Mr. Mani (7 page)

—Yes. Of a lull in all the running around and studying for exams and other headaches. I could have gone on sitting there, hidden in that old ruin while watching the cars fly by in both directions and looking out over the valley, where the sun was fighting for its life with a black sky, only just then I thought to myself, even if you only imagined it, why don't you put your mind to rest by making absolutely sure, this Mr. Mani-Depressive can be a grandfather soon if he doesn't do anything rash, and so I left the khan and tried hitching a ride back into the mountains, and half an hour later I was in Jerusalem again, the streets of which were whitened by real snow...

—Yes, honest-to-goodness snow. That was Wednesday afternoon. Wasn't there anything about it on the radio?

—It was wonderful.

—I know you haven't. That's why I was so determined not to miss it, so that for once I could be one-up on you, Mother...

—It was real but just beginning, you couldn't tell if it was going to stick. And yet there was already something grand, something
noble,
in all those long feathers fluttering quietly about. It made me feel that I was in Europe—and what made that lovely European feeling even stronger was the fact that I soon found myself back in that circle near the President's house, walking down streets whose houses were familiar and watching the snow settle over them. I went to have a look at the Prime Minister's house too: next to it was this little tent with posters against the war in Lebanon and two demonstrators wrapped in a big bright blanket taking shelter inside from the cold, while across from them was an abandoned table with a torn sign that must have belonged to a counter-demonstration. I kept on walking, looking for drifts of snow I could step in and praying they would not melt overnight while working up the courage to go back to his apartment, because how could I explain it without making a fool of myself—and I absolutely did not want to make a fool of myself and give him an excuse to ditch me again, even if he did it like a Sephardic gentleman. And so I followed my legs past the Jerusalem Theater, which was completely dark, crossed the empty parking lot below it, and cut across the field behind the old leper hospital, where I was thrilled to see that the snow, which had melted on the streets and sidewalks, was sticking and piling up among the rocks. There was even enough of it to make a big snowball that I threw at some whooping children who had thrown one at me. I kept walking until I reached his long street, but I didn't go into his building. I passed it and stepped into the next house to get out of the snow and warm up, because I was chilled to the bone and my sweater was soaking wet, and suddenly I felt afraid that all the games I was playing might freeze that teeny thing inside me and spoil its formula, which would have made it a criminal act not to have gone somewhere to warm myself...

—I knew you'd say that...

—Fine. Fine. So it was just a rationalization...

—Fine. I admit it. That didn't make me any less of a fool. Of course, I wasn't thinking of myself right then but only of what was inside me, but still...

—All right, all right. It doesn't make any difference. In the end I went up there like a fool and rang the bell. There was no answer, and I said to myself, this time I am not making an issue of it, I don't care if it's my imagination or not, I've had enough. When I went back down to look for a bus stop, I saw his car parked in the street. I could tell it was his by the robe in the back—but still, Mother, I told myself: it isn't your business, if he wants to kill himself you can't stop him, you can't come running to the rescue every night from Tel Aviv. And so I started to walk and turned into this little shopping center, where there was a café I went into to warm up and eat something. I sat there thinking about you and wondering if you were worrying—that's when I called the kibbutz and left that message that the German volunteer never gave you. I sat by the window and had something to eat and drink while watching the snow to see if it would stick, because all those cars and people were very hard on it. I had begun to care about it as much as Mr. Mani—not that I knew why he cared about it either ... By then it was nine o'clock. The evening news was on the television in the café, and there were shots of the snow in Jerusalem, and everyone sat there staring at it as if they knew that even if it melted, it would still exist on television. It wasn't too late yet, Mother, to take a bus back to Tel Aviv, and I went to pay the bill with every intention of doing that. Before I did, though, I decided to make one last little telephone call, just to see if he had made up his mind to hang himself yet, and it was the same story now too—there wasn't any answer—and I said to myself, he can't possibly be playing these revolting little games again unless he's already dead, and I sniffed and thought, well, there goes Grandpa number two, this little Mani of mine will have nothing but women around when he's born...

—Efi won't be there either.

—He just won't...

—Because I have no illusions about him.

—I don't ... it's just a feeling that I have...

—It's nothing specific, but I have no illusions...

—I've already told you. There was no chance to tell him. I'm sure he won't like it, though—I mean having a baby and all...

—Because I think he has other plans. He wants to study abroad, and the last thing he needs is a baby. Besides, who knows if we're really in love or if it isn't just one of those things...

—No, for goodness' sake, Mother, not now ... there's time ... I'll get to that ... if you'll only wait ... because now I left the cafe and went back to the street and into the building just to see if I would again get that solemn feeling of not being alone and of following someone's instructions, but nothing happened. No one was waiting for me there—no author or director or photographer. It was as if I had run out of sponsors and was back on my own again—and that, Mother, was when I began to feel a little desperate, to say nothing of exhausted from my first time in the snow, which can be very fatiguing if you're not used to it, and so I said to myself, I've had it, it's time to say good-bye to this Mr. Mani once and for all. I climbed the stairs to his apartment, but I didn't knock or ring. I just sat there quietly by the door to warm up a little before leaving. I must have been feeling kind of angry for letting everyone abandon me there in the dark...

—Everyone ... everyone...

—Everyone ... all of you ... everyone who wants to ditch me...

—Never mind. Forget it. Later...

—Wait ... wait...

—Forget it ... I didn't mean it. Anyway, Mother, just then the stairway light went on, and I saw this middle-aged woman coming up the stairs, this plump, nice-looking woman who turned out to be the next-door neighbor. And when she saw me sitting like an outcast by the door, she asked me, perfectly matter-of-factly, as if she knew who I was and that I belonged there, “Well, what's the matter: did you lose your key again?”

—Yes. She must have confused me with someone else, or else seen me coming out of there that morning. And so I quietly said “Yes” in this passive kind of voice, which was enough to make her go get the extra key she had in case Efi forgot his—which put me, Mother, in this awkward situation, with the key to the apartment in my hand...

—No. Yes. I thought I'd stall for time and slip away the minute she went back inside, but she just planted herself in her doorway and waited for me to open the door. She gave me no choice, Mother. I even turned the key quietly and gave the door a little push and said thank you with a smile in the hope that she would be satisfied and go away, but she just went on standing there as if it were all too fascinating for words, so what could I do but go inside and shut the door behind me...

—No. I didn't mean to go any farther.

—Of course, Mother. How could you even think it? I thought I'd stand quietly by the door for a minute and step back out again without being noticed—assuming, that is, that there was anyone in there to notice me. But the apartment was so exactly like the night before, just as dark and overheated and quiet, that I began to wonder: what is going on here? Is it happening all over again or am I traveling backward in time? I was getting to be too contrary for my own good, because this time I was sure that he had really gone and done it—and I had to give him credit, Mother, for being civilized enough to turn off the lights and do it in the dark...

—Good God, no, Mother, why would I want to frighten you? What for? I'm just telling you my thoughts. I hadn't seen anything yet, and though I knew the apartment by now, my eyes were still getting used to the dark and I was just beginning to make out familiar objects, like the telephone in the living room next to the figurine of the horse, or the row of little Greek urns. I could see as far as the closed door of the grandmother's room, and I remember thinking, Mother, all right, Hagar, this is the time if you feel like it to let out one of those screams, you know, those blood-curdling screams that people go to the movies to hear, except that this isn't a movie, it's not even a book, and no one will hear it or share it with you, you'll be screaming purely for your own pleasure, purely for your own terror, so what's the point? As long as you're here anyway, and there are witnesses who have seen you, which means that you're sure to be investigated, you may as well know what to answer, so why don't you go see what's happened ... And so I began inching my way down the hallway, still in the dark, Mother, because I didn't want to see the full horror, just its shadow, although plenty of people are more frightened of shadows than of what casts them, and as soon as I opened the door I saw that the room, which I had left neat and orderly in the morning, was...

—No, listen! Listen. You have to...

—No, you have to. You can't just keep saying I imagined it all and leave me with this story that's overwhelming me so I can't breathe, Mother, because the room looked as if it had been hit by a hurricane, as if some madman had run amuck there, attacking the bed and ripping the sheets and throwing around old clothes and old papers and pictures. And this time too, Mother, like in one of those recurring nightmares, the little scaffold was set up again: the blinds were shut tight, the blinds box was open with the belt hanging from the rod and knotted in a noose at one end, and even the stool was back in place. It was a repeat performance. Maybe, I thought, he put it on every night to rehearse his own death until it became so obvious and convincing that he could stop fighting it ... and then, Mother, for the first time I felt so sorry for him that I really wanted to help, so that instead of walking away from that scene, which—you're perfectly right—was much too private and intimate for me to have any business being there, I wanted to work my way deeper into it, to keep moving in that contrary direction that was pulling me like a magnet, and so I walked down the hallway to the back of the apartment, to this little bathroom off the kitchen, because I thought that if everything was happening again, he was probably in there washing himself as part of his suicide exercises...

—I'm glad I finally got a laugh out of you.

—Yes, Mother, it was definitely funny, my walking around that dark apartment like some kind of sleepwalker so as to find him and talk him out of this suicidal frenzy he was in. I would have broken down the bathroom door too, but it already was open, as was a door behind it that led to this little rear terrace that I hadn't noticed before—and there, on the terrace, which was cluttered with all kinds of brooms and buckets and what-not, was my suicidal Mr. Mani in his big, heavy overcoat looking more like a ball or a closet than a man, peacefully smoking a cigarette in the fresh air beneath this sky that had suddenly cleared and even had stars in it, so absorbed in himself that he didn't even notice me come in. I was still wondering how to let him know I was there when suddenly he turned around—and all at once, Mother, he went into the most terrible shock. The cigarette fell from his mouth and he let out this strange, painful cry as if he too were in some movie or book and the director had asked him to give it his all. Right away, though, he realized who I was and pulled himself together. He even laughed and tried making a joke of it and said, “Good God Almighty, don't tell me it's you again! You're really something! I've never seen anyone so stubborn. Just tell me this, though: how in hell did you get into this apartment? Did you steal the key this morning when you left?”

—Yes, but not in anger, Mother. He was perfectly good-natured, as though he were secretly happy that I had come to save him again. I began to mumble something about the neighbor who all but made me enter his apartment, and right away he said, “Yes, that Mrs. Shapiro, she's always worrying...” There was this vague resentment in his voice, as if Mrs. Shapiro took so many liberties he wasn't even sure what they were, and then calmly—he was still standing on the terrace—he began talking about the snow, as though trying to convince the two of us that that was what had brought me back to Jerusalem, that I wanted to see it while it still was there, because the weather was clearing, and cold as it was, it wasn't cold enough to keep the snow from melting. Well, Mother, when I saw him all squirming and embarrassed like that I felt so weak myself that instead of confronting him with the horrible truth of what I had seen and understood, I began to murmur something about the snow too, to which I added that I really had come back for Efi's sake, because I wanted to go to the unveiling in his place...

—Yes, that's just what I said. I didn't want him to guess that I had been following him around to keep him from killing himself. At first he looked very surprised, as if he had forgotten all about the unveiling ... and in fact, if he had really meant to die that night he couldn't have been planning on going to it, since the dead don't attend ceremonies for the dead. Gradually, though, the idea seemed to please him. Maybe he really wanted to believe that that was the reason I had crashed his apartment again. Anyway, he bowed his head with this sort of doleful acknowledgment and only said with a strange smile that it was a shame I wasn't a man, because he needed ten men for the cemetery, without them he couldn't say the mourner's prayer...