Five Seasons (40 page)

T
HE SAVAGE SUMMER
was still mellowing when the government overcame months of indecision to announce a bold new economic program that called for drastic wage cuts, shortly after which daylight saving time ended and the early darkness brought home the changing seasons. The approaching autumn made Molkho nostalgically recall the anxious days of a year ago. Premature though it was, he took out the calendar, sat staring at it for a long while, and finally circled a date for visiting the cemetery that fell several days before the anniversary of his wife's death. After all, he told himself, if I'm free to remarry, I'm free to move a date around. “Make sure you have no commitments or exams then,” he warned his children. “Later it will be too late to change, because I intend to invite that nice rabbi again.”

That Friday night, after the usual frozen fish served up with the inevitability of Fate, he told his mother-in-law. “What, you've already decided?” she asked, removing her glasses and bending over to pinpoint the day on the calendar, taken aback by his haste, despite her own penchant for orderliness. Molkho glanced mildly at the old woman, of whom there seemed to be less and less, as if her daughter's death had sprung a leak through which she herself was gradually escaping. Somehow she seemed to him like a burden he had to carry or like a barrier standing in his way. If only she had remarried and had had more children when she first came to this country, he thought, I wouldn't be saddled with her now. Had she ever had a lover after her husband's death? He found it hard to meet her eyes; lately, he felt, she was constantly appraising him, as if taking his measure for something. Before her mother entered the old-age home, his wife had sometimes sent him to her apartment to tighten a screw, change a light bulb, or drive a new nail in the wall, all of which he took his time doing, as if to put her patience to the test; after all, she had already bought the materials at his request and possessed her own little hammer, screwdriver, and box of nails and screws, so that she could easily have done the repair herself instead of waiting for him. Yet the fact was that he liked using her tools, even though he sometimes had to go back for a drill or wrench of his own, which led to yet further delays. “She has more patience than God,” he would say with a smile to his wife, who never suspected him of deliberately procrastinating. Now, though the home had a janitor for such things, she sometimes still looked at Molkho as though sizing him up for some job.

So things stood when late one Friday afternoon, after a brief but violent squall that seemed to have come out of nowhere to put an end to the lingering summer, followed by an equally sudden clearing in which the sun emerged alive and well again, she stepped out of the home to greet him in the same heavy winter coat and red woolen cap that she had worn on the night of his wife's death. When he opened the car door for her heavily bundled figure with its brightly sunken eyes, he found himself wondering if she might be getting senile, even before she startled him by asking, “How would you like to take another trip to Europe?”

I
T WAS TRULY AUTUMN NOW:
one rain followed another until he could hardly remember it having ever been otherwise. Leaves that had seemed fated never to fall turned yellow and scudded along the sidewalks before fierce winds. Early one such morning, dressed in a warm coat and with a suitcase at his feet, Molkho stood downstairs peering into a thin fog that made the streetlamps flicker unsteadily, repeatedly feeling his pockets to make sure that the passport, tickets, and money that his mother-in-law had given him were still there. He thought of the protean newspaper deliverer on the morning of his wife's death, and of how, though realizing in the end it was a man, he still preferred to think it was a grimly large woman, wearing glasses and wrapped in a scarf. He would have liked to see her again now, pedaling along with her wavering light.

But his taxi was already coming up the street, its motor audible above the shriek of the wind. Soon it appeared, on its roof rack a low wooden object that it took him a while to identify as a steamer trunk. I don't believe it, he thought resentfully. Of all the luggage in the world, she has to travel with that antique! He quickly put his suitcase in the baggage compartment and slipped into the empty front seat, nodding hello to the three women who sat huddled in the back like a single lump of furry dough, their eyes red from lack of sleep. They nodded back deferentially. Why, those two old biddies actually make me feel young, he though debonairly, trying to catch the low music on the radio, which sounded like a church choir singing in the vast nave of some cathedral. What kind of station plays music like that at 4
A.M.
? he wondered, glancing at the car radio before noticing the cassette that the elderly chauffeur of the old-age home, a retired bus driver in a brimmed cap, had put in the tape deck. When it comes to German Jews, even the cabbies are cultured, he thought with a smile, turning around to exchange glances with the plump young Russian, whose documents were in his pocket. Squeezed between the two old women, only her pretty eyes were clearly her own. And that, I'm sorry to say, is about all there is to her, thought Molkho, remembering the steamer trunk on the roof. In fact, this whole trip is one big wild wild goose chase, he told himself, loosening his seat belt a bit and turning to ask his mother-in-law how she had passed the night with her two guests. “We're all set, then,” he said to her, “although to tell you the truth, I wouldn't pin my hopes too high.” He had told her that from the start, from the moment she first had proposed him as an escort, and if he repeated it now, it was not to convince anyone but simply to point out that even a model of common sense like herself was capable of a rash venture. Her only response, however, was a cough and wan smile. Her Russian friend whispered something to her daughter, perhaps even a translation of his words, and he shook a despairing head to confirm that such was indeed his opinion, though the way the plump young lady smiled back at him left him far from sure that she agreed.

O
NLY AT THE AIRPORT,
when he had to take it off the roof, did he realize how heavy the trunk was. Although at first the old driver tried holding up his end of it, he soon let the full weight fall on Molkho, who was left to wrestle it to the ground while the women watched unconcernedly, not feeling the slightest compunction, not even his mother-in-law, who stood silently clutching her worn handbag. “Oh yes, it has a handle, we just had one put on,” she remembered to tell him once the trunk was safely down, pointing to a gilded appurtenance screwed into the dark wood. “They must think I'm their native porter,” he thought with a new sense of grievance. The plump little Russian, too, he noticed, was standing idly by without even looking for a baggage cart, curiously regarding the travelers coming and going in the dawn light. Well, you can't blame her, he told himself, going off to fetch two carts, in Russia they haven't invented the wheel yet. But why a steamer trunk when two or three plain suitcases would do just as well? “You see,” said his mother-in-law as though reading his mind, “she couldn't bear to part with it,” and indeed, it was a handsome piece, a narrow oak chest with an old wrought-iron lock. Molkho knew that he, too, would have done all he could to keep it.

The four of them stood silently in line at the baggage counter, already exhausted, though the journey had barely begun. To Molkho's surprise and somewhat to his disappointment, for he had hoped for a glimpse of its contents, the steamer trunk passed security with a cursory check and rode quickly off on a conveyor belt, disappearing via a portal through which an overcast morning was visible. Linking arms, the three women walked to the departure gate, where a sleepy policeman checked the boarding passes. “Well, then,” Molkho told his mother-in-law, “this is as far as you go. From here on, it's just the two of us.” The old woman said something in German to her friend, who halted, let out a sudden wail, distraughtly grabbed hold of the oddly passive little Russian, and hugged her in a deathly embrace while Molkho quickly maneuvered them out of the gateway and stepped back to let them part, half tempted to cry himself, though his mother-in-law, he noticed, stood there dry-eyed, her soft face looking out of focus. I suppose that at the age of eighty-three all this emotion must seem pointless, he thought. While the two Russians went on sobbing, he removed his new bifocals, folded them carefully, and put them away in his pocket. Why, he recalled, I didn't even cry when my wife died and neither did her mother. The illness dried up all our tears. I'd cry now if she would, but what good would it do, because I'm not going to get my wife back.

“If you ask me, this is all a wild goose chase,” he said with a smile to his mother-in-law, who didn't appear to understand the expression. “No one is going to take her back. I'm only doing this to help her make peace with the fact that this is where she'll have to live.”

A
ND THEN
they were by themselves. Though he had prepared himself for this moment, no sooner did they mount the escalator leading to passport control than the silence between them grew onerous. Even as his wife lay dying, he had spoken to her and understood her, whereas now, setting out with this funny little Russian, there was little hope of communication between them (Hebrew, their only common language, being by no means a reliable medium), which was why he had decided to keep her new laissez-passer in his pocket; indeed, his mother-in-law had as much as told him that her friend's daughter had a tendency to lose things and should not be trusted with important papers. And yet, unlike Molkho's wife, who wouldn't hear of his carrying her passport, the little Russian did not seem to mind, whether because she lacked the words to object or because she didn't care about a document from a country she had already renounced. Silently they watched their hand luggage pass through electronic surveillance, first her large red handbag, than her green umbrella, and finally his own faithful briefcase, which contained, besides his correspondence on her behalf with the Jewish Agency in Vienna, Volume II of
Anna Karenina,
the weekend supplement of the Friday newspaper, and several apples that he was loath to let rot in the refrigerator.

In the large waiting room they still had an hour until takeoff. The little Russian's tears had dried, leaving only a thin scar in her makeup, and once more she was looking curiously about her with her baby blue eyes. Like a little white rabbit, thought Molkho, observing her plump body, the fleshy folds of which exuded pampered innocence. And stubborn too—for since she looked far from stupid, what else but stubbornness could account for her having sat for months in an immigrants' Hebrew class while barely learning a word? No, she was not stupid, he decided as she anxiously appealed to him for permission to visit the duty-free shop, which she had nosed out with an animal instinct, despite the fact that this was her first commercial flight. Eagerly scurrying off to it, she snatched a shopping basket and headed for the well-stocked shelves with Molkho on her heels checking prices. Once he would have gone straight to the tobacco department, but one of the first sacrifices he had made to his wife's illness had been smoking, and in any case, what interested the little Russian was not cigarettes: apart from some chocolate bars, her basket already contained two bottles of Scotch, to which, with a nervous glance in his direction, she now added a fifth of vodka. Could she still be a virgin? wondered Molkho, mentally adding up the bill. His mother-in-law had given him eight hundred dollars for expenses, and he had to make the money last; yet, as though it were meant to flow through his fingers, he now counted it out with a smile. Unsuccessfully trying out a few words of beginner's Hebrew, he led her gently to a seat by the boarding gate, where she sat for a while, blissful with her purchases, until she suddenly popped up again and dashed off to the bathroom, leaving him with her things.

So far, so good, thought Molkho, who was only now beginning to feel his fatigue, having hardly slept a wink all night. Slouched in his seat, he scanned the faces of the other passengers, looking especially for Arabs who might hijack him. But Arabs, it seemed, did not fly El Al to Europe and, in fact, probably did not fly to Europe at all, being by nature thriftier than Jews. Why, just look at me, he thought: my wife isn't dead a year yet and I'm taking my second trip abroad, although, of course, I'm not doing it for pleasure. In the plate-glass window that looked out on the gray morning he saw the reflection of his own silver curls and his dark eyes, which brimmed with liquid melancholy. Though the clouds looked thick as concrete, their plane would find a way through them.

He shut his eyes, listening to the quiet murmur around him. Once it would have been louder, but Israelis were becoming more civilized: the more they failed in war and politics, the politer they became, he mused, dozing off for a moment to be awakened by a loudspeaker announcing their flight. His fellow passengers rose to queue up by the gate, but the little Russian was nowhere in sight, and Molkho, who hated being late, impatiently grabbed her things and ran to the women's bathroom. For a moment he stood helplessly outside, recalling the special whistle he and his wife had had for such contingencies; then, giving the door a slight push, he furtively stuck in his head. An eerie silence greeted him from the deserted row of white sinks, broken only by a thin trickle of water, as if an underground spring were bubbling up in one of the toilet booths. Could she have locked herself in there? he wondered, not daring to enter. The first order of business in Europe would be to teach her to whistle. At least we can communicate that way, he decided, anticipating a difficult trip. But meanwhile there must be a way of luring her out of the bathroom. How would it look if he couldn't even get off the ground with her? Out in the waiting room their flight was being announced again. Trying not to panic, he ran back to the duty-free shop. After all, he told himself, if worse comes to worst and I've lost her, I can always go home and catch up on my sleep. In fact, she wasn't there, and he hurried to the boarding gate, arriving just in time to see the last stewardess vanish through the door. But this is madness, he thought bitterly, hearing the two of them paged on the loudspeaker, a white-rabbit hunter whose quarry had eluded him. Just then, however, she waddled out of the bathroom on her high heels, freshly made up and bright with excitement. “We'd better hurry,” he exclaimed, wagging a finger at her, a resort to words being pointless. Could his mother-in-law be plotting to marry her off to him out of pity—for her, for him, or for both?