The Liberated Bride (35 page)

O
N HIS WAY
to the airport the next day, Rivlin thought of Fu'ad's remark, “You Jews are always coming and going. It will make you sick in the end.” Not that he himself was going anywhere. He was merely dispatching others and picking them up. Although he had wanted to make sure he arrived before Hagit cleared customs and looked for a taxi, he had been detained by a long phone call from Ephraim Akri, who wanted to discuss his plans for the department. At first Rivlin thought his junior colleague was genuinely interested in his advice. However, it didn't take him long to realize that the shrewd Akri was merely asking him to approve decisions already made. It was his mode of operating. No wonder that, compared to the marathon sessions of the Rivlin era, the departmental meetings had grown short.

“No question about it, Ephraim,” Rivlin declared, needling his junior colleague, “you're a true political animal. It's a pity your talent is wasted on a small department like ours.”

“It's the only one I belong to,” Akri replied, in what was either an apology or a complaint, and promised to send Rivlin a summary of their talk. Exasperated by the pedantic nature of the man he had appointed to succeed him, Rivlin decided to goad him with the story of his visit to Mansura. The Near Eastern department head was not only goaded, he was perturbed. “You let them leave you alone in a bedroom with a sick Arab woman, just like that?” he scolded his colleague, warning him to be more careful in the future. Although it was important, even imperative, to be forthcoming with Arabs, intimacy was to be avoided. It could only lead to misunderstanding.

Rivlin was in a hurry to get to the airport and in no mood to argue. Yet no sooner had he changed to a fresh shirt than the phone rang again. This time it was an insistent saleswoman who had to talk “to your wife and only your wife.” When the Orientalist asked what about, he was told that it concerned a new vacuum cleaner of such remarkable capabilities that it was being marketed only to a select clientele. Though he had no time, he felt obliged to chastise the caller for her lack of feminist consciousness, there being many men in today's world—himself, for example—who used vacuum cleaners more often than their wives. The saleswoman was delighted to hear this. In that case, she said, she would gladly discuss the new appliance with him. It was a Kirby and could vacuum anything imaginable. Rivlin thanked her for the information, adding that he was in a hurry and that the vacuum cleaner they had worked perfectly well. “One more minute,” the voice at the other end of the phone pleaded, hanging on to him for dear life. “I'm only asking you to listen. There's no obligation. This is a new concept in housecleaning, a revolution your wife will want to hear about. It's called a vacuum cleaner only because our language lacks a better word.” “But my wife isn't here!” Rivlin exclaimed triumphantly. “I've been trying to tell you that I'm on my way to the airport to pick her up.” “Wish her a happy homecoming for me,” the dogged saleswoman congratulated him. “I hope she lands safely and gets some rest. We'll be at your house for a free demonstration the day after tomorrow. How about 8
P.M.
?”

“Just make sure you phone first,” Rivlin warned her. And before hanging up, he repeated: “Make sure you phone.”

In the new airport terminal, amid the chirping of cell phones that welcomed the arriving passengers before they had time to arrive, the pervasive smell of burned coffee, and the plashing of fountains that serenaded the crowd waiting for the returnees (who, in the seconds between clearing customs and coming into sight, had their happy-to-be-home-again faces televised on a closed-circuit screen for the benefit of their welcomers)—here, and here alone, the professor from Haifa reflected, was the erotic epicenter of the Jewish state. The Jewish heart might throb in Jerusalem, and the Jewish brain might grow sharp or soft in Tel Aviv, but the passionate focus of Israeli life was here, in the going and the coming. It took an Arab of the old school, like Fu'ad, to realize that what might seem to be Jewish solidarity, as displayed by the tall man coming over to tell him that his wife was on her way, was only Jewish hyperactivity.

Rivlin wasn't sure whether this person, who had gently put down his suitcase, was the prosecutor or the defense counsel in the mysterious trial. He himself was already looking at his wife on the closed-circuit screen. Her few seconds there were enough to tell him that something was on her mind. He hurried to take her suitcase, hoping to learn, before they joined the patiently waiting man, what it was. “Not now,” she whispered, giving him a grateful hug for his powers of observation. “There's a split decision to convict, and I'm the dissenting opinion. We'll talk about it later. Did you miss me? I missed you terribly. That man is the assistant district attorney of the Northern Circuit. We're giving him a ride to Haifa. I couldn't refuse. Don't ask him too many questions. Just be nice.”

Her two colleagues on the bench had stayed an extra night in Vienna to take in an opera, while the chagrined defense counsel was on business in Germany. That left the prosecutor, now ensconced in the backseat of their car. Satisfied with the results of their journey, which had tipped the case against the defendant, an accused spy he had long been trying to nail, but aware that Judge Rivlin had doubts about the testimony given in the Asiatic republic, he chatted about other things. One of these, which he mentioned in a rather snide tone, was the opening of an exhibition of oils and watercolors by former Supreme Court Justice Granot, a stroke victim who had taken up painting.

“Granot has another show?” Hagit turned, upset, to her husband. “How come I didn't know? Why didn't you show me the invitation? You know I wouldn't want him to think I'd forgotten him.”

“But what makes you think I saw an invitation?” Rivlin answered. “It must have been sent to your office and got lost.”

He refrained from commenting in the presence of a stranger on the chronic disorder of his wife's desk, a consequence of her inability to throw anything away.

“If the exhibition is still on, we'll go to it tomorrow,” Hagit comforted herself before lapsing into a drowsy silence. She looked gray and tired in the yellow light of the road. Rivlin fell silent, too. He felt the eyes of the prosecutor, who was sitting alertly behind him, drilling into his back, as if contemplating indicting him as well.

Back in their duplex, Hagit kicked off her shoes and stretched out on their bed as if to stamp it with the impressions of her trip while he emptied her suitcase out beside her, shut it again, and slipped it beneath the bed. Before hanging up her clothes, he examined them to see which items had paid their way and which had traveled as hitchhikers. He dumped a bag of his wife's underwear into the laundry basket and carried her toilet kit to the bathroom.

“You can arrange your bathroom things by yourself,” he said.

“Of course.”

“So who goes first, you or me?”

“I don't have much to tell. We went to a primitive place at the end of the world to listen to the fantasies of either a psychopath or a highly sophisticated liar. I honestly don't know whether someone in the district attorney's office or the Mossad thought they could put one over on us or they're so naive that they think the man is telling the truth.”

“What did the other judges think?”

“They didn't see it that way. They've been sold an opera like the one they're going to in Vienna. Not that the defendant isn't a can of worms. But you don't put someone away for fifteen years without better proof.”

“Fifteen years?” His curiosity was piqued.

“It could be. There are charges of treason.”

“What kind of treason?”

“Never mind. There's not much I can tell you. I'd rather not talk about it. I'm fed up with the whole trial. And I feel bad for Granot. He must think I've abandoned him.”

“You exaggerate. In his condition, he has other things to think about.”

“Precisely in his condition! When you can't talk and can only think, every little thing becomes crucial. I know how much I mean to him. We have no choice. Tomorrow or the day after, we'll go to his exhibition and buy a painting.”

“A painting of Granot's? What for?”

“He needs the money. Why do you think he's exhibiting? His wife never worked, he has no savings, and it's hard to cover an invalid's expenses on a pension, even a Supreme Court justice's.”

“I'll think about it.”

“There's nothing to think about. We'll go to the exhibition and buy a painting. Now tell me about yourself. Did the peace and quiet I gave you help you to make progress?”

“Conceptually, not on paper. Are you awake enough to listen to a strange story?”

“Of course.”

He paced up and down by the bed, his excitement mounting as he described his night journey among the Arabs. Hagit, eyes half-shut, lay listening to every word. She did not appear to be overly perturbed by his story.

“So! I leave you alone for a couple of days and you run wild.”

He smiled, relieved by her making a joke of it. “I suppose I did . . .”

“Did you at least enjoy it?”

“Enjoy it? Not exactly. But it may have sparked some new thoughts.”

R
EMOVING HIS GLASSES
, he lay down beside her in the faint hope of making love. Not that he really wanted to, but they hadn't done it for a while, and he didn't want their bodies to grow rusty. Hagit, however, smiled wearily without responding. Although he did not feel greatly
deprived, he made a point of wringing from her an acknowledgment of remissness.

They switched on the TV. Rivlin fell asleep watching a program. Awakening after midnight, he found Hagit's side of the bed empty and went to look for her. She was sitting in his study, composing the outline of her dissent.

“You don't think you can change one of their minds?”

She shook her head, sadly, not only because she took it hard when her opinion was not accepted, but because her dissent would not even be made public. He stroked her hair while glancing at the little card table on the terrace across the street. Some empty bottles of beer were still on it.

“She's started to live it up, my mother's ghost,” he said, telling Hagit about the man who had come to play cards.

“Are you jealous?”

“Jealous?” It never ceased to amaze him how quickly she saw through him. “What an idea! But it does make me realize how hard the last year with her was. There wasn't a moment of good feeling or enjoyment.”

She sighed. “And you tried so hard to be a loving son. It's sad when an old person feels wronged. That's why I don't want Granot to think I've abandoned him.”

“But he never would.”

“You're wrong. I know him. He's a noble man. That makes him highly sensitive. How could I not have seen the invitation?”

“You didn't see it because your desk is such a mess. You should let your typist arrange it for you.”

“That's not her job.”

“But she loves you. She'll do anything for you.”

“Maybe. It's still not her job. Why don't we go together one Saturday and you help me?”

T
HEY WERE THE
only ones at the exhibition, which was being held in the gym of a community center. The direct light only emphasized
how sadly out of place the little watercolors and oils were among the parallel bars and horses. Granot's first, surprise exhibition had been held two years previously, four years after his stroke. Long the chief justice of the Haifa District Court, he had suffered a stroke a few months after his appointment to the high court in Jerusalem and had had to return to his native city. For two years he was incommunicado, then he began to speak in striking colors and compositions; this led to an exhibition for which his many friends, as well as the entire legal community of Haifa, had turned out. The present show, his second, was more modest. The mute painter seemed to be in decline. His paintings were smaller, the colors more somber, the shapes more abstract. The distorted figures looked as if they were covered by a green mold.

Hagit strode silently around the room, stopping by each painting as though it had a deep significance. Her husband, having passed through the room quickly, stood asking the guard at the door how many visitors had seen the show. The answer was, Not many. The guard handed Rivlin a sheet of paper with the titles and prices of the works.

He scanned it quickly. The prices seemed high for an amateur painter, even an ex-Supreme Court justice. He wondered how they had been determined. Yet knowing that his wife had her heart set on buying something—either to make up for the missed opening or to help her first patron and guide—he looked for a reasonably priced item that he could live with and even pretend to like.

He stood in front of a small watercolor while his wife circulated reverently among the paintings as though renewing an old dialogue with the man who had been her mentor even after her appointment to the district court. The watercolor was fairly cheap and not too gloomy, with some vague figures, little dogs or jackals, surrounding the thin, black silhouette of a woman. It could be hung one day in the room of an imaginative grandchild, and meanwhile he did not think it would bother him. Calling Hagit over, he informed her that, if they had to buy something, this was what he liked best. Everything else was too ugly and depressing.

“This?” she marveled. “These poor little children being dragged down to Hell by a black devil?”

“Children? What children?” He was mystified. “Those are puppies or jackals. And where do you see a devil? Why would Granot paint devils? It's a woman walking her dogs.”

The judge took off her glasses and stepped closer to the painting. Her eyes were soft and sorrowful.

“Well, if that's what you think and you like it, let's buy it. I suppose you've checked the price.”

“Six hundred shekels.”

“Not too bad. Maybe we should buy two.”

“Are you out of your mind? Please, even one is too much. What are we, a social-work agency?”

“All right. Don't be angry. Write down the number and we'll pick it up when we visit him. Does it have a name?”

Rivlin consulted the sheet of paper.

“Yes.
The Return of the Little Ones.
”

In their building, by the door to the elevator, stood a tall man with a black ponytail. For a moment, his heart pounding, Rivlin thought it was Galya's new husband, come to ask them about her first marriage. But it was not the bird-faced man who had told him confidently in the garden of the hotel that he knew “everything.” It was a salesman, sent to demonstrate, “with no obligation,” the remarkable vacuum cleaner, which stood by his side like a faithful dog.

“But I specifically said you were to call first,” Rivlin protested. “You promised.”

The man with the ponytail looked crestfallen. He had been misled. He had come all the way from Tel Aviv on the understanding that he would be welcome. He spread imploring arms. He was asking for only half an hour of their time, with “no obligation at all.” They shouldn't put it off another day, because the price of the vacuum cleaner kept rising.

“Yes, and I suppose you're almost out of stock,” Rivlin taunted him. But it was already too late, because his wife had taken pity on the man and invited him up to their apartment.

Though polite, the salesman projected a quiet authority. Informing them that, despite his hippie-style ponytail, he was a reliable type, an ex-Border Guard officer, he proceeded to tell them about the
appliance's incredible success, not just in Israel, but throughout the Middle East. He had even sold a Kirby to a princess of the Hashemite royal house in Jordan. If they would kindly allow him to rearrange their living-room chairs, they could sit back and watch him demonstrate. The appliance, American-made, was called a vacuum cleaner only for lack of a better word. Its metallic gray showed that it was made from the same materials used in intercontinental missiles. Although this might sound like a stretch, it was true. He had documents to prove it. Take this hose, for example, which emptied the dirt into that container. You could crinkle it—crush it—crunch it with all your might, as he was doing now. Just look how it sprang back to its original shape, as only a noble metal could!

Rivlin, growing impatient, cast a reproachful look at his wife, who looked utterly tranquil.

“Just give me half an hour of your time,” the salesman said. “There's no obligation. Say ‘stop' and I'll stop. You see, you have a nice, neat house. As far as you and maybe even your guests are concerned, it's as clean as it needs to be. But our Kirby here isn't satisfied with outward appearances. It wants the full, unadulterated truth, as befits folks like you. Excuse me, but may I ask what your work is?”

“I teach at the university,” Rivlin murmured rancorously. “And my wife is a district judge.”

The salesman, accustomed to Hashemite princesses, inclined his head respectfully and whipped out of his valise an array of odd attachments that hooked up to one another in complicated but easy-to-grasp ways. These were designed, he said, to penetrate the most inaccessible places, from which they extracted hidden dirt that lesser machines never reached: crumbs of food in the pockets of armchairs and under sofas, dried leaves and dead insects rotting in the grooves of sliding doors and stuck to ceilings and curtain rods, dust between the lines of books or congealed under mattresses in revolting lint balls.

The judge glanced at her husband.

The salesman now swung into action. Inserting a thin, round pad into the vacuum cleaner, he ran the machine over the spotless crannies of their living room. He kept this up at length, changing the pads frequently before arranging them in a gray alluvial fan at the hastily
withdrawn feet of the duplex's tenants. Just look at the filth masquerading as cleanliness that the Kirby had unmasked! “You can imagine,” he said, “what your grandchildren must leave behind after they've been here for the weekend!”

Rivlin inched closer to his wife, feeling her warmth. He could feel old age creeping up on them both.

The ponytailed salesman mixed water and a fragrance in a small container and sprayed the couches with an aerosol attachment. Next he vacuumed the curtains and polished the parquet floor and asked to go upstairs to the bedroom. There, running the talented appliance over the bedspread and skimming the noduled mattress with its gleaming hulk, he removed from it yet another pad caked with a strange, white powder—the remains, he explained, of invidiously invisible mattress worms.

Rivlin glared at his wife, who seemed overcome by an inexplicable sorrow. Invited by the salesman to try out the machine and to take apart and put together its easy-as-pie components, she smiled demurely and volunteered her husband—who was soon vying to prove that he was as capable as the Hashemite royal house.

The salesman lauded the Orientalist's quick grasp.

“Maybe you should hire him as your assistant,” Hagit suggested.

An hour later, as the ex-Border Patrol officer was repacking his equipment prior to departing, Rivlin told him morosely:

“All right. We understand the principle. We'll think about it. But I want you to know that I'm devastated, because you've shown me that my home, which I always took to be clean, is a repository of filth. In the end we'll have no choice but to spend a fortune on a machine that we'll never use.”

“If you buy it,” the salesman reasoned, “why shouldn't you use it?” Yet judging by his sly smile, such things had been known to happen.