The Liberated Bride (57 page)

F
OR A SECOND,
the falling snowflakes wavered between turning to sleet and keeping their pristine whiteness. Yet those falling quickly behind
them stiffened their frozen resolve, and the white carpet outside the window grew thicker. Under a large umbrella they stepped back onto it, the careful Jew and the glum Arab, whose pockets were stuffed with useless medical forms. It took a moment to spot the jeep, now a white mass like the cars around it. Perhaps, Rivlin thought amusedly as he directed his driver toward a majestically white Mount Scopus, the snow was Europe's farewell salute to the young man it had tried to murder sixty years ago. The idea so appealed to him that he decided to include it in his eulogy.

In the university parking lot, he sought to part with Rashid. “Why waste the day waiting for me?” he said. “Start back now. I'll make it to Haifa on my own. I'm sorry I couldn't do more for your sister's children. We have to sit down and work out a plan.”

“No plan will work if no one has a heart,” Rashid said. “But thanks for trying.”

He put a gentle hand on the Arab's shoulder. “Don't give up. It's not like you.”

“It may not be like me, but it's how I feel.”

“It's not like you at all,” the Jew repeated reprovingly.

Rashid turned a dark, stubbled face full of anguish toward the road. His profile against the snow made Rivlin think of the dybbuk's white shrouds. “If this snow keeps up, Professor,” he said, “you'll need a jeep to get out of Jerusalem.”

“Don't worry,” Rivlin said. “I'm tenth generation in this city. I know these Jerusalem snows. By this afternoon the sun will be out and it will all melt.”

But even if Samaher's teacher was holding up his cousin's grade, the messenger insisted on sticking by him. He had no other work lined up for the day, which he would spend in Jerusalem, returning for the Orientalist's eulogy at the end of it. An Israeli Arab in a jeep could go where he wanted in this two-part city. Perhaps he would visit Fu'ad at his hotel. The two of them had got along well on the night of Tedeschi's death. He had even stopped in Abu-Ghosh on his way back to Mansura because Samaher hadn't been feeling well.

Rivlin felt a sweet frisson.

“Don't worry about me, Professor,” Rashid said. “The ride to Jerusalem was my treat, and the ride home will be too. Your wife will feel better if she knows you're with me.”

Rivlin smiled at Rashid's intuition. “Listen,” he said, reminded by the gurgle of melting snow in a nearby drainpipe of the basement of the hotel, the symbol of his lost and longed-for happiness. “Come back at lunchtime and we'll go together. Fu'ad will feed us.”

He took an invitation to the conference from his pocket and handed it to Rashid, showing him the building and the number of the room in which he would be.

The auditorium was empty. Hannah Tedeschi was pacing irritably up and down, her eye on the white maelstrom outside the window. The dark, masculine suit she had on looked as though it might have been Tedeschi's. Though they had spoken often by telephone since the day of the funeral, he was surprised to see how she had changed. Thinner, and with a new, short haircut, she suggested, despite her makeup and high heels, a melancholy youth. “I warned you!” she scolded Rivlin despairingly as soon as she saw him. “We should have postponed it or moved it to town, where at least the streets are plowed. You forgot, Yochanan, that Jerusalem can cope with war, siege, and terrorism but not with snow—and especially not on Mount Scopus.”

Rivlin defended himself calmly and logically. In the first place, there was no guarantee that a more suitable place in town would have been available at the last moment. Secondly, even if one had been, there hadn't been time to inform the public. And thirdly, what would Carlo have said had he known that a little snow would make them forsake a campus that meant so much to him? After all, not only had his entire career taken place on it, he was almost killed trying to break through to it in a relief convoy during the 1948 war.

“A little snow? Yochanan, don't you see what's going on out there?”

Once again Rivlin trotted out his Jerusalem pedigree to make light of the snow. By noon, he promised, the skies would clear and there would be nothing left but a white frosting. The timid souls who missed the morning session would surely have enough northern blood in them to turn out in the afternoon.

“You wait and see,” she accused him. “This snow will be an excuse to trample on his memory. We're in for another disaster like the
Othello
lecture. He never said a word about it, but I know how hurt he was.”

“But what made you take him to the emergency room?”

“He was afraid.”

“Of those political scientists? You're kidding.”

“But he was. All those theoreticians frightened him. He didn't know what they were talking about.”

“Neither do I. So what?”

She looked startled. “You don't?”

“Not always. But to hell with them. You have new glasses.”

“Just the frames. Was it wrong to change them?”

“Of course not.” He moved closer to her, feeling pity. “On the contrary. Since his death, Hannah, you're even more lovely.”

She flushed, hotly. “Don't be silly. The things you say! I feel so lost . . .”

Her eyes filled with tears.

Yet not even her tears were an incentive to come to the morning session. Although one of the two Ottomanists managed to make it through the snow, he had to speak to empty seats. If not for Suissa senior, who—his fedora covered in plastic against the rain—turned up at the last minute as a gesture to his son's admirers, there wouldn't have been a dozen people in the hall. The dean of the liberal-arts school, an art historian who couldn't have cared less about the Turks, delivered a few welcoming words, shut his eyes, and fell asleep, chin in hand, on the podium. Fortunately, the secretary of the Near Eastern Studies department, who had always been fond of Tedeschi and his witticisms, handed the dean a note summoning him to an imaginary meeting, thus sparing him further embarrassment.

Rivlin sat through the lecture with a sense of tedium. It didn't help that the lecturer let himself be sidetracked from the complex subject of Turkish-Arab relations to a discussion of Kurdish nationalism and its “historic,” as opposed to merely “emotional,” roots.

“Be careful, children,” his mother would tell Rivlin and his sister on snowy days in Jerusalem, on which she had made them stay home.
“Snow lulls the brain to sleep.” So that they might enjoy the snow anyway, she would send their father out to fetch a bowl of it, which they were allowed to play with, under her supervision, in the bathroom. Now, feeling his eyelids droop, he wondered whether she hadn't been right. Others around him were yielding to the same effect. Although the lecturer, a delicate homosexual once labeled by Tedeschi “the True Turk,” was struggling valiantly, in the extra time provided by the absence of the second speaker, to return to his original theme, the Kurds, whose muddled identity was typical of the minorities of the Ottoman Empire, kept distracting him. Now and then, in a concession to the occasion, he mentioned some old idea or forgotten publication of Tedeschi's. But the audience was too sleepy and too small for it to matter.

Rivlin, despite his sympathy for the Kurds, could barely keep awake. He went on repeating his mother's words like a mantra. And indeed the snow soon stopped falling, and a first patch of blue gleamed through the windows. Slowly the sky grew calm and clear, just as he had predicted in the name of his ancestors. He nodded encouragingly at Hannah, as if to say, “See, things are looking up.” By evening, he was sure, there would be a full house.

The rear door of the auditorium opened. Rivlin turned around to see who was there. It was his trusty driver, the dybbuk.

A
LTHOUGH THE CONFERENCE ORGANIZERS
had given the lecturers meal tickets for the cafeteria, Rivlin excused himself.

“I've been up since early morning, and all this snow has made me sleepy,” he told the disappointed translatoress. “I need some fresh air, not more academic chitchat. You'll manage without me. I'll give my ticket to Mr. Suissa.”

And going over to the bereaved father, he clasped his hand with his own two and said, “It's wonderful to see you following in your son's footsteps.” Suissa accepted the voucher gladly. “How is your daughter-in-law?” Rivlin asked. “She's left Jerusalem and gone to look for work in Tel Aviv,” the father of the murdered scholar replied. “And
the children?” “For the time being, they're with us.” “I thought she and you were getting along better.” “I thought so, too,” Suissa said sadly. “But there's nothing to be done about it. She's a young woman in a hurry to live.” “How old is she?” Rivlin asked, blushing as if he had committed an indiscretion. “Twenty-five next spring.” “That's all?” He had thought she was older. “With all she's been through,” he said, “you wouldn't think she would be hurrying anywhere.”

In the garden of the Hendels' hotel, the snow lay fresh and virginal on the paths and formed frisky little snow cubs of the bushes. Rivlin walked ahead, with Rashid following carefully behind him. Stopping to inspect a fringe of ice gaily trimming the old gazebo, he yielded to temptation and mentioned the wedding. Only six years ago, he told his driver, they had all been standing here. And as if to make up for the disappointment of the Civil Administration Bureau, he related the story of the unexpected and difficult divorce.

“They were only married a year?” Rashid asked, a sardonic glint in his coal black eyes.

“To this day, I don't understand what happened.”

“It must be painful for you to come back here.”

“It is. But real knowledge, Rashid, is born of pain.”

“And what do you know?”

“That's just it. I can't get an explanation from anyone. Not even from Fu'ad, who knew exactly what went on here.”

“Fu'ad?” Rashid read his mind. “
Hada ma bihki k'tir. Hada arabi kadim, b'tist'hi k'tir.'
”
^*

The Orientalist smiled. “
B'tist'hi min sham eysh?
”
^†

“
B'tist'hi yehin el-yahud.”
^‡

“But why should anyone be offended?”

“There's no reason.
Bas ahyanan, b'kulu andna, el-yahud biz'alu min el-hakikah ili bifatshu aleiha b'nafsehum.”
^§

A few minutes later, the old-fashioned maître d' was surprised to
find the two uninvited Israelis in his dining room, standing in line among the Christian pilgrims at the buffet with large, empty plates in their hands.

“What are you doing here in all this snow?” he asked, startled to see them. “
U'sayara ma t'zahlakatesh”?
^*

“
Ahadna jeeb bit'harak min el-amam,
” the Arab explained to the Arab, “
u'safarna mitl ala zibdeh.
”
^†

But though the Jerusalem snow was child's play for the pious Christians from the American Midwest, it had blocked roads and canceled tours all over Israel, so that, as on Rivlin's previous visit, the dining room was full up. Rather than wait for Fu'ad to apologize, he filled his plate and headed for the smoking lounge favored by Mr. Hendel, whose death now seemed to belong to the distant past.

“You see,” he said as Rashid sat down next him, “I'm still family despite my son's divorce.”

The unexpected crush kept Fu'ad running back and forth from the kitchen to the dining room. Still, he found a few minutes to drop by the lounge and even to smoke a cigar, reminisce about the eventful trip to Ramallah, and ask about the scholar who had died.

“As a matter of fact,” Rivlin said, “I'm in Jerusalem on a snowy day like this is for a memorial conference in his honor.”

“Don't tell me it's already been a month!” the maître d' marveled. It seemed to him just a few days. Sometimes, falling asleep at night, he still thought of the face he had covered with a sheet. “And how is the widow?” he asked. “What a poet!”

Rivlin clucked with sympathy. “She's coming around slowly,” he said.

The maître d' asked to be remembered to her. He could still hear her declaiming Al-Hallaj's lines—
My soul is his, his is mine. Who has heard of the body In which two souls combine?
—as if they had been written in Hebrew. He was so moved by the great Sufi poet that he had even tried writing a few mystical poems of his own. But who had patience for such things? “
Ya'ani, el-hawa ma bikdar yimsikha.
”
^‡

“
Kif el-hawa?
” Rashid asked.
^*

“
El-jow.
^†
Mysticism needs peace of mind. In this country everyone just wants to hear the next news bulletin.”

He stubbed out his cigarette, cleared the dishes from the table, and suggested dessert. He would bring them ice cream and coffee.

“We'll have neither,” Rivlin declared, getting to his feet. “We just came to see if you were still alive. It's time we got back to the memorial.”

“But what do you mean, Professor?” Fu'ad said, taken by surprise. “Aren't you going to say hello to the management?”

Rivlin felt a ripple of unease.

“We can't today. Another time.”

“But how another time? I've told Tehila you're here. And she said I should keep you here until she's free, because she's busy with all the guests whose tours were canceled.
Bihyat Allah, ya Brofesor, hatta la y'hib amalha minnak
.”
^‡

Something gnawed at him.

“Tell her another time. I'll be back.”

Yet even as he said it, he knew he would never be back. The chapter of the hotel had ended.

“I can't do that,” Fu'ad said.

“Of course you can,” Rivlin told him. “We came for you this time, didn't we, Rashid? And for you only.”

“I'm honored, Professor.” Fu'ad put down the dirty dishes on the table and pressed his hands to a grateful heart. “I appreciate it. But that isn't something I can tell Tehila.”

“And Galya?” The image of the lost bride flashed before him as though in an old dream. “Why isn't she here?”

“In a snowstorm in the ninth month of pregnancy? She's enormous. You could visit her, but I wouldn't recommend it. She rests in the afternoon. This is her first child, and she's nervous. You'll see her at the circumcision.”

“All right,” Rivlin said impatiently. “Rashid and I have to go.”

But Rashid didn't move. The always polite and reserved maître d' was physically blocking his path. As though pleading for dear life, Fu'ad said:

“I can't let you go, Professor, without your at least saying hello to someone in the family. Go see Mrs. Hendel. I'm sure she's up by now. You haven't spoken to her since the week of the bereavement.”

“Next time,” Rivlin replied, laying a friendly hand on Fu'ad's shoulder. But the maître d' stubbornly stood his ground. “I mean it,” Rivlin said more softly. “How is Mrs. Hendel doing?”

“Still falling apart,” was the cruelly candid answer. “There's nothing left for her here. Her son is in America with his family, and if we didn't find someone to play cards with her now and then, she'd have only her own depression to keep her company. Maybe the new grandson will cheer her up. But that will be no substitute for a man who treated her like a princess. And she's not going to find another one in this hotel, because there's no one here but Christians looking for God.”

Rashid grinned.

“Come,” Fu'ad said, grabbing the Orientalist by the hand. “Do me a favor and say hello to Mrs. Hendel. She'll be grateful that you haven't forgotten her like so many of her old friends. I'll send up coffee and cookies. Tehila will come if she has time.”

“All right.” Rivlin blinked anxiously. “But only for a minute. And leave Tehila out of this. Another time . . .”

And again he knew there would never be another time.

From the stuffy, overheated room on the third floor, the snowy garden looked like a fairy tale. Gently he gathered the widow, delicate from falling apart, in his arms. Her new, unresisting gauntness made her large eyes that demanded his sympathy shine more brightly than ever. Although it was afternoon, her bed was unmade. Her hardly touched breakfast was still on the table. A black silk nightgown sticking out from beneath the quilt made the Orientalist feel a slight sexual qualm. His amiable smile gone from his face, Fu'ad quickly restored order, carrying the dirty dishes to the hallway, deftly making the bed, and folding the nightgown and putting it in a drawer.

“It's the professor, Mrs. Hendel,” he said as he exited. “He's come to say hello and have coffee with you.”

She offered him a small chair by her side. “I suppose I should be insulted that you forgot all about me while coming to visit my daughters,” she said.

“All in all,” he answered, turning his chair to face the garden, “I've been here twice since the bereavement. The second time, you weren't here.”

“I wasn't?” She seemed astonished to hear it.

“You were in Europe with Galya.”

“Oh, yes,” she remembered. “That was when you tried to sleep here.”

He smiled. “You see?” he said. “You know everything.”

“Everything?” She bowed her pretty head sadly. “Far from it. I only know what I'm told.”

“Well,” the Orientalist said, “I had no place to sleep in Jerusalem, and I remembered Yehuda telling me that I could always have an available room. It was foolish of me.”

“Not at all!” Moved by his mention of her husband, she regarded him with bright, solicitous eyes. “He meant it. And while he lived, he was as good as his word. The promises he made, he kept. He didn't want this hotel turning into the railway station it's become. Of course, he wanted to succeed and make money. But he also wanted this place to be about more than just work. That's why he always left an extra room for family or friends. Now that Tili is in charge, all that has changed. You've seen how full the place is. She overbooks so much that she has to put up guests in her own wing.”

“Yes.” Rivlin grinned. “I got the basement.”

“I heard about it. And about how you ran away in the middle of the night. It made me mad. I said to her, ‘Tell me, Madame Manager, have you no sense of shame? If you can't treat an important guest well, it's better to turn him away.' But nothing fazes her. She's as tough as nails. And her father's death only made her tougher. He would never have dreamed of risking the hotel's reputation. Tehila couldn't care less. I sometimes wonder how I ever gave birth to someone so brash. She'll ride roughshod over anyone.”

“Yes.” Rivlin nodded. “My wife is sometimes like that, too.”

“Your wife?” The revelation startled her. “Perhaps. . . .” She thought it over. “I suppose I did feel that kind of backbone in her, even though you never gave us the chance to get to know her. But she's more gracious about it, a true lady. She's cultured and has boundaries. Tili is a wild woman. You wouldn't believe how afraid I've always been of her, even when she was a child . . .”

“I assure you, I would.” Rivlin laughed candidly. “I'm afraid of my wife sometimes, too. Not that it stops me from loving her.”

Mrs. Hendel's face darkened with sorrow. The thought of her former in-laws' love for each other, so palpable the first time she met them, made her feel the loss of her husband even more keenly. Only lovers, she told Rivlin, know love when they see it. “That was something I used to say to my husband. ‘I trust Galya's choice of Ofer,' I told him, ‘because his parents are like us. They're loving and close. Ofer and Galya won't have to improvise, because they have models.' Only . . .”

“Only what?”

“Only then . . .”

“Then what?”

“You know.”

“No, I don't!” he said heatedly. “And none of you will tell me. And that's why I can't help Ofer to get unstuck . . .”

“But I don't know anything, either. I asked Galya a thousand times and never got an answer. Even on our trip to Europe, when we shared a double bed at night. I said to her, ‘Gali, maybe you were embarrassed to tell your father, but now that he's gone, learn from your sister, who's embarrassed by nothing. Tell me what happened . . .'”

“And?”

“Nothing. She clammed up. But what does it matter? They're not the first couple to have fallen out of love. At least it happened before it was too late. She knew how much I liked Ofer. But it wasn't me who had to live with his fantasies.”

“Fantasies?” There was that word again.

“That's what she called them.”

“But fantasies of what?”

“She wouldn't say.”

“You never asked?”

“No.”

“But it isn't possible!” He flung the words at her angrily. “I don't believe you.”

“You don't believe
me
?” The delicate woman was hurt.

“Don't take him seriously, Mother.” Tehila had entered quietly through the door left open by Fu'ad. “He keeps thinking we're hiding something from him. But at least that gives us a chance to see him.”

He sat up in his chair, the afternoon sun in his eyes. The proprietress, in whose cropped hair he noticed the first streaks of gray, was not content with a handshake. Tall and stooped, a chambermaid's apron tied by its strings around her waist, she bent to plant a ministering kiss on his forehead, as if he were a small boy with a fever.