suggested
that I postpone my return to Tel Aviv and come to lunch at his house the next day. I hesitated. The commotion of the
Hadassah emergency room made me homesick for my own
hospital
. But Eyal began urging me through the curtain separating us, holding on firmly to the arm of the boy, who had already begun spewing out the sleeping pills through the thick tube which had been inserted into his stomach. “Come on, you have to come—I’ve got an amazing story for you.”

“What story?” I asked suspiciously, unwilling to commit
myself
. “You won’t believe it, but I’m getting married,” he
announced
loudly and shamelessly to the frightened, unhappy
people
filling the emergency room.

The road from Ein Kerem back to town was very clear now; the crowns of snow on the branches of the trees and the rocks at the roadside lent a new magic to the night, and I was cheered by the thought that after lunch tomorrow, in exchange for the story of the wedding, I might gather the courage to tell Eyal about my own unexpected falling in love. Why not? If not Eyal, who would be able to understand me? My mother was waiting up for me, sitting in the dark in the living room in her old woolen robe. “It’s because of the snow, only because of the snow on the roads,” she apologized, and immediately got up to make us a cup of tea. “I already had tea with Eyal in the hospital,” I announced, and made for my room, refusing to linger and risk a nocturnal
interrogation
. And as she retired, disappointed, to her bedroom, I caught a glimpse through the door of my parents’ beds standing in an L-shape under the two moonlit windows. “You won’t
believe
it, Mother,” I blurted out in a whisper, “Eyal’s getting
married
.”

“Why shouldn’t I believe it?” she cried. “It’s high time. For his friends too.” And my father poked his head out of the blankets and chuckled. “You’re opening a battlefront in the middle of the night.” But my mother had already calmed down, and she only asked curiously about the bride. “I didn’t have a chance to hear,” I said, “but tomorrow I’m going there for lunch, and maybe I’ll even see her.”

“So you’re staying tomorrow too,” said my mother with a certain relief. Even if I wasn’t getting married, at least I was staying with them for one more day.

When we were both students at the hospital, I often ate at Eyal’s place, because we preferred studying in his house, which was big and quiet. His mother, who lived alone, didn’t like being
by herself in the house at night, and she would cook up tasty meals to ensure that we always studied there. She was a sad woman, with some of her former beauty left, and she liked
talking
to me in English, since she was hoping to find work in the tourist bureau. From time to time she received visits from
middle
-aged men, but she refused to become involved with any of them. Now the two of them sat looking politely at the photographs of my trip. “A pretty girl, but obviously neurotic,” Eyal said, dismissing Einat. “I doubt if she’s worth investing in.” He went on to study Lazar’s broad face with evident enjoyment. “It’s obvious,” he pronounced, “that he’s a strong man, but also friendly and humane. If you’ve already become close to him and his family, it would be a shame to lose that.”

“His wife’s very nice too,” I said suddenly, and felt myself blushing. Eyal examined the snapshots again. “Yes, she’s always smiling,” he agreed. “You can see at once that she’s pleased with herself.” I was so delighted by these perceptive words that I wanted to go on talking about her. But his sad mother, who had grown very fat lately, didn’t want to leave us alone together. “Are you glad that Eyal’s getting married?” I asked her carefully. “She’s overjoyed,” Eyal answered for her. His mother said
nothing
, and after a pause she asked if we were ready for lunch. Eyal suggested that we wait for his girlfriend, who was due to arrive soon.

But his mother said the food would get cold, and in a surly tone, which I had never heard her use before, she demanded that we eat right away. And then, when we sat down opposite each other at the elegantly laid table and she disappeared into the kitchen, I lowered my eyes and said with a miserable smile, “You’re suddenly getting married, and I, I don’t know what’s happening to me, but I’ve suddenly fallen in love with a married woman.”

“A married woman?” Eyal’s little eyes filled with a sly smile, which showed that my frank statement hadn’t taken him by
surprise
. “Yes, a married woman.” I nodded my head sadly. “Don’t tell me that you’re talking about the director’s wife,” Eyal said, looking at me with a pitying smile. “Lazar’s wife?” I laughed in astonishment. “What an idea!” And I immediately went on, “Can you really see me falling in love with a woman twenty years older than me?” But Eyal did not seem put out by my
indignant protests. He shrugged his shoulders and went on
smiling
. “I didn’t mean anything—it doesn’t matter. It’s just that I saw you couldn’t stop taking pictures of her, and besides, she really does look nice. But it doesn’t matter. If not her, then who have you fallen in love with? And what’s more important, who’s she married to?” But at this point his mother returned and set two bowls of soup carefully before us, after which she sat down beside us and placed her beautiful white hands on the table. “Aren’t you eating with us?” I asked her sympathetically. “No,” she said hesitantly, “I’m not hungry,” and her face, which was turned to her son, grew very red. Eyal reached out, laid his hand gently on her shoulder, and said affectionately, “Yes, Mother has to watch her weight.”

Toward the end of the meal, when the bride-to-be, Hadas—a vivacious, good-natured girl, with a fresh, wholesome look about her—arrived and shook the snowflakes gracefully off her hair, Eyal’s mother retired at last to her room and left us alone. I made up my mind not to say any more to Eyal, who immediately began questioning me again about the “married woman,” who had
apparently
sparked his imagination. Hadas, who radiated goodwill toward me, was surprisingly well informed about my trip to
India
. It turned out that the shaven-headed girl, Michaela, who had brought the news of the hepatitis to the Lazars and whom I had taken at first for a boy, was from the same kibbutz as Hadas. I stood up suddenly, though I had planned to leave, as if thrown off balance by the excitement caused by the discovery of this unexpected coincidence. I wondered whether I should go to Eyal’s mother’s room to say good-bye and thank her for her hospitality or leave her to rest. Eyal, maybe eager for me to leave, stood up and said, “So, Benjy, don’t say it’s too far for you to come to Ein Zohar for our wedding.”

“Have you already set a date?”

“Of course,” they chorused, and they told me the exact date and made sure that I wrote it down in my calendar, and that no night shift in the world would prevent me from being there. Then Eyal insisted that I go in and say good-bye to his mother, who was so fond of me; why not give her a little pleasure? I followed him cautiously into the large, dim room, where we had played when we were children and where she was lying, large and very white, covered only by a sheet, which revealed how much weight
she had put on in the past year. “Benjy wants to say good-bye to you,” whispered Eyal, gently waking her up. “Yes, I wanted to say good-bye to you,” I said, “and also to thank you for the meal, which was even more delicious than usual.” But she didn’t smile at me, she only nodded her head and said, “Give my
regards
to your parents, and don’t forget to come to Eyal’s
wedding
. It’s important for you to be there, not only for our sakes but also for yours.”