The Remains of Love (33 page)

Exhausted, she slumps down on a bench at the end of the pavement, covering her face with her hands, she needs help, she needs help and she has no one to turn to, how has this suddenly come about: there’s no one who can help her, and she’s lost the taste for life and it seems to her only a child will restore it to her. What’s this child idea all about? Since when does there have to be a child? After all she’s never been one of those broody women who worship babies wherever they are, on the contrary, such women always repelled her, from her superior vantage point she looked down on them, and what has happened to her now in the middle of life?

Naomi is right, Gideon is right, and so is Nitzan, she should be rejoicing in her lot, how repellent is this bitterness that has sprung up all at once like nettles in a regimented flowerbed, that’s why no one is supporting her, that’s why even the cars on the roads are trying to harm her, and that’s why she has to stand up and get into her car and drive home, immerse herself in her doctoral thesis, cherish her little family and not disrupt the course of routine life, and this she will do, but when she tries to rise she’s gripped by such a powerful wave of giddiness she slumps back again on the bench, hands twitching convulsively, and she shakes her head, this isn’t making any sense, a serious internal contradiction is taking shape here, because if indeed she has a home, why is she sprawled on a bench at high noon like a homeless vagrant, if indeed she has a family, why isn’t she in touch with one of them now, asking to be picked up from here and taken home, where they will feed her and give her something to drink, and she fumbles in her bag for her mobile, she’ll call Gideon; not long ago he did a series of photographs of the homeless, come and take my picture too, she’ll say, but even the thought of the digits that join together to make up his number repels her, those annoyingly asymmetrical figures, there’s a seven and a one and a three and a five and a nine, and besides this she hasn’t the strength to cope with his cold looks of reproof, she needs warm consolation, overflowing, like a steaming mug of milk in the middle of the night.

How calm she felt going back to bed after night conversations with her brother, almost happy, so many years have passed since then and the alienation between them has burgeoned, and yet there is one memory she has and it’s a tangible one; she fiddles with the mobile and brings up the name, Avner Horowitz, for some reason she took the trouble to key his surname in too, as if to emphasise the distance between them, a distance they both made a point of preserving and cherishing, as if it were a precious possession, Avner, come quickly, I need you.

What’s up? he asks, has something happened to Mum? I’m rather busy just now, and she says, no, Mum’s all right, clearly her entire existence has been condensed for him into a conduit of information about their mother, and she’s already regretting contacting him, she doesn’t want him to come to her under duress but out of good will, out of love, but where will this love suddenly spring from, something out of nothing, and already she’s backtracking, it doesn’t matter Avner, leave it, I’ll be OK, but he perks up at once, where are you?

To her surprise he arrives in a taxi, and sooner than she expected, just as she was preparing herself for a long wait. She stretched out on the bench with legs drawn up, and the sun spread a golden blanket over her, and for a moment this was as pleasant and relaxing as anything she had felt in a very long time, a baby in the playpen, gazing at the tops of the eucalyptus trees bowing down towards her, and unconsciously she covers her eyes with her fingers and plays hiding and revealing games, moving away and coming closer, how familiar to her is this movement from her mother’s stories about the red berries of the pepper tree; she was always irked by her mother’s childhood memories, intended as they were to arouse her compassion, but now her heart is drawn to this one story of an overgrown baby who doesn’t dare walk and lies day after day in the playpen and controls with her fingers the sights of her eyes, exactly as it is now. Around her life goes on, the heavy and dirty traffic streams on, people pass by, their knees powering back and forth, leaving behind fragments of conversations, indifferent to her existence, but this urban alienation doesn’t bother her; she’s waiting for her brother, and the expectation is pleasant because there’s nothing demanding about it. That’s the way she waited for him to be born, so he would be hers, and stand beside her, and make everything right, and here is a taxi stopping close by and the man stepping out of it in a crumpled black suit is her only brother and she is his only sister, and she’s happier welcoming him to her bench than she ever was when inviting him into her house, and she gathers up her legs and makes room for him, thanks for coming.

What’s up? Not feeling well? he asks, and adds unnecessarily, my car’s been stolen, I left it in the university car park and someone nicked it, and she looks at him in surprise, how different he looks today; his face is thinner and his expression has changed, an anguished concentration dominates it now, instead of the haughtiness that he used to radiate, towards her at least, and when he sits down beside her she sees his attention is distracted and his lips trembling slightly and he’s all agitation, and it seems to her this bench under the eucalyptus is a kind of tiny raft adrift in the heart of the lake, tossed by the waves, and although adrift it is their only hope, survivors as they are from a ship hijacked by pirates, a brother and sister needing the help of Heaven.

I’ve brought you some water, he says, taking a cold bottle from his lawyer’s briefcase, and she puts it to her forehead and moves it slowly over her cheek, and when she finally takes a sip it seems to her the most wonderful thing she has ever tasted, you have some too, she hands it to him, and he tilts his neck with a sharp movement that reminds her of the time of his infancy, reclining in his pram and drinking from his baby’s bottle, his pretty blue eyes fixed on the sky with such intense concentration that all who saw him were looking up, wondering what he had found there, and now too she gazes up at the treetop blazing in the fire of midday, and the white sky rolling above it like smoke, but his eyes return to her and he asks, so what’s happening, Dini? What’s going on with you? I contacted you a few days ago but you didn’t answer.

I felt unwell suddenly, she hesitates, as if I was about to faint, I couldn’t even get up from the bench, and he appraises her with a quizzical eye, you’re looking terribly thin, are you eating anything at all? Have you eaten today? And she says, no, I have no appetite, and he opens his case again and takes out a bulging sandwich, of dark nutty bread with tomatoes and lettuce leaves peeping out from the edges, here, have some of this, and she fingers the sandwich, impressed, some sandwich this, do you make yourself one of these every morning? And he grins, no, not I, and she tries again, does Shlomit do these for you? He says, no, this isn’t her style, and Dina peers at him with curiosity, peeling off the plastic wrapper and biting into the fresh bread, the soft goat’s cheese, and a raging hunger is aroused in her as she eats, the mysterious hands that sliced the bread and cut the cheese and vegetables for her brother are indirectly consoling her as well.

Like some coffee? he asks, I see there’s a café at the end of the street, and she says, no, I was in there before, let’s stay out here, I’ve nearly finished this for you. She hands him the remains of the sandwich and he chews in silence, watching the slices as they disappear until his hands are empty, and he takes a tissue from his pocket and wipes the crumbs from his lips. She notices how his cheeks, usually so smooth, are covered with dark stubble that accentuates his eyes, looking almost transparent in the dazzling light of midday. Tell me, she asks, do you remember how we used to meet in the kitchen at night? What did we talk about? I remember we talked, but I can’t remember what it was about.

About our insomnia, I think, he says, you found it very hard to cope with, and she’s surprised, really? More so than you? and he says, definitely, you used to say all the time you wished you were dead, at least that way you’d get some sleep. I remember you really scared me, I was a kid and I didn’t know how to help you.

So did you tell Mum and Dad? she asks, and he says, no, I gave it a lot of thought and in the end I decided it was your decision, if you wanted to tell, if you wanted to live. I had resolute views of the world back then, he grins, I wish I’d held on to them until now, and she sighs, so it seems I’ve changed less than you, unfortunately, even today I wanted to die, or nearly, she qualifies it, lately it’s seemed to me I’m already dead, my life is over, it’s a terrible feeling and I can’t get rid of it.

How did it start? he asks, it must be connected with some circumstances, right? and she sighs again, maybe it’s age, or hormones, I don’t understand enough about this, but I feel I’ve suddenly been left alone, and everything I thought I had has evaporated, and because he doesn’t respond but confines himself to nodding gloomily, as if in corroboration, she adds, I’ve had an idea which everyone thinks is crazy, meaning that I’m crazy. There’s something I want to do with what remains of my life, but this apparently isn’t going to happen.

What is it? he asks, and she hesitates, leave it, you’ll think it’s crazy too, I know I’m supposed to forget all about it and be happy with what I have, but I can’t do that, and when he chuckles she asks, what’s funny? and he says, since when have members of our family felt what they’re supposed to feel? She smiles, relieved, I didn’t think of that, the truth is, I’m not used to seeing myself as part of a family, we were always so divided.

So what do you want to do now? he asks, go to India for a year? Take a young lover? And she says, I wish those options were right for me, believe me it would be a lot simpler. No, what I want is something more basic, she pauses, but also much more complicated, I want to adopt a child. That probably seems to you absolutely psychotic, most men don’t sympathise with this, and the truth is most women don’t either, she adds acerbically, nor girls, young women I should say, meaning Nitzan, and when her voice breaks and her head gravitates almost unconsciously towards his shoulder he puts his arm around her. Dini, he says, I don’t know why you’re apologising so much, in my eyes this is a beautiful thing, what could be more beautiful?

But it isn’t because of the beauty that I want to do it, she admits, her eyes moist, it’s for my sake, you understand, because it’s what I need, I’m no saint, and he says, why do you need to be a saint? And what difference does it make anyway, what your motivation is? Do you know how many different motives induce people to bring children into the world? You need a child and you’ll find a child who needs a mother, what could be more logical?

But Avni, it’s a fantasy, she blurts out to him all the words said to her these last weeks, it’s just a romantic fantasy, we’re talking about difficult children, with lots of problems, and he grins, so what? Difficult children don’t need a mother? Of course there are bound to be problems but you’ll cope with them and in the meantime you’ll be rescuing a kid, and she weeps on his shoulder, it seems it’s myself I’d be rescuing, they all say I need to treat myself some other way, take hormones or go into therapy, or just be happy with what I’ve got, and I can’t do it.

Of course you can’t do it, he says, handing her his used paper hanky, how can you suppress a desire that runs so deep? I’m afraid even to think of the price to be paid for such suppression, but she interrupts him, I have to give it up, I have no choice, Gideon isn’t prepared to help under any circumstances, and I can’t do this alone, and he says, so I’ll help you, I’ll travel with you anywhere you need to go, and she shakes her head, you don’t understand how complicated it is, I can’t destroy a whole family because of my obsession, I have to get over it and find other things to take an interest in, I’ll give therapy a try, I’ll take up yoga, I’ll find some institution where I can volunteer to help out, just to feel needed.

Oy, Dini, he grins, you’re lucky you’re not in my profession, you’d never win a single case in all your life, the way you’re running yourself down all the time, hush now and let me represent you, and she falls silent gratefully and listens to him with sparkling eyes and thumping heart, sitting on the bench under the blazing treetop and thirstily drinking in his words, because it seems he’s talking about some other woman, not about her, a brave, generous woman, the kind she’d be happy to know, a woman whose mother didn’t want her and who, in what remains of her life, is seeking to take into her house and into her heart a little child whose mother didn’t want him, and raise him with love.

She’s late again, and again the reproachful, malicious looks will accompany her, what’s the matter with you, Hemda, late in the classroom again, both as pupil and as teacher, late in the cowshed, in the chicken coops, dreaming among the vegetable plots, advancing slowly, inadvertently challenging their sacred cow, the sacred cow of work, which they worshipped intemperately in those years. Who is first arriving for work, who has not missed a working day, whose hands are the most diligent, whose baskets are filled more quickly with the hard, bitter olives, who is milking more cows, who is catching more fish, who hoes weeds with the dexterity of a pianist – while she of all people, her father’s daughter, is always late, and always last in line, her baskets empty.

He was their conscience, their conscience and their compass, but she was marooned on the periphery of this dispensation, with its prickly edges. Everyone gives according to his ability and receives according to his needs, he used to drum it into her, it isn’t equality we aspire to, equality is a sore evil, but how will you know what your ability is, and how will you believe in your needs? Exhausting himself, grinding his teeth, because all must give according to their abilities, and it always seems they can do more, and what do you deserve? Nothing, is the honest answer. That’s why he’s content with the very least; in his rare hours of leisure he’s teaching himself English, filling notebooks with his small and neat handwriting, reading works of philosophy, reading Tolstoy, reading Brenner, and she is crushed before his eyes, crushed before the eyes of all in this transparent pressure-cooker, surrounded by scores of critical eyes, what are they saying about you, what did they say yesterday, what will they say tomorrow?