The Remains of Love (15 page)

When he doesn’t spot her he glances at the upper floor, perhaps she went to lie down for a bit. His glance moves up the stairs which presumably lead to the bedrooms, lingering on the floor with its trim of soft pastel colours, and goes back to scouring the lounge, the light sofas, the big window overlooking the garden, daring to inspect the assembled company, all gathering together in groups, most of them around his own age, just so long as no one recognises him. His glance passes again over the face of the neighbour, and immediately drops down, but she’s already remembered him, to his dismay. I’ve brought you a foundling, Elisheva, she jokes and points to him. He’s from the faculty. He was hanging around outside, too scared to come in, and he finds himself, his mind in a whirl, moving forward and extending his hand and mumbling words of condolence in the ears of the widow who has just lost her husband and who bears absolutely no resemblance to the woman he saw beside the deceased exactly one week ago, in his last hours, and he knows his face is flushing bright red as if he is the one lying to her, and lying is precisely what he’s doing now, claiming brief acquaintance at some international conference, and then he drops her hand as if talking is too much of an ordeal for him, and slips out into the corridor. Much to his relief the bell rings again, and a great tide of mourners comes streaming in, and already the widow is hearing the sincere condolences of others, the ones who genuinely and innocently knew her husband, unlike him, although in a sense, he thinks as he’s groping for the way out, he knew him better than all of them.

As he walks to his car it seems to him the black jackal is stalking him with teeth bared and he quickens his pace, having difficulty recognising his own among all the cars that have arrived in the meantime, and when he finally spots it he fumbles for his keys. They were in the pocket of his trousers, or perhaps he left them on the boulder at the edge of the wadi, he hurries there and for a moment the wadi is lit up by the lights of a car, which passes by the house of mourning but doesn’t stop, and he stares in bemusement as it seems to him he recognises the restrained, aristocratic profile, but she keeps on going, where to exactly? Does this track connect with the main road? And again he’s scrabbling anxiously in his pockets; his fingers find a small hole in the side of one of them, could the keys have fallen through it, without him noticing? Only the switched-off mobile is there, inspiring a little confidence, and he contacts the taxi firm, and gives the address of the house, but walks down the road, not wanting to come across that woman and her dog again, and already he isn’t sure which of them he’s more afraid of; in fact in his eyes they have fused into a single entity, a gigantic red-haired and slovenly jackal with the woman’s raucous voice emerging from his throat.

More cars climb up the narrow ascent, so narrow that if a car comes in the opposite direction, one of them will be forced off the road and into the wadi, and when he nervously scans the new arrivals it seems that in every car the driver is a woman with elegant profile and black hair, and he strains his eyes but to no avail, since the next lights he sees belong to the taxi that’s coming to get him out of here, and he takes his seat in silence in the back, agitated and sweaty and unaware of the questioning glance of the driver. Where to? he asks and Avner hurriedly gives his address and then changes his mind, what’s the point of going home just to pick up the spare keys and come straight back here. The children will be disappointed and Shlomit will attack him as if all his actions are designed to hurt them, and her in particular, and Anti has a set of keys too, just to be on the safe side, and he contacts her, trying to adopt a casual tone.

Are you at home, Anati? Do you still have my car keys? So I’ll drop round and pick them up, OK? I lost mine. Remind me of your address, that’s fine, it’s right on our way, but in the silence that prevails after this, he hears again and again the words that came from his mouth, as strident as the voices that come crackling from the taxi’s radio-phone, and it seems to him that a secret and extensive network is listening in to his words, deciphering their secrets, and the network has been joined both by the late Rafael Allon and by his living lover who mourns for him in secret, and now he too, in an almost haphazard phone conversation, has tied his destiny to their destiny, in a thoroughly arbitrary but well thought-out sequence, presided over, as always in fact and almost without her knowledge, by his mother, who can no longer tell the difference between left and right, past and present, in what is left of her dying consciousness.

Wait for me here for two minutes, I’ll be back straightaway, he tells the driver, who has pulled up outside an elongated housing development somewhat resembling a train, and he wanders among the entrances; where do the numbers start from, that’s always the question, especially when you’re in the middle and don’t know which way to turn. Are you actually retreating when you think you’re advancing, or is it vice versa? Once he lived with Shlomit in a similar project not far from here, and he remembers that even then he used to come home embittered, identifying her with the ugly building and the filthy staircases, even then she was bound up in his consciousness with the anger of lost opportunity, although they were still at the beginning of their lives together, with the option of multiple changes of apartment, and multiple changes of partner. Why was he so quick to commit himself, and by the same token, why so quick to lament the loss of his life, after all the two of them were younger then than the girl who opens the door to him now in the full bloom of her clumsy maidenhood.

For the first time he sees her body without the carapace of the stiff office clothes that she makes a point of wearing, in a red cotton dress speckled with black dots, giving her the appearance of a massive beetle, and it seems that without the harness of her tight garments her body is spreading out in all directions, doubling its bulk with every movement, and she greets him with an apologetic smile, I was just about to contact you, I can’t find them, I’m sure they’re here but I’ve no idea where.

That’s not so bad, I’ll help you search, he says hurriedly, noticing the red moistness around her eyes and eager to reassure her, but when he follows her to her room he’s taken aback; never in his life has he seen such disorder: piles of clothes on the floor, shoes, books, papers, and he scans the room in utter perplexity, there’s underwear scattered around too, knickers, bras, tampons, a riotous glut of bodily references devoid of any modesty but also devoid of eroticism, and she’s quite unabashed, trampling on clothes and other stuff with her bare feet, rummaging among them and tossing them around her, as if the bundle of keys is likely to be found in the cup of a bra or the toe of a sock, and as he’s wondering how he can really be of any assistance to her, should he be picking up clothes too and throwing them in all directions, hooting is heard from the street, and he remembers the taxi that’s waiting for him out there. The two minutes are up, and he knows he should say to her, leave it, it doesn’t matter, I’ll pick up my spare keys from home, and this is indeed what he says as he’s dashing down the stairs, but instead of opening the door of the taxi and getting in, despite all his desires and inclinations, and giving his address, he goes to the driver’s window and pays and doesn’t even wait for change, but runs back into the building and pounds up the stairs, panting when he reaches the door, which is still open. The driver’s already gone, he gasps with the last of his breath, he didn’t wait for me, and she straightens up, looking him in the face and blushing. Has his transparent lie caused her to blush, or is it a transparent lie of her own, as she’s now holding out her closed fist to him in a childish gesture. I’ve found them, she announces.

To push her gently until she stumbles and sprawls on a heap of clothes with her spongy flesh, her dress pulled up to reveal simple cotton underwear, her eyes closed, eager to give satisfaction, he’s not the one she was waiting for but still, he’s here, to fasten his lips on the strong shoulders, on the heavy breast whose slightly lugubrious profile is clearly visible through the speckled fabric. To strip off her blouse, he’s ready for that too, also to rub his skin against her skin, his age against her age, his grief against her youth, he wants to wallow in her body parts until they comfort him; her lips will comfort his lips, her fingers his fingers, her bones his bones, since it seems he’s trapped in the void that the deceased left behind while he was still alive and he doesn’t know how to get out of it, the void to which jasmine bushes lead the way with their sweet and heavy and intoxicating scent, this void which like birth and death cannot be apprehended, as if he’s been bewitched by the deceased in his last moments, and only a counter-spell can save him, and only if he’s comforted can he comfort others, the widow and her children and especially the lover who has no one to comfort her, and the desire is so strong that he has to cling with all his strength to the wooden doorpost lest he be swept towards her on a raging tide, because between him and her stand blocks of air as solid and motionless as corpses, planted in the floor, and if he approaches her he will be forced to push them aside too, Shlomit and the boys and even her, the secret lover.

So many times this has almost happened to him and at the last moment he’s grabbed the lintel, or the handle of the door, or his briefcase; any substantial object symbolised in that moment the stable life standing in the way of ruin, it seemed the slightest movement would bring about total collapse, and he takes the car keys from her hand. Any chance of a glass of water? he asks with parched throat, it’s terribly hot outside, and she hurries to the kitchen; did he really perceive disappointment in her face, what does she want, what does she want from him? The glass isn’t clean but he represses his distaste and drinks, naturally at home he would have rinsed it again and again; why is it that he, who takes cleanliness so seriously, is always coming up against women to whom that kind of pedantry is anathema, and he hands her the empty glass. Thanks, he says, I must be going, but to his surprise she urges him to stay. Like a beer? she offers, looking suddenly like a little girl afraid of being left alone in the house.

A beer? he asks as if she’s suggesting something exceptional, OK, if you’re having one too. He glances into the fridge which she’s opened and which looks to be in surprisingly good order, sits down at the kitchen table and wipes sweat from his brow. The sun which set some time ago is still attacking the roof of the apartment on the upper floor, its rays penetrating through the thin concrete and fixing on his forehead, and she puts a bottle in front of him and sits down, and again he notices the redness of her eyes, as if she was weeping bitterly before his arrival, and he asks, are you all right, has something happened?

He really doesn’t know much about her, she only came to his office two months ago, after taking her degree with distinction, intent on specialising in human rights cases, although she’s had offers from much bigger practices. With clients she’s compassionate but practical and in her free time she joins every demonstration going, all instances of injustice and iniquity get her adrenalin flowing, and now as she smiles awkwardly he notices for the first time that her front teeth are remarkably small, giving her smile a somewhat frugal look.

I’m just a bit confused today, she says, her voice becoming almost childlike, I wanted to give you something, and when she rises and leaves the kitchen he imagines she’ll be leaning over the piles of junk in her room, which suddenly seem to have a kind of charm for him in their absolute freedom, something not at all perceptible in her movements, but she comes back at once and hands him an envelope. This just came today from the printer, she says, you’re the first, and he opens it and takes out a sheet of stiff brown paper, printed with simple letters, a few letters, some names, a date, a place, and he’s so surprised his brain can’t cope with what’s written there, and it’s hardest of all to figure out what it has to do with her.

What is this, who’s getting married, are you getting married? he asks, almost in shock, and she nods joylessly. It came today from the printer, she repeats, as if this will account for her gloom, and he recovers enough of his composure to say, Congratulations, Anati, that’s wonderful news! He wonders if he should shake her hand or embrace her, and as he’s sitting and she’s standing before him either of these actions would seem a little strange, so he examines the invitation again, and notices the single name under her name, the parents of the bride amount to just one father, whereas the groom comes equipped with both parents, as required, and already he’s concentrating on this detail and the painful imbalance it will create, marring the entire event. What happened to your mother? he asks, remembering how assiduous she had been in asking after the health of his mother when she was in hospital, and she says, she died when I was eight years old. She sits down facing him and wipes her eyes. I don’t know what’s happening to me, when I saw the invitation I was so flustered, suddenly I realised it was sort of for real.

Sort of for real? He’s astonished by this style of speech, whish isn’t typical of her, and she says, not sort of, actually for real, on the twentieth of August, Anat and Lior, but this Anat is me, and suddenly I’m no longer sure she really should marry Lior, because perhaps it’s too soon and perhaps she doesn’t love him enough and perhaps she hasn’t loved enough yet in her life. Do you always talk about yourself in the third person? he asks, fixated as usual on the style rather than the substance, and she blushes, only when I’m alone she says, it started after my mother died, and I’d tell her all night about her daughter, I got used to it, and she takes a thirsty gulp of beer, like a kindergarten child drinking chocolate and Avner sighs, it seems no one ever loves enough, how long have you been together?