He stood there mumbling and shuffling his feet, pushed by the bodies that crowded around, puffing their breath at him, and he stared entranced at the shoes of the dancing boys, his right hand tightening around his left wrist, as he counted at a precise and moderate tempo.
They looked so big.
Tremendous.
Shoes betokening massive bones, like the jaws of a prehistoric animal, and a word floated past in the rushing stream, “youth”; he felt it instantly, a lovely word, dive in, why don’t you, and fish it out.
I’m too tired.
Dive in and get it, now, he ordered, and dully obeyed, his head hanging down to his chest.
Now fish it out, “youth,” all bubbly, happy, swingy, springy, free, htuoy, htuoy, he mumbled, and something inside him groaned, but he had taken a physician’s oath: yet he couldn’t do it all by himself; too bad, he had responsibilities; so many words pounding at the doors of the secret hospital he had established in the bush.
Htuoy.
Words streaming by, from people from the radio from newspapers from billboards from popular songs from the onion strip.
Htuoy.
It sounds Japanese.
In urgent need of treatment, Aron operates, counting twenty-five seconds; when he gets to thirty usually the pins and needles start in his wrist and fingertips.
Again he tried to break through the stifling ring of flesh, floundering but unable to budge, not even Houdini could help him here;
he turned his head with difficulty and for an instant saw his face reflected in a store window, a small white face like a spot of brightness in the crowd, like an absence: Yaeli, where are you, what are you doing now?
Thirty-one, thirty-two, he could feel the blood throbbing frantically against the barricade of fingers around his wrist, his poor muddled blood, he’d been driving it nuts in the last few days, thirty-seven already, thirty-eight, thirty-nine, and the worst of it, as usual, was the nausea: in every experiment the body’s ultimate weapon against him.
But here too, Aron was training himself, sticking his finger down his throat for one second, then almost two, ho hum, this finger isn’t him, neither are the nausea and the gagging and the vomiting, he was himself in spite of these, forty-three now, don’t give up; for once he had to get through the nausea, because if there’s something beyond it, the body has its reasons; now the nausea is coming in waves, but maybe beyond it, or beneath it, at the bottom of the swamp there was someone imprisoned in a bubble, banging his head against it, begging him to go all the way as a matador and a partisan, but any minute he would vomit or faint, it was coming, fifty-one, don’t give in, this is the body against the soul, so don’t give in, but he does give in.
As usual.
His hand lets go of his wrist.
Another minute and he would have vomited all over everyone, too bad, too bad.
Pins and needles in his hand.
Too bad.
He drooped among the sturdy bodies supporting him, covered with sweat he collapsed and slowly recovered: still, he did manage to hurt it a little, he did get revenge.
But then his vision cleared, and what was this, what was going on, only now did he spot the familiar faces, how come he hadn’t noticed before, how was it possible; he’d been standing here all this time while they were dancing, and now he recognized them, before he didn’t.
As though someone had played a trick on him: he’d been here for the past quarter of an hour, how did that beautiful girl suddenly turn into Anat Fish?
He shrugged his shoulders, past hope of understanding: here she was, the beautiful Anat Fish, dancing barefoot in the street.
He stared at her, trying not to look at the others, Anat Fish, in the black stretch pants the boys call fuck-me pants, and if you look carefully you see she really has lost something; she’s faded, who knows why, maybe because of what they said about her and that guy, the one she went to Eilat with, yes, yes, we know all about it, and maybe she’s lost some of her charm because David Lipschitz isn’t around anymore to adore her, and there’s Adina Ringle and Aliza Lieber, the
kids in the social set who didn’t go to work camp, and look, wow, Michael Carny, what’s he doing here, he’s not a “socie,” not in any youth movement, either, pareveh, but he’s dancing too, look, he’s dancing with chutzpah right in front of the unperturbable Anat Fish, stealing a dance like a hungry beggar; but at least he dared, watch and learn, his gland has secreted that special substance that enables you to forget yourself and deceive yourself for a minute, look.
Aron forced himself to look directly at Michael Carny undulating camel-like.
Watch what happens; he watched, withering inside as Michael Carny revealed his body, rocking around with a startled joy, with a curious violence, to and fro he danced, watch and learn how—Wait a minute!
Because in the middle of his ungainly dance Michael turned to Aliza Lieber, the redhead, and asked her to dance, and she refused, naturally she refused, look at her and look at him, but he doesn’t despair, how well Aron knows the importance of not despairing now; he can’t stop dancing even for a moment, and carefully, as though guiding a sleepwalker across a roof, Michael offers himself to Rina Fichman, who is standing there with Miri Tamari and Esty Parsitz and Osnat Berlin and Varda Koppler; what’s this, half the class is here, and Rina’s dressed in a miniskirt like a real doll, he’s never seen her like that; if he saw her in the street and didn’t know her, he’d think, There goes a real doll; if Mama saw her, she’d smile that smile and elbow Papa in the ribs and say, “Husti gezein?
Did you see that?”
And Rina and Michael have been sitting next to each other in class for years, always passing notes, like two gigglepusses … Aron muttered as though telling himself an old old story … htuoy, htuoy, and Michael drew nearer, hopping and dancing over to adorable Rina Fichman, lightly, as though carrying a trembling candle in the storm, and timidly touched her hand and said something to her Aron couldn’t hear, with all the shouting and singing, the crowd was all, and out of the crowd Rina Fichman raised her startled eyes to Michael Carny, and smiled at him and began to sway her supple body; “supple” was also in isolation, being purified inside him now, tomorrow its turn would come, for seven days he had been careful not to utter it aloud and tomorrow he would put it back into its natural surroundings, he would be permitted to use it in his silent communion with Yaeli and Gideon, and the weary doctor paused, removed his pith helmet, wiped the sweat from his brow, and carried on with his dedicated work, never taking his eyes off Michael Carny’s glowing face, words like “dance,”
“jubilant,” “bliss,” “darling,” and he forced himself to gaze at this mystery, this ineffable moment of emergence, the butterfly moment when a shiny thread went out between Michael and Rina; but how did half the class get here, when did they plan it, was there a notice up on the bulletin board that he hadn’t read, and all the while he kept worrying he would bump into Yochi, he sensed her presence nearby, knew that she too was wandering through the streets, avoiding their parents’ party.
He stared at the dancing shoes in the street again, potent-looking boys’ shoes.
They’re gaining this thing called mass, he explained to himself, yes, their bones have a higher density now, they’re full of marrow, it must be that, and through their shoes he sensed the soles of their feet soaking in the iron dust of the fecund earth, but did that mean they also existed more than he did, who could say, who could measure, but yes, he guessed dispassionately, they probably did exist more, though what exactly did that mean, did they feel something he didn’t?
What was it like for them?
Is it like muscles of steel in the pit of their stomach?
And does the blood fizz through their veins and practically gush out of them like soda from a bottle when you shake it up?
Yes, could be, he consoled himself with a scientific hum, but the thing is, what did they have to give up in return?
Huh?
Whuh?
Good question.
The sixty-four-dollar question!
Ask again!
Did they give up something in return?
Yes!
Yes!
He almost howls it, clinging to the vaguely comforting hope that by accepting the awe-inspiring code of mass, the canon of the flesh, they had chosen the path of enslavement and drudgery, directly and without digression, step by step to the bitter end.
Death.
And then he sneered at himself and stifled the filthy laughter in his armpits.
Har-de-har-har-har, who do you think you are, oh, high-and-mighty one, do you think you’re safe because you’re different?
Even now you’re sinking, sinking, you’re worse than they are.
Look at you.
Like the living dead.
Everybody’s watching you.
He hunched his shoulders even more, muttering wolf, htuoy, ssilb, a Dr.
Schweitzer of the jungle, a Dr.
Doolittle of language.
Get out of here, quick, breathe.
He broke away, slogging through the crowds, ducking down a half-deserted alley where three little children accosted him and bopped him with their plastic squeak hammers, calling after him, “Pumpkinhead!
Pumpkinhead!”
But he just kept walking to avoid a fracas, smiling inwardly at their mistake, they thought he was their age.
Then two skinny hoods grabbed his arm and dragged him over to a deck of playing
cards spread out on the sidewalk: Bet one pound, take home ten, everyone’s a winner here.
He wriggled free, nauseated by the wine on their breath, and darted off again, sealing out the music that blared at him from the tall buildings and puffing out the smoke he had inhaled from the air so it wouldn’t pollute him inside; what’s the time, they were probably having a campfire about now, charred potatoes on a wire, blackened fingers smudging an autograph on somebody’s cheek, the smell of smoke in her hair, her quiet laughter.
Take the hair out of my mouth, would you please, Gideon, my hands are covered with soot.
A gangly old man without a face emerged from the shadows and walked up to Aron, holding out his hand.
I thought you weren’t coming, he simpered.
Didn’t Simo tell you to be here at eight?
Aron stared at him uncomprehendingly, shivering down his spine, the voice sounded familiar, and suddenly he felt a skinny hand on the back of his neck with squidlike fingers, and heard him snicker in his ear, Shall we go for a little walk, Simo tells me you’re new around here.
Aron veered around and sank his teeth into the slippery hand; he snapped at the fingers hard as he could till he felt the flesh break, and didn’t stop there, flesh and blood, he bit down murderously, to kill, to annihilate once and for all, but when he tasted the blood he spat it out and fled for his life, shuddering and shaking, while the faceless man collapsed in the alley, howling with pain and bewilderment, and Aron kept running, spitting out every drop of saliva in his mouth, maybe the man had a contagious disease, what was that all about, maybe he wanted to force him into joining a gang of robbers; Aron didn’t know where he was anymore, the din from the loudspeakers pursued him through the alleyways.
The streets had no names, the houses no numbers; he trembled so, his hands started fluttering at his sides; if only a miracle would happen and Yochi would appear now, calling to him with open arms: Come here, li’l brother.
At last he found himself in the crowded street again and heaved a sigh of relief.
The faces of the people streaming in on every side shone red and yellow under the colored lights.
Aron stopped to glance at his watch.
It would be six or seven hours before he could go home.
He sank exhaustedly on the curb.
People bumped into him, stepped over him, cursed him angrily.
He cradled his head in his hands.
Through the legs of the revelers he saw another group of children.
He studied them carefully: this time they were strangers, but so what.
They all looked
the same when they were dancing.
Cavorting.
With wild exuberance.
He searched for the most attractive couple.
Two by two he examined them.
Swallowed them longingly with his eyes.
He caught his breath, stretched out on the sidewalk.
All tired out, but no malingering, he had to check them over by the book.
No exceptions.
He cleared his throat.
Sat up a little.
He chose a few more couples out of the crowd.
He swore to be honest with himself.
To admit the truth, even if it hurt.
But no matter how he tried, he couldn’t find any real happiness in them.
He felt the urgency in their steamy shouts of jubilation, to be as alike as they possibly could, to know that which Aron—like a deaf man watching faces in the audience—could only surmise by their quivering movements, that they wanted to surrender to it, crying out in airy rapture, in sheer oblivion, before the alarm buttons went off in their horrified hearts.
So he stared at their dancing feet, his face bare and his secrets scrawled rudely upon it.
A group of children noticed him sitting there, moving his lips, and pointed at him conspicuously.
Someone spilled the dregs of a juice bottle over his head, drip, drip, it leaked into his collar.
He ignored it.
Easily.
What did he care if he was wet.
There, they quit and walked away.
Relieved, as if a vicious hand had suddenly let go of him, he stretched his legs out and leaned back.
Relieved of the pain, of the unbearable heaviness in his heart.
Just like that, for no particular reason, a brief respite.
Who knew what he would have to pay for it.