Shira (49 page)

Henrietta paused for a bit, trying to remember what she had put in Zahara’s box and what she should have put in it. She did not realize that her hands were idle and her heart was empty, that her thoughts were being dispersed and no new ones were replacing them. The alarm she had felt a few minutes earlier seemed to subside, and she was utterly relaxed. Hardly conscious of the swift change, she stood beside the full carton and gazed into it, her eyes remaining fixed on its top. It seemed to her that something hidden kept emerging, some aspect of a thought about what she meant to put in the box. Her thoughts came to a sudden standstill, and all her ideas were suspended. She ignored the fact that Zahara was going to give birth. She was unaware of Zahara’s very being, as well as of her own. Like mother, like daughter: Zahara’s thoughts were dispersed too, and, between the two of them, the room was silent, like those frequently silent inner rooms on a hot summer day in Jerusalem, in houses surrounded by gardens and far from the road. In the stillness, the space within the room was suffused with the palest gray light, tinged with pale blue – paling, then darkening; darkening, then paling, until it took on an undefined hue. I don’t know whether the light was created from the space between shutter slats or from the objects in rooms. The two of them, mother and daughter, were unaware of each other and unaware of their own being as well. If I had a tendency to coin phrases, I would call this a state of “annihilated being.”

Sarah came into the room and stood there in dismay. After a moment or two, she backed up and knocked on the door from the inside, like someone who knocks before entering, and said, “Come in.” She went over to Zahara, wrapped her little arms around her big sister’s knees, and said, “Sarah loves Zahara.” Zahara bent down, placed her lips on Sarah’s, and said, “Zahara loves Sarah very, very, very much.” Sarah said, “No, no, no. Sarah loves very, very, very much.” Mother Henrietta bestirred herself and said, “Sarah, Zahara is leaving us.” Sarah looked at Zahara and said, “Zahara is leaving us?” This was not so much a question as a matter of words that were inconsistent with reality. Zahara kissed her sister again and said gravely, “I have to go home.” Sarah’s eyes scanned the room as she wondered: What did Zahara mean, ‘I have to go home’? Isn’t this home? And why did she say ‘I have to’? Mother Henrietta said to Sarah, “Tell her there’s no need to hurry.” Sarah said to Zahara, “Mother says – “ She stopped in the middle, turned to her mother, and said, “You tell her.” All of a sudden, she turned away from both of them. “What’s this?” she asked. “This…this here, this?” Zahara said, “I don’t know what you mean.” The child pointed with her thumb, repeating, “This.” Zahara turned to her mother. “Maybe you know what she means? Sarah, show me with your finger.” Sarah was annoyed at Zahara. “What I’m pointing with is a finger, isn’t it?” Mother Henrietta said, “She means the grasshopper playing on the window. It’s a grasshopper, Sarah.” Sarah repeated the word with a mixture of agreement and doubt. She said, “A grasshopper. Can I step on it?” Zahara responded with alarm, “Why step on it? Such a fine grasshopper – see how nice his wings are, what long legs he has.” Sarah said, “You don’t understand anything.” Mother Henrietta laughed and said to Zahara, “She doesn’t mean to step on it with her feet. She means to catch it.” Zahara said, “Then why did she say ‘step on it’?” While they talked, Sarah chased the grasshopper with her fingers. Zahara repeated, “Why did she say it that way?” Mother Henrietta said, “This is what happened: the first time Sarah saw a caterpillar in the garden, she was fascinated by it and finally stretched out her leg to trap it, so she could pick it up. Since then, whenever she tries to catch a butterfly, she says ‘to step on it.” Zahara said, “To think that I suspected she would crush it. Come, sweetheart, let me give you a kiss. Who’s that coming? Why, it’s Avraham.”

Avraham arrived, his eyelashes casting bars of gold on his wife and her mother and sister. He picked up Sarah, sat her on his shoulders, and began to prance around with her. Zahara shouted, “Careful! You’ll bang her head on the ceiling.” He bent down and began to crawl on his knees, holding on to Sarah, who was perched on his neck, clapping her hands and chanting the words of a song she had learned from Firadeus. Then she began tapping her feet to the music. Henrietta called, “You’re hurting him.” The child leaned over his ear and asked, “Does it hurt?” Avraham flung the golden bars from his eyes to the child and said, “It hurts, it hurts as much as eating chocolate. Do you like chocolate? Oh, dear, we forgot to bring you chocolate. Next time we come, we’ll bring some chocolate. Take my handkerchief, Sarah, and tie a knot in it to remind me to bring Sarah chocolate. What else should we bring you? We’ll bring you a baby girl, and then you’ll be an aunt. Aunt Sarah. How would you like to be an aunt? To someone real, not just a doll. What do you think of Zahara? She knows that sort of trick; she knows how to make you an aunt. Now, honey, I’ll put you on the grasshopper’s back. He’ll carry you to Ahinoam. All the young women will see you and wish for a little girl just like you.”

After Henrietta finished wrapping everything, she handed the packages to Zahara, who handed them to Avraham, then kissed her mother and her little sister, Sarah, and said goodbye to her father. Henrietta said, “You’ll come back to Jerusalem soon, right?” Zahara said, “What do you mean, ‘soon’?” Henrietta said, “‘Soon’ means when it’s time to have the baby. The setup for childbirth is better in Jerusalem than anywhere else in the country.” Zahara laughed and said, “What are you saying, Mother? You want me to give birth in the city? Do you expect me to have a city child? I’m a country girl now. I belong to a
kvutza
, and I’ll give birth in the hospital in Afula, like everyone else.”

Avraham and Zahara left, loaded down with all sorts of paraphernalia. After Henrietta had finished packing a large box, she remembered other things it would be good for Zahara to have. So she filled Avraham’s arms, warning him not to lose anything, for it would all be needed by Zahara and the infant she was about to bring forth.

A contented smile spreads over Zahara’s face, the smile of a woman who has found her mate and is going off with him to his home. Avraham-and-a-half is taller than anyone. He is twice as tall as Zahara. Unless you’ve seen those two together, you have no concept of large and small. Now, imagine this small creature, this mere girl, with a baby inside. Isn’t that a truly moving sight? It’s no wonder that Father Manfred is more and more moved, and has no further complaints about her, that he accepts everything, whatever his daughter has done.

Zahara and her young man left, and the house was as it had been before. Well, not really. As long as Zahara was single, Henrietta felt that she still lived there. Even when Zahara went to the
kvutza
, Henrietta regarded the move as temporary. Now that she had left with her mate, there was a void in the house. All that day, Henrietta couldn’t get her bearings. Wherever she turned, there was something missing. The things Zahara took from the house were not what was missing; something that eludes and at the same time occupies every sensibility was missing. Henrietta told herself again and again: Nothing has actually changed. To which her heart’s response was: No change? Things have changed. Yes, they’ve changed.

When she went to bed, she was confronted by all these voids, which were accompanied by concern for her daughter. Zahara might not find anyone to guide her during pregnancy, since all the women in Ahinoam are young, except for the nurse, and, having never been pregnant, they have no concept of caution. They undertake every kind of work, pay no attention to their own needs, and are totally ignorant about pregnancy and childbirth. She was suddenly overcome with joy on account of her daughter, who had found a mate, and on account of this mate, who was so delightful. In the midst of her joy, Henrietta forgot about Avraham and thought again about Zahara, who was about to become a mother. First she scolded herself for having said so little to Zahara about what she should and shouldn’t do. Actually, she had talked to her a great deal, but she should have told her more, for Zahara is young and doesn’t know anything. Before she had fully explored her thoughts about her daughter, she was reliving the days when she was pregnant with Zahara. The two feelings mixed together – those pertaining to Zahara, who was pregnant now, and those about herself when she was about to give birth to Zahara. Twin joys were born in her heart. With them came sleep, the sort that doesn’t seem like sleep but is in fact the sweetest and most exquisite of sleeps.

At the same time, Herbst was lying on the couch in his study, lying there and thinking about Empress Theodora, about the women of her court, about his two friends the Weltfremdts, about Professor Bachlam and Professor Lemner, about Axelrod and his son, and various other things – a blend of thoughts that have no connection with the heart, yet grip it and induce vacant emotions. From there, he arrived at the strip of leather, the amulet Professor Wechsler had identified as a fragment of an ancient garment. From there, to the elderly nurse who showed Sarah to him the day she was born. In the midst of all these things, something unfolded, sort of a cake on which mazeltov was written. Although a lot of time had passed since he had heard the tale of the waitress and the Histadrut official, Herbst realized that the reference was to the cake the café owner had sent them for their wedding.

Avraham-and-a-half belongs to the Histadrut too, but he is taller than all those officials and as innocent as a child. You can’t seduce him with words, because he doesn’t need anything from you. Nor does he want anything from you, having already gotten whatever he might want from another source. What is more, he doesn’t need you, either. When he sat with you and listened while you talked, he was doing you a favor. Where does that firmness come from? Is it from the
kvutza
? We know several young men from the
kvutza
who don’t have Avraham’s quality. This firmness comes from Zahara, who gives her whole heart to Avraham. Father Manfred was suddenly alarmed. This Zahara, this baby, is a woman like other women. Not just a woman, but halfway to being a mother. And Father Manfred is halfway to being a grandfather. Were we to analyze the subject, we would find…I’ll turn out the light now and try to sleep before other thoughts come and intrude on my sleep. However, it would be good to devote two or three moments of thought to the tragedy. Aristotle says, in the
Poetics
: One of the conditions for tragedy is…And most tragedians make the mistake of thinking that, if the events are tragic, that in itself constitutes tragedy.

When Herbst turned off the light, the thoughts he was afraid of took over. Though more than two years had passed since he first met Shira, he continued to think about her. His thoughts about her were different, a mass of contradictions. Love and hate, regret and longing; above all, wonder at himself for continuing to pursue her and wonder at the powerful attraction she exerted, though she was neither beautiful nor intellectual. What would be of interest to any intellectual, Shira dismisses with a disparaging twist of the mouth. Admittedly, this gesture of hers often led him to reexamine a subject and reflect further on it.

In addition to waking thoughts, there are his nighttime reveries and the succession of dreams they bring on. In one such dream, he met her one night at a concert hall. When did he meet her? Many years after they had parted and stopped seeing each other. But his love for her still filled his heart. That night she appeared to be a distinguished woman whose conversation with him was purely intellectual, and, though that tends to enhance a woman’s appeal, there was between them no hint of what transpires between a man and a woman. By his calculation, she was about fifty years old at the time, but she looked perhaps thirty, certainly not more than thirty-five. One further thing, her manner was exceedingly female. This led him to fantasies he did not at first dare to entertain. And these fantasies were so powerful that he became so bold as to stroke her skin. She didn’t object. On the contrary, her pleasure was evident on her face. But his joy was mixed, because her autocratic manner was replaced by submission and the desire to please.

Herbst lay in bed, thinking: It was a fatal mistake not to go back to her immediately after that first night. If I had gone back, she wouldn’t have slipped through my fingers. Like a penitent who regrets his sinful actions, Herbst regretted his inaction. Again, the same question: How to explain Shira’s actions? She is welcoming, but she doesn’t allow real contact. Is there someone else in her life? He reviewed a series of men Shira had mentioned to him, as well as men she hadn’t mentioned, whom he suspected of having relationships with Shira. That driver, for example, the son of Axelrod, the hospital clerk. Herbst was surprised at himself for not being jealous.

Herbst was not jealous. But he imagined their contact with Shira, or, to be more precise, the amount of contact she allowed them. In Herbst’s imagination, this took many forms, arousing his heart to the point of pain.

Chapter seventeen

Z
ahara left, and Tamara arrived. Before Henrietta had time to read about the places Tamara had visited in Greece, she was back to tell about them. If not for his interest in order, Manfred could have left the Baedeker in Sacharson’s hands, especially since another book on Greece now occupied its space on the shelf. Mother and Father listen to Tamara’s tales of her travels in Greece. He suppresses his laughter, and she laughs uncontrollably. Tamara herself is silent, like those Greek goddesses in the professor’s pictures whose eloquent silence is so amazing. In truth, Tamara has not a trace of the sublime beauty bestowed on Greek goddesses, but, when she wants to, she can make herself look like one of them. If you examine the contours of her face, you find nothing sublime there; on the contrary, there are traces of vulgarity. You wonder: Can this face transform itself into that one? You say to her, “Please, Tamara, just how do you do that?” And there she is, standing before you like one of those goddesses. She looks serene, tranquil, impassive; yet whoever sees her is unsettled. Even British officers are willing to change their ways for Miss Tamara. But she no longer frequents their haunts.