Five Seasons (4 page)

Just then there was a knock on the door, and a brash young moving man in blue overalls appeared for the bed, grinning at them both and addressing the woman as Mrs. Molkho, an error that Molkho was not sure how to correct. Hurriedly he ushered the man into the bedroom, where he first checked the bed from all angles for damage and then produced some papers to sign. The deposit would be returned in a month or two, he told Molkho, who began at once to protest, having assumed that the sizable sum would be refunded right away. “Why, it's not even indexed,” he said. “It will just go on losing its value!” The mover did not disagree. Still, he said, those were the rules, it wasn't up to him, and in any case, Molkho didn't stand to lose much; there were people who had kept such beds for years and had their deposits wiped out by inflation. Molkho barely argued for a minute before feeling too tired to go on. Why quarrel over money with someone who had no say about it anyway? All that mattered was getting rid of the bed, in fact, of everything in the room. But unfortunately the moving man was in no hurry, he was a garrulous type who seemed eager to stage a colloquium, and worse yet, he had come by himself and in a small car, so that the bed had to be disassembled and carried out piece by piece.

Meanwhile, before going to wash the dishes piled high in the sink, the new housekeeper had changed into an old smock hanging by Molkho's towel in the bathroom, which—though he could have sworn it was his wife's—she had apparently decided to expropriate. As for the moving man, he was now in the bathroom, where he remained for quite some time, leaving Molkho anxious and impatient. “What should I cook?” asked the housekeeper. “What would you suggest?” parried Molkho, opening the refrigerator and peering into it. But instead of one suggestion, she made several, forcing Molkho, whose wife had always dealt with such things, to decide. “I could make a chicken with olives and tomato sauce,” she proposed, “but it's a bit on the spicy side.” “Let it be on the spicy side,” said Molkho. “I like hot food myself.” The moving man, having finished washing up, now came to the kitchen to ask a question that had been evidently bothering him on the toilet; “Who,” he wanted to know, “was the bed for, your father or your mother?” “For neither,” hissed Molkho angrily. “It was for my wife.” The moving man nodded. Without batting an eyelash, he asked the housekeeper for some tea for his sore throat and then sat down at the table and began to banter with her. Molkho left the room quickly, as though in search of something. Why indeed stay with them? He told the woman to lock up when she was done, went to the bedroom, seized the wheelchair, the oxygen mask, and the intravenous drip, and dragged them downstairs to his car.

H
E RETURNED ALL THREE ITEMS
, received his deposits back, and barely had time to get to the bank and withdraw his wife's last monthly paycheck. It was the first time all week he'd been out of the house by himself, and though he'd hoped to accomplish a lot and even enjoy it, there were long lines everywhere and nothing went smoothly. Moreover, hardly anyone seemed to know his wife had just died. The silent, empty house was depressing to return to, yet there was also something promising about it, for the kitchen was spotless, the bathroom was clean, and several pots stood on the table with their lids on. The little hospital had a new look too: the large sickbed was gone and in its place stood his own bed, which for some reason had been moved against the wall, leaving an odd vacuum in the room. Suddenly he had the feeling that the two of them had made love on it. The moving man had had a roving eye,...and indeed, it rather pleased Molkho to think that sex, even that of two strangers, had returned to his house and left its imprint. Sitting down on the bed, he sniffed its linen. Was that tobacco he smelled? Perhaps, though he couldn't be sure.

He went to take lunch in the kitchen. The chicken was good, if full of strange tastes, and there was another dish made with some unfamiliar purple vegetable. Checking the refrigerator, he found more pots there too. Had he really told her to cook that much or had she gone and done it on her own? It was three o'clock. He dialed his mother-in-law to see how she was and to ask if she knew the where abouts of the high school boy, who still wasn't home from school and sometimes went straight to the old-age home to lunch with her, but there was no answer in her room. Nor was there any at the college student's dormitory. The end of the week of mourning, so it seemed, had been taken by them all as a signal to kick over the traces. There was a deep, strange silence in the house. Molkho drew the bedroom blinds and lay down to take a nap, as he had done regularly when his wife was sick and he had had to get up at all hours; yet, though awake since dawn, he couldn't fall asleep, for all at once he felt worried about his son. He rose, switched on some classical music on the radio, and began to go through the medicines, of which there was a great pile, throwing some out, returning others to the cabinet, and leaving the twenty boxes of Talwin on the shelf, where he built a colorful wall of them. It was madness, he thought, to throw out anything so new and expensive. Next, turning to the room itself, he slowly began restoring it to its former state, before its paramedical conversion. Dragging back the chairs and table that had been moved out of it, he tried them in different places, pausing to decide where they looked best and were most sensible. Arranging the furniture had always been his wife's job. The double bed alone still remained on the terrace, covered with a large sheet of plastic, its mattress hopelessly rotted. Picking up the special bath basin he had bought, he leaned it against the doorway: it was brand-new and could surely be sold, perhaps even to his mother-in-law's old-age home. It was best not to involve her in it, though, because she might expect him to donate it and he was not about to lose all that money.

His son was still not home, and Molkho realized that he didn't know the name or even the telephone number of a single one of the boy's friends. He went downstairs to wait for him, but a cold, dull wind drove him back up to the apartment, where he made the boy some coffee and put a plate of cookies by the cup. Then, sitting down at his desk, he began going over the bank statements that had lain neglected since his wife's death. He had already drawn up a list of the sums still owed her by the Department of Education.

H
IS SON TURNED UP
at half past five, without a key naturally, since he had grown accustomed in the last half-year to someone always being at home. “We're under new management,” Molkho told him. “From now on you better take a key; I'm not going to sit around all day waiting for you like a nursemaid!” He set the table for supper, and they sat down to eat the new dishes, whose spiciness the boy did not like. Molkho, too, had no appetite. A new worry on his mind, he dutifully dialed the old-age home; yet again there was no answer, and inquiring about his mother-in-law at the switchboard, he was told she had gone out at noontime and not returned. Since he could feel himself coming down with a cold, which he must have caught in the cemetery, he decided to go to bed. Meanwhile, his son had sat down in front of the television. “Don't you have another history exam tomorrow?” Molkho asked him. The boy wasn't concerned: the later at night he studied for it, the better he would remember in the morning. “Well, then,” said Molkho, “I'm going to bed. If your grandmother calls, tell her I'm sleeping.” Reflecting on the events of recent days, which seemed to have happened not close together but rather at great intervals of nebulous time, he went to the bedroom, now its old self again. Turning off the night-light, he was plunged at once into unfamiliar darkness and fell asleep; yet shortly after midnight he sat up in a fright, for he had suddenly heard wheezing close by. Quickly he jumped out of bed. The light was on in the kitchen, and the kettle was steaming on the stove. At first, he thought it must be morning and that the housekeeper was back; it was, however, still night, and fully dressed, his son strolled casually into the kitchen to make himself a cup of coffee, his hair falling over his face. “Are you crazy?” asked Molkho. “What are you doing up at this hour?” The boy, it seemed, was still studying. Molkho sat down beside him, made himself a cup of tea to soothe his aching throat, and leafed through the last week's newspapers, which he had barely had a chance to glance at. Among the condolence notices he was touched to find a large one addressed to him by the Ministry of the Interior, one that he had overlooked before.

The next day he went back to the office. Whoever hadn't been to the funeral or paid a call on him at home now came by to express his sympathy. Yet the hours dragged and the prickle in Molkho's throat grew so bad that he decided to quit ahead of time. On his way down the stairs he spied the legal adviser, looking quite elegant in a brown knit dress and unaware that he was behind her, which enabled him to study her at leisure. Around her pale neck she wore a metal chain that was rather heavy and crude for his taste. Was she in good health? The odd thought occurred to him that she, too, might be incubating some illness. And yet she seemed robust enough, her heels clicking gaily as she quickly descended the stairs. Though his job in the office rarely brought him into contact with her, she was considered, he knew, to have a first-class legal mind. Suddenly, as though sensing his presence, she turned and halted in a fluster, blushing at his sad nod, her cheeks reddening in curious blotches. Molkho, who was wearing a rather old sweater and whose sore throat and cold were getting worse, was not at all eager to encounter her, but already she was hurrying back up the stairs and pressing his hand warmly. “Is the week of mourning over? I also went back to work right away. It's good that you did.”

Y
ET HE DID NOT GO TO WORK
the next day, which was rainy and dreary, his cold having gotten even worse. Feeling he had a fever, he phoned his mother in Jerusalem, hoping to be told by her to stay home, as indeed he was. “Don't go out,” she pleaded. “Take the day off.” Shortly before nine, which was the hour the housekeeper came, he dressed and sat down in the living room, loath to have her think he was ambushing her in bed. But she was late, and after
poking about the house for an hour, tired and runny-nosed, he left a note in the kitchen with instructions for cooking and cleaning, added the postscript that he was sick, and returned to the bedroom, where he shut the door behind him and began to doze off. At eleven he heard her come in. Evidently she hadn't found the note, because at once she turned the radio on full blast to an Arab station, listening to its trilled music while rattling about with the pots. Not that he had anything against Arab music. It was melodic enough, and lately, he had noticed, the accompaniments had improved and become more sophisticated. Still, it was too loud—though afraid to frighten her by a sudden appearance in his pajamas, especially since she was now singing lustily herself, he remained lying in bed, pretending to sleep while waiting to be discovered, or at least for his note to be found. And in the end it was. At once she switched off the radio and opened the door to his room in amazement. “I have a bad cold,” he nodded to her from his pillow. “I didn't go to work today.” “It's good you didn't,” she answered. “Would you like a cup of tea?” “If it isn't too much trouble,” smiled Molkho. Oddly misaligned, her bottom too heavy for her girlishly thin arms, she walked out of the room. Household help had never lasted long with his wife, who was very critical, and this one—who was it who had told him she was divorced?—had only been with them a few months. When she brought him the tea, along with some cookies he hadn't asked for, he coughed a few times to let her know his cold was real; yet even after he had thanked her, she remained standing by his side, as if waiting to see if he would drink. And he did, sitting up in bed. “If you'd like,” he said, “I'll get up so you can clean the room.” But she had cleaned it just two days ago, she explained, looking at him with a new freedom and confidence, and there was no need to clean it again. “Would you like me to bring you a glass of brandy?” “Later,” said Molkho softly, anxious not to hurt her feelings. Yet, as though mesmerized by the thought of what else she could do for him, she didn't budge or take her eyes off him. The nursing instinct was clearly strong in her. Smiling uncomfortably, he swallowed the burning tea in little sips. “You can turn the radio back on,” he said. “Just make it a little lower. And I really don't mind the music. You can listen to whatever you want. You can sing too. Please, I like it.” She reddened but said nothing, and immediately he regretted the remark, afraid she had taken it amiss.

And yet, Molkho realized all at once, from now on, whatever he said to a woman could be misconstrued, for it would be like a little box in which anything you wanted could be put. The thought of it made him feel foolish and undignified. “I can do without music,” said the housekeeper, still scrutinizing him. “You need to rest. If you want any more tea, let me know.” And she left the door open behind her, the better to keep an eye on him.

Molkho finished his tea, put down the cup, and lay looking up at the ceiling and then out into the hallway, catching glimpses of the furniture, the rug, the lit floor of the kitchen, the slippered feet of the housekeeper by the sink, and thinking how this was the view his wife had had during the last months of her life. Once again he felt pride at having managed her death at home. “Here,” said the housekeeper, coming back with a small glass of brandy, “this is just what the doctor ordered.” Though he wasn't at all in the mood for it, he sat up again, drank it, and thanked her. This time she shut the door when she left. Was he about to become a sexual object, he wondered, even though sex itself was but a dim and distant memory of a bondage cast aside for a more compassionate love, for the greater subtleties of affection, for the finer complexities of human relationships? Must he struggle now to rearouse himself? Certainly this woman of dubious status would be glad to help him out. And yet he wished to prolong the truce a little longer, without knowing exactly with whom. It was quiet in the house. A gray drizzle fell silently outside. He had to go to the bathroom, yet while he did not wish to be seen in his pajamas, getting dressed for no other purpose seemed oddly unnecessary. Finally, he rose and padded noiselessly off to the toilet, noticing the many new pots on the table as he passed the kitchen. And still more was cooking on the stove. Alarmed to think they were being inundated with food, he went irritably off in his pajamas to look for the woman and, finding her mopping the floor in the room of the high school boy, to ask her not to cook so much, because it was more than he knew what to do with. Huffily she muttered something back, but he was already off to the bathroom and thence to his room, locking its door and falling asleep at once. When he awoke, she was gone. On the back of his note she had written that he should buy more spices, because they were almost all out.