Scenes from Village Life (12 page)

I told her that I once tried to read one of Eldad Rubin's novels—after all, he was from here, from our village, and the entire village was proud of him—but I couldn't finish it; I read thrillers, agricultural supplements in the papers and occasionally books about politics, or biographies of political leaders.

Yardena said, "It's nice that you came tonight, Yossi." I reached out hesitantly and touched her shoulder, and when she didn't say anything I held her hand, and after a moment I took her other hand too, and so we sat for a few minutes, face to face on two packing cases in the cellar, her hands clasped in mine, as though the fact that neither of us had read any of Eldad Rubin's books forged a bond between us. Or maybe it wasn't that but the emptiness of the house and the silence of the cellar with its thick smells.

After a while Yardena stood up. So did I. She withdrew her hands and held me tight, with all the warmth of her body, and I plunged my face into her long brown hair and inhaled her smell, a smell of lemon-scented shampoo with a faint tinge of soap. And I kissed her twice, in the corners of her eyes. We stood there without moving, and I felt a strange mixture of desire and brotherly affection. "Let's go to the kitchen and get something to eat," she said, but she went on hugging me as though her body couldn't hear what her lips were saying to me. My hands stroked her back and her hands held my back tight and I could feel her breasts pressed to my chest and the feeling of brotherliness was still stronger than the desire. So I stroked her hair long and slow and I kissed the corners of her eyes again, but I avoided her lips, fearing to give up something irreplaceable. She buried her head in the hollow of my neck and the warmth of her skin radiated into my skin and stirred a silent joy that overcame the desire and reined in my body. Nor was her embrace one of desire but rather of wanting to hold on to me so that we shouldn't stumble.

AND THEN IN A CORNER
of the cellar we discovered her father's old wheelchair, padded with worn-out cushions and equipped with two big wheels, each with a rubber hoop attached to it. Yardena sat me in the chair and pushed me to and fro across the cellar, from the steps to the heaps of sacks and from the shelves of preserved vegetables to the piled-up books. As she pushed me, she laughed and said, "Now I can do anything I feel like to you." I laughed too, and asked what she felt like doing. She said she felt like putting me to sleep, into a sweet cellar sleep. "Go to sleep," she said, "sleep sweetly." There was something bittersweet in her voice as she pronounced those words. Then she began to sing an old lullaby that I hadn't heard since my childhood, a strange, absurd song about shooting in the night, about a father who is being shot at and a mother who is soon going to take her turn on guard duty:
The barn in Tel Yosef is burning, close your eyes and do not weep. And from Beit Alfa smoke is rising, close your eyes and go to sleep.

The song somehow suited the house we were in, and it specially suited the cellar and Yardena, who kept pushing me gently around the cellar, occasionally stroking my head and my face and softly touching my lips till I really did begin to feel a pleasant tiredness spreading through my body and I nearly closed my eyes, except that some sense of danger pierced the drowsiness and stopped me falling asleep. My chin fell onto my chest and my mind wandered to that strange woman who had appeared to me beside the statue in the out-of-the-way Memorial Garden behind the Village Hall, with her Alpine hiking outfit and her hat with its buckles and brooches, and I recalled how she had fixed me with a scornful gaze and then, as I had walked away and turned my head, suddenly faded as if she had never existed. I would buy this house whatever the price, I decided, swathed in sweet sleepiness, and I would raze it to the ground though I had grown fond of it. Somehow I felt a certainty that the house had to be demolished, even if it was virtually the last one, and soon there would be no building left standing in Tel Ilan from the days of the first settlers. Barefoot Yardena kissed me on the head and left me in the wheelchair as she tiptoed away like a dancer and went up the steps with the flashlight and closed the door behind her, leaving me in the wheelchair, sunk in a deep repose. And I knew that everything was all right and there was no hurry.

TEL ILAN, A PIONEER
village, already a century old, was surrounded by fields and orchards. Vineyards sprawled down the east-facing slopes. Almond trees lined the approach road. Tile roofs bathed in the thick greenery of ancient trees. Many of the inhabitants still farmed, with the help of foreign laborers who lived in huts in the farmyards. But some had leased out their land and made a living by letting rooms, by running art galleries or fashion boutiques or by working outside the village. Two gourmet restaurants had opened in the middle of the village, and there was also the winery and a shop selling tropical fish. One local entrepreneur had started manufacturing reproduction antique furniture. On weekends, of course, the village filled with visitors who came to eat or to hunt for a bargain. But every Friday afternoon its streets emptied as the residents rested behind closed shutters.

Benny Avni, the village mayor, was a tall, thin, sloppily dressed man with drooping shoulders. His habit of wearing a pullover that was too big for him lent him an oafish air. He had a determined way of walking, his body bent forward as though he were walking into a wind. His face was pleasant, with a high brow, delicate lips and an attentive, curious look in his brown eyes, as if to say, "I like you, and I wish you'd tell me more about yourself." Yet he also had the knack of refusing a request without appearing to do so.

At one o'clock on a Friday afternoon in February, Benny Avni was sitting alone in his office, replying to letters from local residents. All the council workers had already gone home, because on Fridays the offices closed at twelve. It was Benny Avni's custom to stay late on Fridays to write personal replies to letters he had received. He had only a few more letters to write, and then he planned to go home, have his lunch, shower and take a siesta. Later, he and his wife, Nava, were invited to a communal singing evening at the home of Dalia and Avraham Levin at the end of Pumphouse Rise.

He was still writing when he heard a timid knock at the door. He was occupying a temporary office, furnished only with a desk, two chairs and a filing cabinet, while the council offices were undergoing refurbishment. "Come in," he said, looking up from his papers. A young Arab by the name of Adel entered. He was a student, or an ex-student, who worked for Rachel Franco and lived in a shed at the bottom of her garden, at the edge of the village, near the row of cypress trees that marked the boundary of the cemetery. Benny knew him. He gave him a warm smile and told him to sit down.

Adel, short and skinny with glasses, remained standing facing the mayor's desk, a couple of paces away from it. He bowed his head respectfully and apologized for disturbing him outside working hours.

"Never mind, sit down," said Benny Avni.

Adel hesitated, then sat down on the edge of the chair.

"It's like this," he said. "Your wife saw me walking toward the village center and asked me to look in here and give you this—a letter, in fact."

Benny Avni reached out and took the note.

"Where did you meet her?"

"Near the Memorial Garden."

"Which way was she going?"

"She wasn't going anywhere. She was sitting on a bench."

Adel stood up hesitantly and asked if there was anything else the mayor needed him for. Benny Avni smiled and shrugged, and said there was nothing he needed. Adel thanked him and left. Not till he had gone did Benny Avni open up the folded note and find, in Nava's unhurried round handwriting, on a page torn from the notepad in the kitchen, the four words:

Don't worry about me.

He found these words puzzling. Every day Nava waited for him at home for lunch. He came home at one, whereas she finished working at the primary school at twelve. After seventeen years of marriage Nava and Benny still loved each other, but their everyday relations were marked most of the time by a measure of mutual indifference tinged with a certain contained impatience. She resented his political activities and his council work, which followed him home, and she could not stand the democratic affability that he lavished indiscriminately on everyone and anyone. For his part, he disliked her passion for art, and the statuettes that she modeled in clay and fired in a special kiln. He hated the smell of burnt clay that sometimes clung to her clothes.

Benny Avni called home and let the phone ring eight or nine times before admitting to himself that Nava was not there. He found it odd that she should go out at lunchtime, and even odder that she should send him a note, without bothering to say where she had gone or when she would be back. He found the note implausible and her choice of messenger surprising. But he was not anxious. Nava and he always left each other notes under the vase in the living room if they went out unexpectedly.

So he finished off his last two letters, to Ada Dvash about relocating the post office and to the council treasurer about the pension rights of an employee, filed the contents of his in-tray, placed all his letters in the out-tray, checked the windows and shutters, put on his three-quarter-length suede coat and double-locked the door. He planned to walk past the Memorial Garden, collect his wife from the bench where she was probably still sitting and go home with her for lunch. He turned around, though, and went back to his office, because he had a feeling he might have forgotten to shut down the computer, or left a light on in the toilet. But the computer was shut down and the lights were all switched off, so Benny Avni double-locked his door again and went off to look for his wife.

NAVA WAS NOT SITTING
on the bench by the Memorial Garden. In fact she was nowhere to be seen. But Adel, the skinny student, was sitting there, on his own, with an open book lying face-down on his lap. He was staring at the street while sparrows chirruped overhead in the trees. Benny Avni laid his hand on Adel's shoulder.

"Has my wife been here?" he inquired gently, as if he feared he might hurt the boy. Adel replied that she had been there, but that she wasn't there anymore.

"I can see that," Benny Avni said, "but I thought you might know which way she went."

"I'm sorry," said Adel. "I'm really sorry."

"That's all right," said Benny Avni. "It's not your fault."

He made his way home, via Synagogue Street and Tribes of Israel Street. He leaned forward as he walked, as though contending with some invisible obstacle. Everyone he passed greeted him with a smile, because the mayor was a popular figure. He too smiled, and asked how they were, and what was new, and sometimes he added that the problem of the cracked paving stones was being taken care of. Soon they would all go home for their lunch and their Friday siesta, and the streets of the village would be empty.

The front door was unlocked, and the radio was playing softly in the kitchen. Someone was talking about the development of the railway network and the advantages of rail over road transport. Benny Avni looked for a note from Nava in the usual place, under the vase in the living room, but there was none. His lunch was waiting for him, though, on the kitchen table, on a plate covered with another plate to keep it warm: a quarter of a chicken, with potato purée, carrots and peas. The plate was flanked by a knife and fork, and there was a folded napkin under the knife. Benny Avni put the plate in the microwave for two minutes, since, despite being covered, the food was not very warm. Meanwhile, he took a bottle of beer from the fridge and poured himself a glass. He consumed his lunch hungrily yet barely noticed what he ate, because he was listening to the radio, which was now broadcasting light music, with long breaks for commercials. During one of these breaks he thought he heard Nava's footsteps outside on the garden path. He stared out of the kitchen window, but no one was there. Among the weeds and junk was the shaft of a broken cart and a couple of rusty bicycles.

When he had finished eating, he put the dirty dishes in the sink and went to have a shower, turning off the radio on the way. A deep silence fell on the house. The only sound was the ticking of the clock on the wall. The twelve-year-old twin girls, Yuval and Inbal, were away on a school trip to Upper Galilee. The door to their bedroom was closed, and as he went past he opened it and peered inside. The shutters were closed, and there was a smell of soap and freshly ironed linen. Gently closing the door, he went to the bathroom. After removing his shirt and trousers, he suddenly recovered his presence of mind and went to the telephone. He was still not worried, but he wondered where Nava had disappeared to and why she had not waited for him, as she always did, for lunch. He rang Gili Steiner and asked if by any chance Nava was with her.

"No, she's not," Gili said. "Why? Did she tell you she was coming to see me?"

"That's just it, she didn't say anything."

"The grocer is open till two, maybe she popped out to buy something."

"Thanks, Gili. It's OK, she'll probably be back soon. I'm not worried."

Despite which, he looked up the number of Victor's grocery and dialed it. The phone rang for a long time before anyone answered. Eventually Old Liebersohn's nasal tenor voice spoke, in a liturgical singsong:

"Victor's grocery, this is Shlomo Liebersohn speaking, how may I help you?"

Benny Avni asked after Nava, and Old Liebersohn replied mournfully:

"No, Comrade Avni, I am very sorry to say your lovely wife has not been seen here today. We have not had the pleasure of her charming company. Nor are we likely to, seeing that in ten minutes' time we are closing the shop and going home to prepare to welcome the Sabbath Bride."

Benny Avni went back to the bathroom, stripped off his underwear, adjusted the temperature of the water and took a long shower. While he was drying himself he thought he heard the door creak, so he called out "Nava?" But there was no reply. Putting on clean underwear and a pair of khaki trousers, he combed the kitchen for clues, then went to the living room and checked the corner where the TV was. He looked in their bedroom and in the enclosed veranda, which served as Nava's studio. This was where she spent long hours modeling figurines in clay, imaginary creatures or boxers with square jaws and broken noses. She fired them in a kiln in the storage shed. He went to the shed, switched on the light and stood there blinking for a moment, but all he could see were contorted clay figures and the cold kiln surrounded by dark shadows cavorting among the dusty shelves.