The Remains of Love (45 page)

To tell you the truth I completely understand his apprehensions, he says, when Shlomit wanted another child I was really scared too, I suppose our function is to be afraid and your function is to ignore our fear and thus reassure us, it’s a kind of unconscious test that’s supposed to prove to a man that his wife is strong enough. Obviously, in the case of adoption it’s much harder but essentially they are the same thing, he’ll change his mind, you’ll see.

I’m not so sure of that, she says, her long fingers gripping the cup emphatically. It seems to me, all that Gideon really wants is a quiet life, he’s never been especially family-minded and this kind of adventure just doesn’t appeal to him, and Avner says, when you’re together he may think that’s what he wants, but he’s not going to give you up for the sake of a quiet life, he needs you more than you know, perhaps even more than he knows. Thanks Avni, she sighs, but I’m not sure of that any more, it was convenient for me to believe all these years that even if Gideon didn’t make a big display of his love I could still rely on it, and yet he left me there today, and when I was pregnant he left me too.

But he came back in the end, and he’s a wonderful father, Avner finds himself speaking up in defence of a brother-in-law he never really liked, there’s nothing you can do about it, pregnancy is a threat to most men, theoretically we’re programmed to want to inseminate, but it seems the average male of today has lost the basic impulse to procreate, he reckons the seed is taking his place, it’s cancelling out his existence, and not giving him validity, as is the case in nature. I felt exploited when Shlomit was pregnant, I only wanted a child who came out of love, I had the fantasy of a couple producing a child from desire alone, without recourse to ovulation tables and biological clocks, but apparently there aren’t many love-children in this world, perhaps great love isn’t necessary where procreation is concerned.

Love is too elusive a creature for me, Dina says, leaning her elbow on the formica tabletop, it’s like clutching at the wind, and children are so real, especially when they’re young and need constant attention, their corporeality is reassuring in its certainty, and very often it stabilises the bond, it did us so much good, the birth of Nitzan, and he says, apparently there are no recipes, in our case the children have only added to the tensions and the frictions which are not their fault, even little Yotam couldn’t bring us closer together, perhaps a bit at first, but very quickly we reverted to our old ways, we’re just a lost cause.

And she isn’t trying to get you back? Dina asks, and he replies, not any more, I’m glad to say, in the beginning she tried, for better or worse, and this was the most depressing part of it, to see her pleading, but very quickly she stopped, it seems she too found it easier to separate than to stay together, and even the kids haven’t reacted too badly, the moment they realised this way they’re going to see more of me they calmed down, but even as he speaks doubt assails him again. Why are you putting such a positive gloss on your divorce, he asks himself, you’re vilifying your marriage and embellishing its breakdown, since in spite of everything, when he tucks them into bed he can’t ignore the entreaty in their eyes, stay, sleep with us, even on the sofa in the lounge or in our room, live with us, Daddy, what kind of a father doesn’t live with his sons, and what kind of an argument is it, saying, I don’t love your mother, and she doesn’t love me. Anyone would think you can measure love the way you measure heat, or put it on the scales, or perhaps the two of them will go one morning to the clinic and hold out their arms for the needle, and the blood extracted from the vein will be taken to the lab for analysis and within a week the results will be in, such and such a percentage of love in your bloodstreams – you come out as borderline normal, and this report you’re going to show to your children like a document presented in court? The dimensions of love are like the dimensions of divinity, hidden from the eye.

And yet, when he leaves that house, after the bedtime stories and the kissing and the hugging and the reassurances, his legs are light and his gait confident; the very thought of the evening that would have been in store for him with his wife is profoundly depressing: that demeaning mud-wrestle and alongside it the expectation, the hunger for total acceptance in spite of everything, evening after evening, week after week, year after year, he can’t handle it any more. I can’t handle it, he tells himself every evening to the rhythm of the quick paces to his car, where are you going in such a hurry? Not to the café or the pub where lonely people tend to congregate, it’s his mother’s house he’s going to, to the narrow bed in the room of his youth, to his rendezvous with sleep, how will she appear tonight, as gentle mother or affectionate mistress, impetuous lover or the love-child who may yet be born to him? And even now he can’t wait any longer and he suggests, don’t you think it’s time to go to bed, Dini? I’m in court tomorrow and I need to prepare for it in the morning.

Yes, of course, she says, is it all right if I stay with you for the time being? And he waves his arm, taking in the whole apartment, this is yours as much as it’s mine, and they both know it isn’t a question of legal rights, but the possibility of making space for her in what was once the impregnable fortress of that inseparable duo, mother and son, son and mother. Your room is taken, he says, will you sleep in the parents’ room? Although their father died in this room more than twenty years ago, they still call it that, and she nervously opens the door and turns on the light, I always hated my room, she says and he smiles, I hated mine too but now I really like it.

Perhaps it’s because you have another home, she suggests, and he says no, I no longer have another home, and she looks at him sadly, oy, Avni, I have no doubt you’re doing the right thing, but doing the right thing at the wrong time can cause a lot of pain, and he sighs, yes, at our age there are no easy choices, there’s a heavy price to be paid and it just gets heavier, and at this point another sigh is heard in the empty shell of the apartment and Dina whispers, you see, we’ve both come home to Mum and she doesn’t even know, she can’t even be happy.

Or be sad, he says, good night, Sister, as it seems to him the sleep that’s waiting for him will be angry if he delays any longer, her limbs will cool and her embrace won’t be warm and devoted, so he leaves his sister standing irresolutely beside the double bed and hurries to his room, sweet tranquillity descending on him. Here they are again, the three of them, as if only now their father has died and left them like this, but then they were separated and dispersed, whereas now they are clinging, each to the other’s mistakes, and he lies on his back and smiles at the ceiling, time plays games with us, isn’t it absurd to feel the soothing presence of the first family for the first time at the age of forty-four, in mid-life, and when he wraps himself in sleep between his mother and his sister he’s overwhelmed by sentimental gratitude, he’s returned to them from a long journey of twenty years, returned to them finally without fear of their love.

Next morning when he gets up they’re still asleep; between his mother’s fingers he’s surprised to find a silver pen, and when he tries to pull it from her hand she grips it firmly, and he lets it go and boils water for coffee in the dimly lit kitchen, the two yellow cups in the sink raise a smile to his lips, some birthday party that was, a milk party, a party without cake, without flowers or guests. There’s no milk left over for coffee, but here comes Rachela, her gait as vigorous as ever and her hands laden with shopping bags, and the fridge soon fills up. Like some orange juice? she asks him, pulling oranges from the bag and putting them in the basket.

No thanks, I’m in a hurry, he replies, noticing with some bemusement that she’s dressed all in white, a lacy long-sleeved white dress and white court shoes, standing there with her fruit like a kindergarten girl bringing her contribution to the festival of Weeks, and he’s impressed, that’s a very nice dress you’re wearing! Is there a festival today, and she smiles awkwardly, not an official one, but just for me, it’s my son’s birthday.

Mazaltov, he says, how old is your son, and she answers, eighteen, and he asks, how are you going to celebrate? Her voice retreats when she replies, after work I’m taking him for a pizza and then to the cinema, her eyes are avoiding his and he’s a little puzzled by the choice of entertainment, more appropriate for his twelve-year-old son. Which film? he asks, and she answers hesitantly,
All about my mother
, and he buttons up his dark woollen jacket, ah, I didn’t get to see that one myself but I’ve heard it’s powerful stuff, you’ll enjoy it, and he’s already on the stairs and doesn’t see her hands taking an orange from the basket and squeezing it, her attention distracted, until it splits and the juice sprays her dress, but Dina, who will hear the exchange of words while lying awake in her parents’ bed, will leave the room and take the dripping orange from her hands and embrace her, don’t cry, Rachela, and don’t be too hard on yourself, you made the biggest of sacrifices for his sake, you gave him up so he would have a better future.

I should have rehabilitated myself for him, she wails, laying her head with its raven-black hair on her shoulder, what good did it do me, getting my life sorted out after I’d given him up, and Dina says, but the fact is, you couldn’t have done otherwise, and you shouldn’t judge yourself in hindsight, there’s no sense in that. He’ll definitely be in touch soon, he’ll see the file and come looking for you, and Rachela mumbles, I hope so, I’ll compensate him for everything, we’ll make a fresh start.

I’m sure it’s going to work out for you, Dina says, her fingers caressing the smooth parted hair, and she moves on to the subject uppermost in her mind, a little boy who’s going to be needing the services of a childminder a few months from now, perhaps not the easiest of children to handle, someone who will demand lots of love and patience, would she be interested, and Rachela looks up at her with a lively expression, yes, gladly she says, when your mother gets better I’ll be needing a new job and I really love working with children.

Getting better? Is that the way death will reveal itself in the future, the life that is evaporating through the pores of the skin, is that really our disease? So I’ll be counting on you, Rachela, she says, those are lovely oranges, we’ll cut them into small segments, the way we used to do it in the kibbutz, and as they stand at the marble worktop, slicing orange after orange and putting the segments on to the plate, to Dina these resemble little orange boats that aren’t going anywhere, scores of mouths gaping in the wet and toothless smile of the extremities of life, the beginning or the end of it.

Strange, how cagey she was telling him about her son’s birthday, he thinks while clawing his way through traffic jams, but then it isn’t that much of a surprise really, after all the eighteenth birthday means the army isn’t far away, and that’s the moment parents start dreading the day a male child is born, and right on cue there’s a newsflash on the car radio, a soldier seriously injured in an incident in the south, and very soon that could be her son, a few years from now it could be his son, and he switches off the depressing report, it’s all becoming so personal, the newsflashes and the bulletins, the gloom-laden accounts that always arouse in him a feeling of personal failure, as if it’s his family that’s in the news. He didn’t try hard enough, the responsibility was his, he was the favourite son and the biggest disappointment, and he remembers Anati telling him yesterday she needed to talk to him urgently, her face was hostile, and he disappointed her too, walking out on her because he thought she wanted to update him on her precocious pregnancy.

It pains him to watch the accelerated changes taking place in her personality, it seems that everything he experienced in twenty years is happening to her in the space of a few months; her irritating enthusiasm has melted away, its place taken by defeatism. We can’t help them anyway, she mutters from time to time, so why even try, and when he thinks of her while searching for a parking space in the congested streets, he feels in his flesh the pinpricks of unease. What does she want from him, what’s the meaning of the accusing glances she’s been fixing on him lately, as if he’s been leading her astray, but he warned her from the start that in this office there would be more frustration than satisfaction. Did she fall in love with him the day she arrived, and ever since she’s felt rejected? But that isn’t rational, he’s many years older than she is, things like that do indeed happen, but not to him, although something had happened to him. How strange that the night of her marriage was also the night of his bid for freedom, it was she who marked the change in his life even if she wasn’t in any way involved in it; why had she aroused an irksome craving in him from the moment he first saw her on the threshold of his office, a heavy-set girl, nice eyes, trying hard to impress?

Good morning, Nasreen, he hears her voice as he enters, no, Attorney Horowitz can’t take this brief, I handed him the material the other day and the answer was negative, no prospect of winning this one, and he interrupts the phone conversation, bewildered, what is this, Anati, which brief are you talking about? I don’t remember you giving me any new material recently, and she puts the receiver down and says drily, like I said, no prospect of winning, we’ve had cases like this before and we haven’t succeeded in halting the expulsion, and he asks, what expulsion is this?

Another mixed couple, he’s from East Jerusalem with a blue card and she’s from a village near Ramallah, brother a terror suspect, and they put out an expulsion order on her, the usual story, and he’s repelled by the tone of her voice, there are no usual stories, he reproves her, every story is single and unique, and I don’t understand why you’re turning people away in my name without consulting me, has this been going on in the past?