The Liberated Bride (15 page)

A
S THE SCANTILY
attired widow was about to walk her visitor to his car, if only to flee the apartment, her mother-in-law—short and hatted, like her husband, though her hat was a bright bonnet—appeared with a large pot of Sabbath stew to shore up the crumbling dikes of the Day of Rest. Promising to stay in touch, Rivlin thanked them all again and returned to his car. He debated opening the package, decided not to, and thrust it into the baggage compartment, which he had rearranged to make room for Yo'el's suitcase, even though he knew the latter would be small.

Again he had time on his hands. Better yet, no guilt was attached to it. And so before driving back into town to find a restaurant that was open in the desolation of the Jerusalem Sabbath noon, he made a U-turn onto a winding street from which he could compare the desert view from the city's north with that from the south. Not only, however, was the blue patch of the Dead Sea missing here too, the noble yellow vista of the Judean wilderness was bleak and dreary, perhaps because of a large Bedouin settlement whose shacks and black tents defended the hillsides against the city's ravenous encroachment.

Nevertheless, a path descending between two buildings lured him down it with the promise of detecting a sliver of the inland sea that in his Jerusalem childhood had fired his imagination as the city's answer to the Mediterranean—that far destination of summer vacations. But bleakness still curtained the gray horizon. Looking back up at the third-floor window of the little apartment, he tried to imagine what the dead scholar had seen as he sat at the desk squeezed into his bedroom: not a tiresome old crone like the one Rivlin saw sitting on her
terrace in Haifa, but the play of wind and light on the desert, and Arabs, unwilling citizens of the Israeli-ruled city, strolling among the shacks and tents in which burned their hearth and cooking fires. Surely this was a better perspective from which to study the Arab soul and understand, as Ephraim Akri had put it, what mattered to it and what didn't. Again he felt tempted to inspect the package in the baggage compartment. As it was unlikely that Yo'el would be in any hurry to take his wife to a hotel, many days would go by before he could sit down in his study to determine whether Suissa's material might indeed provide a spark of inspiration.

He had tried not to grumble about his expulsion from his workroom and to be as patient as possible with their fragile and likable guest. This was not merely to calm his wife's nagging anxieties about her hospitality. It was also to justify, if only to himself, the new and clandestine freedoms that he was taking.

T
HIS TIME, THERE
being no suitable pretext for another call, it took creativity and courage to avoid the twin embarrassments of being a nuisance to the Hendels and in defiance of his wife. And who could promise him that Galya would even be there? There was no guarantee, on this bleak, sleepy afternoon, of finding his ex-daughter-in-law in the hotel whose threshold he was crossing.

His last visit, with its heated conversation beneath the gazebo by the swimming pool, had made him a familiar figure to the clerk at the reception desk, who regarded him, a guest needing no directions, with approval. But although he knew the way to the Hendels' quarters, he feared that his unexpected reappearance might be taken as a bizarre or even unbalanced regression, rather than as the sober determination to clear up an ancient mystery. Therefore, he headed for the crowded dining room, in which he lingered despite the unlikelihood of his son's ex-wife turning up there. Taking a tray, he joined the line by the food counter, whose steamy dishes made him feel slightly queasy. If nothing else, he would enjoy a good meal whose tastes brought back better days. The talk around him informed him
that, this time too, he was surrounded by a group of Christian pilgrims.

Well, then, I'll be a pilgrim myself, Rivlin thought, placing his loaded tray on a table occupied by two outsize Americans, tall, hefty men despite their elderly appearance. They welcomed the Israeli diner and sought to strike up a conversation, which Rivlin joined by proudly informing them, Christian Zionists, that he was not only a Jewish professor but the scion of an ancient Jerusalem family. Inquiring about their itinerary, he pointed out its advantages and shortcomings and responded to their praises of the hotel by mentioning that his son had been wed to the owner's daughter, albeit not for long. This led the two pilgrims, in the charitable spirit of their journey, to consider his visit and partaking of a meal with them as an act of religious benevolence.

A young Arab waiter came to clear the table. Uncertain of the new pilgrim's identity, he discreetly sought to establish it and—unauthorized to issue a free meal ticket—went to fetch the maître d'. This turned out to be the old Arab who had recognized Rivlin at the bereavement and encouraged him to write in the condolence book. “What's the problem?” he scolded. “Professor Rivlin is one of the family. He can eat all he wants on the house.” “You mean I was one of the family,” Rivlin corrected with a laugh while the waiter blushed with embarrassment. But this merely evoked a dismissive wave of the hand. Families were to be entered, not exited.

“You did the right thing by coming here for a rest, Professor,” the maître d', whose name was Fu'ad, observed. “This is the best season.”

Rivlin had to explain that he had not come to rest or even to eat. He had returned because his wife and sister-in-law were lunching in the city with an aunt. The heart had its reasons. And as though it were an afterthought, he murmured:

“Is Galya by any chance here?”

“You didn't finish talking to her the last time, did you?”

The man's powers of observation surprised him.

Fu'ad sighed proudly. “If I didn't notice such things, who would? She was the one of Mr. and Mrs. Hendel's children whom I spent the most time with. He and his wife, the poor woman, used to go once a
week for a night out in Tel Aviv and leave Galya with me. If she was upset, I'd take her home to Abu-Ghosh to play with my nephews. After a while she'd calm down. Believe me, no one knows her as I do. She's a smart young lady, but moody and stubborn. Sometimes, I would take her out for an ice cream or a falafel when I had free time at the hotel. She liked that. It always cheered her up. Now she's taking Mr. Hendel's death hard, maybe even harder than the missus. Harder than her sister, that's for sure. She seemed so sad after that conversation with you last week. What made you leave in such a hurry?”

“I had to be at the airport. I have to be there again today.”

“You Jews are always at the airport. Always coming and going. You can't sit still. It will make you sick in the end.”

“To tell the truth, I already am sick,” the guest said with a smile, looking through the window at a lovely white cloud sailing by. The thought of the illness born here ten days ago made him feel a sweet pang. Stricken, he bowed his head and whispered to the man in the dark suit and black bow tie:

“I'm quite ill.”

The maître d' looked at the Orientalist suspiciously.

“Ill, Professor? But that can't be.”

“Why not?”

“Is that what you told Galya last week?”

“Among other things.”

“
Mish ma'ool, ya eyni
.”
^*

“
Leysh la? Ma'ool jiddan.
”
^†

“
Ma t'zalnish al-fadi. Kulna minhibak k'tir hon.
”
^‡

“
Shu ni'mal, hada min Allah.
”
^§

“
Shu Allah? Ma lak uma l'Allah? Ma tistahbilnish.
”
^∥

The two elderly pilgrims, surprised by the change of language in mid-conversation, sat up like two pinkish, blue-eyed elephants given a secret command and took their prudent leave.

“Where is Galya?”

“Perhaps with her mother.”

“And husband?”

“Of course.”

“Could you bring her here?
Bas hi. B'sif
.”
^*

“
Ala rasi.
”
^†

I
T WASN'T JUST
from crying, Rivlin decided cheerfully upon seeing his ex-daughter-in-law, still dressed in black, emerge hesitantly from a side door. She really had lost her looks, and the short haircut she had got since their last meeting only emphasized this. He rose to greet her from the dark corner of a little lounge set off from the dining room. It was here that Hendel, seated before a full-length mirror in which he watched the smoke spiral up from the cigars that his wife couldn't stand, had come when he'd wanted to indulge. Any man, friend, foe, neighbor, or stranger had the right to appear at a bereavement and offer his consolation to the mourners. Yet her ex-father-in-law's insistence on a second meeting perplexed the young woman who, regarding him with a mixture of pity and fear, now slipped into the chair by his side.

“I've received a letter from Ofer,” she said at once, using the son to shield her from the prying father.

He shivered with joy.

“A short one. And a nasty one. He was very hard on me. That's no way to comfort anyone. But it doesn't matter. I took it for what it was.”

“You see?”

“See what?”

“Despite all the time that's gone by, he hasn't given up.”

“But on what?”

“On wanting to know. To understand. Like me.”

She shook her cropped head angrily. “You're wrong. His letter had nothing to do with that. I've already told you that he understands all he needs to.”

He felt his confidence shaken by her firmness. He reached out a fatherly hand that fell short of touching her. In the mirror he saw Fu'ad moving slowly across the empty dining room. The maître d' cast a glance at their dark corner and disappeared.

“Listen carefully, Galya. If I thought for a moment that he understood why you left him, or had come to terms with it, I'd never have stooped to come here again.”

“But why is it stooping?” she protested hotly. “You mustn't say such things, Yochanan. I was very touched by your last visit. I'm touched by this one, too. We're all grateful. If only there were some way I could help. . . . But you mustn't try to make me feel guilty or take your anger out on me. I have enough problems.”

A desert wind riffled the curtain. Rivlin took the plunge.

“I've already told you . . .”

“What?”

“That I haven't much time left.”

“How do you mean?”

“I told you.”

“But what's wrong with you?”

“The details don't matter. I don't like to discuss them. I'm not asking for pity, only for justice.”

“But what does this have to do with justice?”

He bowed his head and said nothing, feeling a stirring in her.

“You're torturing yourself for no reason. What does it matter? People get together and break up all the time. I left your son because we couldn't go on the way we were. Because it would have been wrong to. Ask him. Why should I tell you what he won't?”

“He would like to. He can't.”

She made no reply.

In the mirror behind her Rivlin saw her ponytailed husband peer into the dining room.

“Fine. I won't bother you again. Just do me one last favor. Answer his letter.”

“But he told me not to,” she said with a triumphant gleam. “Those were his last words.”

“Never mind.” His anger turned against his son. “Write him. It doesn't matter what. Just give him a sign. If he swallowed his pride enough to send you a condolence note, he must want an answer even if he denies it. Give him one. Anything. A few words. It makes no difference what they are. Do it for my sake. You owe me that much.”

“Owe you?” He felt her waver.

“Morally. We treated you like a daughter from the minute you set foot in our home. We couldn't have loved you more. Whatever you wanted, whatever you asked for, even hinted at, was yours. We never said a word when you broke up the marriage. We just gritted our teeth, Hagit and I. We tried being high-minded about it.”

She nodded slowly in confirmation. The word “high-minded” swept him along.

“Even if you think you owe us nothing, do it for your father's sake. Don't leave me in the dark. I won't come again, I promise. This is the last time. Not even Hagit knows I'm here. She would be furious if she saw me pleading with you like this. Promise you'll write to Ofer. Even if he doesn't want you to. Just this once.”

“But what should I say?” she whispered despairingly, like a student bewildered by a teacher's demands.

“Anything. Make him realize he understands.” She weighed his words carefully before making a movement with her head. He couldn't tell if she was nodding it or shaking it. Her eyes were damp with what looked like old tears. Again, something told him that she was pregnant.

The tall husband passed again across the mirror. The two blue-eyed, evangelical elephants reentered the dining room and wandered slowly through it, lifting the tablecloths as though looking for something they had lost.

“Y
OU DIDN'T BELIEVE
me. Well, now you've seen for yourself. She gets more lucid from day to day. She even remembered the names of
places in South America that Yo'el told her about three years ago. It's not just her memory, either. She can explain things, see connections. And she's so funny! She has a sense of humor she never had before. Did you hear what she said about Yochi? It's too bad, Yochi, that you weren't there. Where were you all that time? You would have enjoyed her. Imagine: she not only thought of asking about your work, she even remembered it had to do with Algeria. At first she said Morocco and then she caught herself. When I told her you were stuck she asked me to tell you she understood. She has real empathy. I'm sorry you didn't stay. Where on earth did you disappear to? To think that for years the psychiatrists sent her from one institution to another without holding out any hope! It's no wonder I bristle whenever one of them gets on the witness stand and spouts some diagnosis.”

“Don't generalize.”

“You're right. One mustn't. But I've seen enough to be skeptical about the experts. I can understand wanting to make a science of mental disorder. But do it modestly, with a sense of proportion. After all, they're not pathologists analyzing DNA in a lab. How can they label every hoodlum psychotic or schizophrenic or posttraumatic?”

“Give us the bottom line,” Rivlin said, accelerating as they came out of the last turn of the descent from Jerusalem. “What are you saying, Hagit? That your aunt was making believe? That all the time we ran after her from asylum to asylum we were really going from theater to theater?”

“She wasn't making believe. I'm not saying that. Her torment was real. She didn't believe she deserved the love that our mother and all of us gave her, and that drove her to extremes of anxiety. It never occurred to her that we needed her love, too. Did we ever tell you, Ofra, how we first realized she was getting better?”

Ofra nodded. Although she had heard the story many times, she was always ready to hear it again.

The road to the airport was lightly traveled on Saturday afternoons. The anticipation of seeing Yo'el made the trip a pleasant one. Hagit was still too full of the lunch with her aunt and the family anecdotes to probe where her husband had been. It was just as well,
Rivlin thought. Although he could have padded his account of the time he had spent with the Suissas, he preferred not to. His failure at the hotel only made him feel more guilty.

“Actually,” he said, interrupting his wife's entertaining but familiar account of her aunt's recovery, “Hagit owes her aunt a great deal.”

“How is that?” Hagit asked.

“Didn't she once shock some sense into you as a child by telling you how awful you were?”

Like a healthy person recalling past illnesses, the judge liked to be reminded of a time when she hadn't been nice. Now, she looked lovingly at the husband who—if only to tease her—remembered her childhood so well.

“When was that?” Ofra asked, glowing in the backseat at the thought of Yo'el's arrival.

“Don't you remember how our parents used to send me to her in Jerusalem during summer vacations? I spent weeks there. Once she told me I wasn't nice to be with. It made a big impression.”

“How old were you?”

“About twelve. I worshiped her then. Every word of hers was holy. It had a great effect.”

“It's too bad it didn't last,” joked her husband.

“But it did. Really. You could have used an aunt like that, someone to hold up a mirror to you. Yochi's mother”—Hagit turned around to her sister—“kept him tied to her apron strings, summer vacations included. He wasn't insurable, and she never gave him a chance to grow up.”

A jumbo jet passed overhead, in one line with the road. For a second they seemed to keep up with it.

“Maybe that's Yo'el's plane,” Ofra said.

“Perfect timing!”

But Yo'el's plane had landed a quarter of an hour early, and since he had only hand luggage, he was out of the terminal and perched on a low wall by a fountain, looking suntanned and refreshed, when they arrived. Reading a Hebrew paper, his toes sticking out of his biblical sandals, he did not look as if he had been away for three years.