The Remains of Love (25 page)

It seems to him he’s the bearer of good tidings but they carry on as normal, not appreciating the magnitude of the moment, and even the little one, sitting in the corner of the lounge and engrossed in his box of toys, ignores his arrival; a smell of cigarette smoke wafts into the house from the balcony, Shlomit hasn’t been weaned yet from her telephone cigarette, and he follows the smell and sees her leaning on the balustrade with her back to him, unaware of his presence. Yes, you’re right, she’s saying, but it’s a simple enough story, I’m not sleeping at night for worry, the wind breathes life into her hair and her nape is exposed for a moment, fleshy and yet attractive with a few stray black strands, and when he puts his hand there she turns sharply, Avner, you startled me, she rebukes him, how long have you been standing there? What’s going on? She probes her nape as if she’s been stung, is that motor oil from the garage you’re smearing on me? And he shows her the bag, I’ve brought some food, and she hastily says into the receiver, I’ll get back to you, looking at him with indignation, the same blue eyes that once turned to him with love and admiration.

What beautiful eyes your children will have, they used to say to them in their youth, since both of them were endowed with a generous sparkling of blue eyes under dark eyebrows, but Tomer has to be content with the pale brown eyes of his grandmother Hemda while Yotam scans the world with eyes that are bluish but small and slightly slanted, so different from Shlomit’s wide-open look, which used once to transmit to him so many heartfelt emotional messages, but for years now has been aggressive and damaged, and now it seemed to him he detects contempt as well, when she rubs her neck and then sniffs her fingers in disgust, as if there’s no one more pedantic than her in matters of cleanliness, and he puts the bag, oozing grease, on the balustrade, precisely where he will find it tomorrow evening, after the sun has ruined the food, and yet he will open every single packet and sniff, deriving pleasure from the repulsive smells, an act of mordant self-deprecation, as if from the start he brought his wife and children a meal unfit for consumption.

Who were you talking to? he asks, reminding himself of his father, who in his later years was jealous of his mother and whose suspicions were aroused by every one of her phone conversations, and she says, to Dafna, why? And he says, just asking, as this wasn’t really the question he wanted to ask her; he wants to know what it is that’s worrying her so much, and why she can’t sleep at night, and why she recoiled from his touch, but as the prospect of a sincere answer seems unrealistic he prefers to leave the clarifications for a more favourable time, and just asks, where’s Tomer, and she replies, in his room staring at the computer as always, where else could he be, staying with friends? And yet again her voice is censorious, how long will she go on pinning her son’s problems on him?

When he turns towards his son’s room he sees three dirty plates, stained with the remains of salad and egg-yolk, on their round dining table, apparently they’ve already eaten their supper without him and why not, really, he’s home late again, already nearly nine o’clock, and he goes into the children’s room; on the computer screen frenzied figures are rushing about, but his son’s back is as still as a rock, even his hands are laid motionless on the desk, and this contrast sparks a sudden fear in him, as if everything is topsy-turvy and the artificially generated images have sucked from his son the very spirit of life, and he stands behind him and lays a hand on his son’s shoulder. The T-shirt is too tight for him, accentuating his bulging belly, and this annoys him, what’s going on here, in his time there were no overweight children, not in his kibbutz or the neighbouring kibbutzim, maybe one who had a genuine medical condition, but most of them were running around incessantly, not allowing hollow figures to do all their moving for them, and he hears his angry voice emerging from his throat, what’s happening to you, Tomer? Is this what you do all day? An unpromising opening sentence for an evening of playing happy families, and he regrets it at once, peering around to be sure Shlomit hasn’t heard, where is she, anyway, has she gone back to continue her conversation on the balcony, but his son undoubtedly heard it, as his shoulder twitches uneasily under his touch and he moans as if he’s been hit, leave me alone, Dad.

It’s because I’m your Dad that I’m not leaving you alone, he retorts sagely, because I care about you and I can’t bear to see this decline, and his son replies bitterly, oh, you can’t bear to see it? Then just don’t look, and Avner tries to moderate the tone of his voice, hey, that’s no way to talk, listen to me, Tomeri, we need to sit down together and think of healthier ways you can spend your time. I still don’t know why you left the karate club and Tomer shoots him an accusing look, why? Because I wasn’t any good and the other kids laughed at me! This was a look he inherited from Shlomit, as if Avner’s responsible for each and every one of his problems.

So what if you weren’t any good, he growls at him, it wasn’t the Olympics, and you were only in the beginners’ class, you’re supposed to be there to learn and improve! and his son protests, but they were all better than me and I didn’t like it! But his father isn’t letting go, I didn’t like it! he repeats scornfully, since when did everything have to be liked? You do what’s necessary, even if you don’t like it. So why don’t you join some other club, judo or football, what’s wrong with that. Anything’s better than what you’re doing now, and here she comes, homing in, she won’t miss an opportunity to attack him and defend her son. From which standpoint are you speaking, precisely? she hisses, her venomous voice preceding her body into the room, anyone would think you’re working out every day or taking care of your body, look at that paunch you’ve grown these last years! And Avner breathes heavily, his fists pressed into his stomach; he must not lose control, not be like his father.

What’s wrong with me trying to prevent him making my mistakes, his voice is heating up, he’s still a child, he can change, and why are you defending him all the time? Don’t you see how much damage you’re doing to him? You’re making him feel weak, needing his mother to defend him, and worse than that, you’ve got him thinking his Dad is some kind of monster he has to be protected from. Your brain is deteriorating too! he adds, and this is obviously a step too far, since Tomer gets up from his seat and shouts, his face swelling up, leave me alone! Stop arguing about me! I’ll jump off the balcony to make you stop arguing about me! And Shlomit hugs him, there there, it’s all right, darling, we’re not arguing about you, we’re arguing about ourselves, and he whimpers in her arms like an overgrown cub, you never argue about Yotam, and Avner remembers with a shock that Yotam has been left in the lounge unsupervised and he hurries away to find him, but he’s not quietly nestling by his box of toys, maybe he went out to the balcony and climbed on the balustrade and he runs out there and calls his name, finally finding him sitting in the bathtub surrounded by smiling plastic ducks, and he’s smiling too but his smile is anxious, Tomeri crying, he says sadly, Tomeri bad? and Avner is quick to deny this, putting on a childish voice, no, Tomeri not bad!

Tomeri not bad, the infant repeats thoughtfully, then Daddy bad? he launches another question, a turbid soap bubble, and Avner replies emphatically, no, Daddy not bad! Again the infant repeats it with relief, but this leads to a conclusion ten times more worrying, then Mummy bad? And Avner says no, absolutely not, Mummy not bad, but all of this fails to reassure the canny little boy, who needs to identify the rotten apple, and he makes one final attempt, then Yotam bad? And Avner holds out his arms and hugs his little shoulders, almost squeezing into the bath beside him fully clothed, as his heart goes out to him and he says again, what a thing to say, no and no! Yotam isn’t bad! No one in our family is bad!

And when the children are finally asleep he’ll find her stretched out on the sofa in the lounge, after the little one has been imprisoned in his bed, submitting with surprising obedience, as if trying not to spoil the effect of the litanies of reassurance, so carefully put together, and after he has sat for almost a whole hour at the bedside of his first-born son, who was lying on his back with a blanket pulled up over his head, with only the movements of the blanket showing that at intervals he was inserting his index finger in his nostril and from there to his permanently open mouth, and Avner laid a hand on his shoulder and apologised again for hurting him but also repeated his assertion that this was only because he cared for him so much, he loved him and worried about him, and finally he suggested the two of them go out running every evening, although there were no decent routes in their suburb. You know what, I have an idea, he came alive suddenly, we’ll go to a different area and run there, because I know a wonderful route; in his mind’s eye he saw the two of them climbing up the narrow asphalt road, sweating and feeling purified, alongside the wadi exuding the scents of straw and dust, sage and rosemary. We’ll leave the car in the parking space at the bottom and run to the last house and back, what do you say, eh? He slaps his son’s shoulder enthusiastically and tries to pull the blanket off him, while the boy hastily removes the finger from his nose. And Avner is a little taken aback by the sight of the face revealed to him, he was more comfortable when he lay there covered up, and he’s shaken when he remembers the threat that neither of them dared to address directly, I’ll jump off the balcony to stop you arguing about me, and immediately he bends down and kisses his brow with clenched lips. An unpleasant smell rises from the blanket as it’s rolled back, something reminiscent of an unventilated and mouldering tent, and he thinks of his son a few years from now, years which will pass in a flash, in pitiless army encampments, grinding his teeth in the effort to keep up, issued with webbing and helmet and rifle, surrounded by shouted commands and humiliations, without a mother to protect him and cater for all his needs, and that’s even before the real war starts, and how will he cope with that? His head is weighing so heavy on him, he suddenly flops down on the chest of the bemused child.

Are you all right, Dad? his son inquires cautiously and Avner perks up at once: it will be many years yet before that happens, six at least, and he tries to take comfort in this, no point in worrying about it now, and he leaves on a cheery note, so good night, sweetie, we’ve decided to go for a run tomorrow evening, don’t forget, and he turns out the light and walks a little unsteadily to the corridor, looking around him. Where is she now, and how great is the effort required of him when he tries to do the right thing, it isn’t logical, having to extinguish three fires every evening, it wasn’t supposed to be like this, and again he thinks of the dead man when he was still alive, when he was still healthy, was he too forced to wander like this between his wife and his children? Probably not, a wonderful family, the neighbour said quite clearly, and he accepts her testimony at face value, although things concealed from her have been revealed specifically to him; in wonderful families things happen naturally, without the expenditure of so much effort.

What do you expect, you’re the one who started it, he knows she’ll say if he dares to complain, and perhaps she’s right, at least in certain cases, that venomous heat of hers must testify to correctness, or at least to a strong inner conviction that he himself finds it hard to feel in relation to family matters, and perhaps in judicial matters too he’s already lost it, and he remembers the testimony of the platoon commander. Just a few years ago he would have confronted him with the superiority and aggression expected of a defender of humanity, making him ashamed of the most natural impulses such as zest for life and love of country, whereas today he mumbled, consumed by doubts, quibbling over details of lighting as if he were an electrician, dragging his flip-flops back and forth while swift-footed justice danced between one body of evidence and another, leaving behind clouds of dust, and he goes hurriedly into the lounge, trying to catch the tail-end of an item on the television news, it seems it’s precisely his petition that’s been mentioned, or perhaps he’s again imposing his internal world on reality; in the past the media used to deal with these issues all the time, but in the nature of things interest has waned.

What was that? he asks his wife, stretched out on the sofa, and she says, I wasn’t paying attention and immediately turns off the set, the news has already moved on to the next item, a fire somewhere in the north, and he wonders how it is that his presence curtails her routine activities: a phone conversation nipped in the bud, the TV silenced, all the gadgets that she operates around herself are muted, for no good reason really, after all she’s keeping quiet enough herself, or so it is until she flashes him a malicious look and says, I won’t let you do to him what you’ve done to me.

What have I done? he asks, taken by surprise, what are you talking about? And she says, I’m talking about what you’ve been doing to me all these years, making me feel I’m not good enough for you, not beautiful enough, not clever enough, don’t you see you’re doing precisely the same thing to him? And he sits in the armchair facing her, staring at her bare feet, the only segment of her anatomy which seems to have retained something of the delicacy that was there before, her small and narrow feet are being forced to bear the weight of an increasingly cumbersome body and yet they are still beautiful; he’s filled with compassion for them and he wants to take them in his lap like little puppies and caress them.

Are you listening to me at all? she says, all the time you’re yelling at him and humiliating him, but he’s starting to grow up now and he needs the support and presence of a father to help him turn into a man, not criticism, it’s as if all the time you’re saying to him: I was expecting a higher achiever than you’ve turned out to be! Don’t you realise how much damage you’re doing to him?! And Avner take a deep, heavy breath, you’re exaggerating a bit, aren’t you? It’s over-protective, what you’re doing; when he’s in the army are you going to run after him like this, defending him? And she utters a derisive snort that dilates her nostrils, what has the army to do with it? What’s the army to him?