Open Heart (5 page)

When I left the hospital, I looked up at the sky to see what to expect on the way to Jerusalem and whether I should take my Honda. How had I got mixed up in this crazy journey? Suddenly I wanted to hurry home to my parents, so that they could cosset me with warmth and concern and help me to get ready for the trip, which I now felt approaching at a gallop. At my small apartment I quickly washed the dishes in the sink, made the bed, and packed clothes, underwear, socks, and toiletries in a sturdy old suitcase. I disconnected the electricity, shut the water, and phoned my landlady to tell her I was going abroad. Then I tied the suitcase and the knapsack onto the pillion of the Honda and drove to the Lazars’ apartment to arrange for our meeting at the airport and to get my ticket, as well as the dollars that had been withdrawn from the bank in my name but had been pocketed by Mrs. Lazar’s little clerk. In the spacious apartment, now glowing with the rosy light of sunset, the preparations for the journey were evident: a suitcase lay next to the door, and by its side was an open bag. “Here you are at last,” cried Lazar from the living room. “We’ve been asking ourselves where you disappeared to!”

“I disappeared?” I asked, insulted. “In what sense did I
disappear
?”

“Never mind, never mind,” said his wife, emerging
immediately
from the living room in a velvet jump suit. I could already see that she had an overpowering desire to be present everywhere, and she looked different to me, maybe younger but also uglier, short and thick, her hair a little rumpled, her face pale, and the radiant smile in her eyes faded behind the lenses of her glasses. “Don’t pay any attention,” she said. “Lazar’s always
worrying, he thrives on worry, you’ll have to get used to it, but come in Dr….” She paused then, uncertain of how to address me. “Call me Benjamin, or Benjy, if you like.”

“May we really call you that? Benjy? Good. Then come in and sit down. We’ve got Michaela here, Einat’s friend who brought us the letter. Come and hear what she has to say about Gaya and the hospital there.” But I declined the invitation. “Sorry,” I said. “It’s late and I’m in a hurry to get to Jerusalem to say good-bye to my parents and organize my packing.”

“And will you sleep there tonight?” asked Lazar in a
disappointed
tone. “What a pity. We thought of asking you to sleep here, so that we could all go straight to the airport early tomorrow morning.”

“Don’t worry,” I said, “my parents will get me there in time.” But Lazar was evidently unable to stop worrying, and he
immediately
ran to fetch a pencil and paper to write down my address and phone number in Jerusalem, while his wife—I was still
asking
myself whether she was coming on the trip or not—urged me again to come into the living room. “My mother’s here with us, and she’s eager to meet you.”

“Your mother?” I said in confusion. “All right, just for a
minute
,” and I entered the living room, where I stood amazed at the view of the roofs of Tel Aviv spreading out in every direction before me. When I was here the night before, the curtains had been drawn and I hadn’t guessed what a commanding position the penthouse occupied. On the sofa sat a frail old woman in a dark wool suit, and next to her a boy dressed for some reason in a white cotton dress. But when I went closer I saw that it was a sunburned young woman whose shaven head threw her big light eyes powerfully into relief. “Mother,” said Lazar’s wife in a slightly raised voice, “this is Dr. Rubin, the doctor who’s
volunteered
to accompany us to India. You wanted to meet him.” The old lady immediately held out her hand to me and nodded, and a very faint echo of her daughter’s automatic radiant smile
flickered
for a moment in her eyes. Now I could no longer restrain myself. The possibility of Mrs. Lazar joining us began preying on my mind more disturbingly than ever, and while I inclined my head toward the young woman with the shaven head, who
discreetly
made room for me at her side, I turned to Lazar’s wife with uncontrollable annoyance and said, “Excuse me, I don’t
understand. Are you coming with us?” But Lazar cut in before she could reply. “It hasn’t been settled yet; we’ll decide tonight. But why do you ask?”

“I just wanted to know,” I mumbled, looking at his wife, who was no longer smiling at all, although her head turned with an almost imperceptible, slightly threatening movement in her
husband’s
direction. And then, against my will, I sat down in the place vacated for me by the shaven-headed woman, who gazed at me curiously, as if to take my measure with one look. With the sofa cushions around me still fragrant with warmth, I reached out to take the cup of tea that the grandmother had poured, and through the big window I watched the great, silent fan of an approaching rainstorm spreading over the horizon of the sea. It was then I felt a certain annoyance and anger. I had to get going; my mother and father were waiting for me. What was I doing sitting there like a member of the family? As if I wouldn’t be seeing more than enough of them for the next couple of weeks, whether I liked it or not. I stood up quickly, without tasting the tea, without even saying a word to the slight young woman, whose ostentatious Indianness made me anxious, but also newly eager for the journey. “Did you have a chance to get the two vaccinations for the visa?” I remembered to ask my host on the way to the door. “What vaccinations?” asked the astonished Lazar, who was sure that he had everything connected with the journey under control. It turned out that his wife had forgotten to tell him. “How could you have forgotten?” he cried in despair. “Where are we going to find someone to vaccinate us in Rome?” But when he heard that I had brought the vaccines and sterile syringes with me, as well as two stamped vaccination certificates, and that I had them all in my pocket, he recovered immediately. “You’re the best,” he said, and gave me a hug. “You’re the best; now I understand why Hishin was so determined to have you.” He demanded to be vaccinated on the spot and led me to their bedroom, which was also elegant and spacious. There he removed his shirt, exposing his hairy arms and heavy back, closed his eyes, and made a face in anticipation of the prick of the needle. Outside the big window next to the double bed, on which lay a large suitcase surrounded by scattered items of clothing, the sheet of rain sailed slowly eastward in the glow of the setting sun. “Don’t make such a face,” laughed his wife, coming into the
room with cotton wool and alcohol while I filled the syringes, “it’s not an operation.” And she stood next to me, watching carefully. When I finished vaccinating her husband, he put on his shirt and prepared to accompany me to the door. “What about me?” she said in offended surprise. “Shouldn’t we wait and see what we decide tonight?” said her husband tenderly. “Why be in such a hurry to get shots you may not need?” She flushed deeply, her face darkened, and she turned to me sharply and demanded to be vaccinated too. First she tried to roll up her sleeve, but her arm was too thick and she couldn’t get the sleeve past the elbow. She went up to the door and half closed it, as if to hide herself, then slipped off the upper part of her jump suit and stood there in her bra, revealing very round breasts and heavy shoulders spattered here and there with large freckles, and smiling with charming shyness. I hurried to give her the shots, and she thanked me with a nod and pulled on the top of her jump suit. It was then I knew for sure that she was indeed coming to India with us, and my heart tightened. What had I let myself in for here? I said good-bye to her and went down to the street with Lazar, who had decided to transfer the medical kit to his car. The spreading rain now darkened the city and a fine mist sprayed the air. Lazar took the knapsack from me and examined the big motorcycle curiously. “Are you really going to ride that to
Jerusalem
in this rain?” he asked, with fatherly concern mingled with admiration. When I was sitting on the Honda, with my foot in position to start it, something stopped me. I couldn’t hold back any longer. “Excuse me,” I said, “I understand that your wife is coming with us.” Lazar moved his head in an unclear gesture. “But why?” I asked in a kind of quiet despair. “Two escorts are already more than enough, in my opinion. Why three?” Lazar smiled and said nothing. But I was determined to pursue the matter. Perhaps I would succeed in persuading him at the last minute to stop his wife from coming. “Is there some special reason that she has to be there—something I don’t know yet?” I asked. “No, nothing like that,” replied Lazar. “She just wants to come along.”

“But why?” I insisted, with a bitterness whose intensity I couldn’t understand myself. He looked straight at me, as if he were paying attention to me for the first time, trying to make up his mind if he could trust me, and then he spread out his hands
and smiled in embarrassment. “It’s just that she doesn’t like
being
separated from me, she doesn’t like being left alone.” And when he saw that I was still determined not to understand, he smiled at me again with a kind of sly satisfaction. “Yes, she’s a woman who’s incapable of staying by herself.”

Is
it
possible
to
bring
up
the
word
“Mystery”
yet?
Or
is
it
still
too
early
even
to
think
of
it?
For
none
of
the
characters
moving
at
this
wintry
dawn
hour
from
east
or
west
toward
the
airport
knows
how
thoughts
of
mystery
are
born,
let
alone
what
it
is
made
of,
and
how
it
flows.
Not
even
the
great
India
awaiting
them
can
stimulate
thoughts
of
mystery,
for
it
is
not
yet
a
differ
ent
dimension
of
being
in
their
eyes,
only
a
place
they
wish
to
reach
quickly
and
efficiently,
in
order
to
collect
a
sick
young
woman
and
bring
her
carefully
home.
And
that
sickly
yellow
ness
,
clouding
the
whites
of
her
eyes
and
surrounding
the
green
ish
irises,
flickering
between
the
gray
sheets
in
the
little
room
in
the
monastery
on
the
outskirts
of
Bodhgaya,
can
that
ignite
a
spark
of
mystery?
No,
certainly
not.
Because
in
the
imaginations
of
the
people
now
dragging
their
suitcases
through
the
departure
lounge,
that
sickly
yellowness
toward
which
they
are
directing
their
steps
holds
no
portent
of
mystery,
it
is
only
the
symptom
of
a
disease,
which
has
a
name
and
is
described
in
books
and
arti
cles
,
and
which,
according
to
Professor
Hishin,
is
self-limited,
even
if
the
return
journey
holds
a
turning
point,
where
it
will
hover
desperately
between
life
and
death.
But
even
in
that
terri
ble
crisis
there
is
no
mystery,
and
now
it
stands
still
in
the
time
and
place
appointed
for
it,
among
wicker
furniture
smeared
with
bright
purple
paint,
waiting
for
the
precise
moment
of
time,
which
always
arrives
with
an
astonishing
simplicity
and
natural
ness
.

In
other
words,
the
sense
of
mystery
is
still
as
quiescent
as
the
point
of
the
pencil
delicately
poised
on
the
white
sheet
of
paper
between
the
characters.
Or
the
travelers
and
their
escorts,
who
are
sleepy
and
somewhat
excited
in
the
departures
hall,
sending
tentative
signals
to
each
other
in
the
tired
smiles
of
resignation
with
which
they
answer
the
predictable
questions
of
the
girl
car
rying
out
the
security
check,
who
is
dressed
in
a
spotless
white
shirt
with
a
tag
fastened
to
its
pocket
with
a
safety
pin.
A
drama
student
in
the
evenings,
she
interrogates
them
one
after
the
other,
in
a
dry,
monotonous
voice,
about
the
contents
of
their
luggage.
But
their
detailed
replies
do
not
save
them,
in
the
end,
from
opening
their
suitcases
and
exposing
their
personal
belongings
to
each
other,
and
handing
over
the
big
medical
knapsack
too,
which
astonishes
one
and
all
with
the
wealth
and
variety
of
its
contents,
the
sheen
of
its
instruments,
until
it
seems
that
disaster
and
disease
will
be
sucked
into
it
willy-nilly.
And
the
morning
mists
that
pursued
the
young
doctor
and
his
parents
on
their
way
from
Jerusalem
filter
into
the
great
hall,
hovering
over
the
keys
of
the
computers
which
eject
the
boarding
passes,
and
the
white-
haired
parents
now
hand
over
their
only
son,
even
if
he
is
already
twenty-nine
years
old,
to
the
care
of
another
pair
of
parents,
total
strangers,
but
faithful
to
the
solidarity
of
parenthood
as
a
self-evident
human
value.
Perhaps
it
is
precisely
here,
in
this
act
of
handing
over,
that
the
mystery
originates.
But
if
so,
where
does
it
lead?

It
leads
nowhere,
for
that
is
its
nature.
It
has
no
direction,
for
the
goal
disappears
once
the
cause
has
been
forgotten.
And
in
the
tireless
turning
of
the
earth
the
ancient
mystery
suddenly
appears
among
us,
like
a
forgotten
relative
let
out
of
a
mental
institution
on
a
short
vacation,
despite
its
continuing
delusion
that
the
earth
is
eternally
still,
and
every
hour
is
sufficient
unto
itself,
and
noth
ing
in
the
universe
is
ever
lost;
and
after
it
comes
to
visit
us,
and
sits
among
us
pale
and
emaciated,
and
sets
forth
its
fantastic
views,
it
suddenly
stands
up,
careful
not
to
spill
the
tea
we
have
placed
before
it,
and
begins
wandering
like
a
sleepwalker
be
tween
our
bedrooms,
to
meet
people
and
events
concluded
long
ago.

And
so,
even
if
a
drop
of
mystery
has
fallen
here,
there
is
still
no
one
capable
of
sensing
it.
Certainly
not
the
young
doctor’s
father,
Mr.
Rubin,
a
tall
English
Jew
wearing
an
old
felt
hat
purchased
five
years
before
on
a
trip
to
Manchester,
the
city
of
his
birth,
who
has
been
listening
for
some
time
in
profound
and
patient
silence
to
the
lively
explanations
of
the
hospital
director,
whose
hands,
now
that
his
luggage
is
sailing
away
on
the
con
veyor
belt,
are
free
to
sketch
the
map
of
India
over
and
over
in
the
air,
pointing
out
the
possibilities
of
various
alternative
routes,
while
his
plump
little
wife,
dressed
in
a
loose
blue
tunic,
her
eyes
no
doubt
already
smiling
behind
her
big
sunglasses,
listens
calmly
to
the
polite
small
talk
of
Mrs.
Rubin,
a
lean,
bony
En
glish
Jewess,
who
steps
ahead
of
her
toward
the
guard,
who
in
a
moment
will
separate
with
a
gesture
of
his
hand
the
passengers
and
the
people
seeing
them
off,
but
who
will
not
be
able
to
separate
the
common
thought,
new
and
pleasant,
that
has
begun
spinning
itself
secretly
—
yes,
secretly
and
without
a
word
—
be
tween
the
two
middle-aged
women,
each
of
whom
is
now
imag
ining
to
herself
a
possible
love
story
between
the
young
doctor-
son,
who
still
sees
the
journey
as
something
that
has
been
forced
upon
him,
and
the
sick
daughter,
waiting
thousands
of
miles
away
in
a
state
of
total
debilitation.