Five Seasons (33 page)

H
E RATHER LIKED
her lazy way of doing things: of eating, for instance, or making her bed, which he had purposely left bare with the folded sheets on top of it to let her see that they were fresh. By now her religious facade had peeled away completely, leaving only the girlish Young Pioneer who had turned gray overnight. Tired though he was, he was soon giving her an account of his wife's illness, to which she listened so intently that he felt he was telling about it for the first time.

Just then the telephone rang. “Don't worry, it's Uri,” she told him, once again making him wonder whether she hadn't done this before. “Hello,” he said when he picked up the receiver. “Yes, we had a good trip and now we're sitting and talking. My only complaint,” he joked, feeling a need to sound critical, “is that she doesn't stop smoking. Would you like to talk with her? She's right here.”

She picked up the phone, speaking into it in a whisper while Molkho went tactfully to his room, from where he watched her question-mark figure through the doorway. Perhaps I'll keep her, he thought. But she must dye her hair. There's no reason why she shouldn't, or use a bit of makeup for my sake.

I
F YOU NEED ANYTHING,
just ask,” he told her, wanting to turn in. “Feel at home. If you'd like to read in bed, there are plenty of books. I even have Volume I of
Anna Karenina,
which I finished yesterday. You can take it back to Jerusalem with you. Good night,” he added, retiring to his room, where he decided that it would be unfair to use the air conditioner while she had to sleep without it. He undressed and got into bed, but though it was nearly 2
A.M.,
he couldn't fall asleep. Eight months had gone by since the death of his wife and now another woman was in the house at last—not in the same room, to be sure, but at least in the same apartment. That's certainly progress, he told himself, rising to switch on the air conditioner, its familiar purr lulling him into a dim slumber in which he dreamed that his son the high school boy had turned into a girl. Good for him, he thought in the dream, as if the boy's problems were solved.

At four, unable to keep warm beneath the thin blanket, he rose and switched off the air conditioner. Suddenly, remembering Ya'ara in the next room, he felt a glow like that which he had felt as a child when his mother once surprised him with a new puppy and he awoke in the middle of the night to find it on the kitchen porch wagging its tail in the dark, as if it had been waiting just for him, little Molkho. Now, wanting to see her no less badly, he slipped into his pants, leaving on his pajama tops, and stepped into the darkened living room, from which he saw a crack of light beneath her door. Was she still reading, or had she fallen asleep with the light on? He froze, menaced by her wakefulness. Was the light meant for him? He turned around. I mustn't be so aggressive, he thought, crawling back into bed, his head feeling infinitely heavier than his body. That's never been my strong suit.

I
T WAS AFTER SEVEN
when he awoke again, amazed at how he had slept, for he usually rose by six. Certain she must be up, he dressed, made his bed, washed and shaved quickly, and came out to say good morning. She was gone, her bed made too, though less neatly than his, her suitcase on the floor with all her clothes still in it. Nor, when he went downstairs to look for her, was she anywhere to be seen. Glad to be alone, he sliced bread, set the table for breakfast, and, feeling ravenous, sat down to eat, making little piles of the crumbs while reading the morning paper until he heard a light knock on the door and rose to open it. She was wearing the same faded jumper, her pearly eyes squinting in the morning light, which ruddily tinted her cheeks and streaked her gray hair with gold. “I was worried about you,” he said. “When did you get up? I was afraid you might have run away.” But she had merely risen at dawn and gone out for a walk, even starting down the tempting ravine. In fact, she had proceeded quite a distance, though not to the very bottom, and had lost her way coming back, which was why her shoes were caked with dirt. He poured her coffee and served her breakfast, of which she obediently ate every bit. Yet, when he cleared the table, she made no move to wash or dry the dishes. Chin in hand, she remained seated at the table, thoughtfully smoking while watching him at the sink, after which she asked for a glass of water, took two aspirins from her pocket, and swallowed them. “Do you have a headache?” he asked. “No,” she said, “it's just in case.”

Since they were ready to go out now, he proposed that she clean her shoes, even producing a brush and polish and spreading a newspaper on the terrace. Standing beside her while prying open the can of polish that she had fumbled with unsuccessfully, he saw there was hardly an inch difference between them—which was still enough, however, to annoy him. She took off her shoes and stood in her white socks, her legs downy in the morning light, and removing his too, he suggested that she apply the polish while he wield the brush. She had hardly begun, however, when the telephone rang. “You get it; it may be for you,” he said, wanting the unknown caller to hear a woman's voice. Dutifully she went and picked up the receiver, clutching it with both hands as if afraid of dropping it, her question-mark figure turned to him in profile. It was Uri again, and while Molkho waited for her to finish, he impatiently polished his shoes, put them back on, and then polished hers while trying to guess their age. She'll have to dye her hair and take the fuzz off her legs and buy new shoes and use makeup, he grumbled to himself. And if she says it's a matter of principle, she can choose between her principles and me. He put away the rags and brush, and brought her shoes to her, the two of them now the same height, waiting to see if his counselor wished to speak to him. But soon she hung up. “He sends regards,” she said, putting on her shoes with a grateful look.

I
'LL NEVER DO ANYTHING
like this again, thought Molkho crossly, though he was glad that her husband kept calling. At least he hasn't just dumped her on me, he told himself; I can always return her with a clean conscience. He had already planned the day, and now he told her about it. In the morning they would do some shopping, visit the mountaintop campus of the university, and lunch at an outdoor restaurant; in the afternoon, after resting up, they would go to the beach; and in the evening, if she liked, there was a concert in unusual surroundings, the subterranean Knights Hall in old Acre, which hosted chamber-music groups all summer long. “Chamber music?” she asked doubtfully. He brought her an old program, which she thumbed through unenthusiastically; yet the tickets were expensive and he was determined to use them, especially as they were unlikely to be sellable at the performance. His wife had had a passion for such concerts, which often struck him as monotonous, indeed as one of the punishments of Culture, although sometimes, near the end of them, either because his liberation was near or because the music had finally penetrated, he felt a euphoric serenity.

“Tomorrow, though, we can go see a movie,” he added intimately. “I'd like that,” she smiled. “And perhaps,” he suggested, “we'll go to the beach again.” She nodded her gray head. “The beach sounds nice. I haven't been to it for ages.” “Did you bring a bathing suit?” he asked rhetorically, being thoroughly acquainted with the contents of her suitcase. “No,” she said. “But why not?” he asked. “Are you afraid that one of your religious friends from Jerusalem will see you?” “Maybe next time,” she blushed, as if baffled or overwhelmed by all his questions. If there is a next time, he almost said out loud. But he didn't. After all, he thought, I really loved her once, and after a day or two I may remember why.

Though he had hoped she would change into another, livelier dress, she clearly did not share his taste and wore her jumper to the nearby shopping center, where they entered a small optometrist's shop, the owners of which Molkho knew from the Philharmonic series. Facing her in a seat that looked like a barber's chair, he tried on frames of glasses to see which went best with his new bifocals, which he had gotten because his once-perfect distance vision now called for correction too. The optometrist regarded Ya'ara curiously, appraising her odd combination of jumper, bobbysocks, gray hair, and wedding ring while gallantly asking for her opinion, as if it alone had any value. Lighting up a cigarette, she fumbled for words and seemed relieved when they all agreed on a pair of gold frames, on which Molkho put a deposit.

They made their way along the busy street. She had, Molkho noticed, a hapless way of falling behind that might once have appealed to him but simply annoyed him now. Abruptly he entered a building and climbed to a second-floor apartment that had been converted into a boutique, in the soft light of which local matrons in bright bathing suits circulated among curtained shelves. Only when they were approached by a salesgirl and Molkho gestured toward Ya'ara, however, did she realize what he had in mind. “I can't!” she pleaded, turning crimson and stiffening. “But I'll pay for it,” he whispered. “It's so we can go to the beach.” Yet still she balked, taking a feeble step backward, so that in the soft light, surrounded by partially dressed ladies, he was struck again by her old beauty. He tried to persuade her while the salesgirl stood by politely smiling, even giving her hand a squeeze, though quickly letting go of it.

T
HEN AT LEAST A DRESS,
he thought. If she would only buy one of those summery dresses in the show windows, something stylish and fresh-looking, because her faded old jumper, on which there was already a light stain of sweat, was making him more and more unhappy. She was unhealthily attached to it, which made him fear she might wear it to the concert that evening too. Not wanting to upset her even more, though, he decided to walk with her to Panorama Road for a scenic view of the harbor and bay, but arriving there, they found the visibility poor. A heavy mist lay over the bay, while to the north, the mountains of the Galilee lay shrouded in a grayish haze, the only clear landmark being the golden dome of the Bahai Temple down the mountainside. “In autumn,” he assured her disappointedly, “you can see for miles around. The houses in Acre look like toy blocks, and the mountains seem close enough to touch.” He suggested having coffee in an elegant café inside a big new department store, through which he led her past racks of dresses, pants, and shirts, stopping now and then to check fabrics and prices in the hope of arousing her interest. “The ‘in' look today is the wide look,” he said, sounding more mystified than informed. “Anything goes—and usually with anything else!” Yet lagging behind again, she did not even glance at the clothes, perhaps afraid of being forced to buy something, so that they were both relieved to reach the men's department, where she gladly looked with him at the new collarless shirts, one of which appealed to him especially. “What do you think?” he asked her, holding it up in front of him just as a young salesman approached and urged him to try it on for size. “Tell your husband not to mind the missing collar,” Molkho heard him say beyond the dressing curtail as he buttoned up the shirt. “He'll get used to it. It's the new look.” “But what do I want with the new look,” Ya'ara replied, her answer pleasing him greatly, “when his old look suited me fine?”

In the café he tried discussing politics, but the subject failed to interest her. Nor, when asked about her husband's views, did she seem to think it interested him. “What does, then?” inquired Molkho. She looked at him in bewilderment, unused to having to explain the man who was always there by her side to explain himself. “He's looking for the Meaning,” she murmured, drawing on her cigarette. “For the Purpose of it all. Not just to live with as much pleasure and as little pain as possible.” “What Purpose is that?” inquired Molkho. “But that's what he's looking for!” she answered. “Yes, I know,” he said a bit sarcastically. “He told us that in the movement thirty years ago—but what has he found since then?” “It's not like discovering some Big Idea,” she tried to explain. “It's something you have to live.” “But isn't life itself the Purpose?” he asked. “To get through it as best you can before Death comes for you?” “But Death doesn't mean a thing to him!” she retorted admiringly. “He doesn't believe in it!” “Oh, he doesn't!” Molkho grinned at her painfully. “Do you think Death cares whether he believes in it or not?” Frightened by his vehemence, she tried changing the subject. “But I want to know!” he insisted, just getting more worked up. “What does he believe in?” “Don't ask me, ask him,” she answered softly. “And you? How about you?” he queried. “I'd rather not think about Death,” she said. “I feel more like you do about it. Even when I had all those miscarriages, I never thought of them as deaths, just as failures, because how can you die if you haven't been born?”

Once again he was reminded of her old directness, of the naive honesty she had answered all their teachers with. So it wasn't just her looks that made me love her, he mused, trying to remember more. Left back a grade, she had sat there not caring about her studies, wanting only to get through the year. She hadn't even pretended to care. And though all her friends were seniors, she made a strong impression on the junior class she was banished to. “Sitting here with you,” Molkho told her, “I feel that I'm back in high school again, only this time without homework or exams and with spending money in my pocket.” She flashed him an intimate smile. How can we keep the feeling of closeness? he wondered just as he spotted the two little Russians, mother and daughter, heading for the exit of the café, followed by an old woman with a cane who stopped to pay the cashier. For a moment, sure he had been noticed, he caught his breath; then, turning to Ya'ara, he whispered, “Look over there, that woman in the white peasant blouse—she's my mother-in-law. Just wait until you get to know her. She's eighty-two and clear as a bell. Would you believe how she looks? And she does everything! She doesn't even need that cane; it's just something she carries around with her. It's incredible how lucid she is.”