The Remains of Love (38 page)

Yes, with love and resignation she must make her way through the world, join the column of obedient ants. She’s received her portion of happiness and there won’t be any more, she’s left it too late, there’s no one who makes no mistakes, and now she must pay the price of her mistakes, and again she scrolls back the sequence of the years, when was the mistake made? Again and again it was made, a necklace of black and flawed pearls, all those nights when she could have conceived, so intent she was on preserving her treasures and incapable of realising they would be lost anyway, and now how hard it is to set things right; so many new mistakes she will have to make to correct one old mistake. It seems to her one of the doors is opening and she perks up but there’s no one there, maybe it’s just the memories of the house misleading her, its cravings teasing her, or maybe these are the cravings of the cat, who emerges from Nitzan’s room and leaps on their bed, and she gathers him to her and presses her cheek against the fur. Rabbit, you’ll help me, won’t you? There’s nothing the cat can do to change the past, he’s even more helpless than she is and yet she intones her appeals into his ears as if he were some ancient god, as if it were in his power to give her a sign, Rabbit, Rabbit, what shall we do?

This is my brother, Nitzan used to cavort around him, the bestest brother in the world, offering him little presents on days she decided were his birthdays, or special festivals for cats, spools of sticky paper, used shoelaces, toy mice, what a lot of cat-worship goes on in this house, Gideon used to laugh, aiming his camera to immortalise the ritual. Me and my Rabbit, we don’t want another brother or sister, she used to announce at times, and it seemed it was easy to go along with her, at least in the early years. It was only later that it began to bother her, towards the age of forty, and that’s when the conversations began, in this very bed, or in more spacious beds on weekends in the north or the south, by the light of scented candles. Come on, let’s have another baby, Gidi, this is the last opportunity, otherwise we’ll regret it for the rest of our lives, but he stood by his refusal and she wasn’t forceful enough; she let it go and tried again, lying in wait for propitious moments. He was an expert at the art of applying pressure to her sensitive points: Nitzan needs you, you have such a special bond, do you know how this will affect her when suddenly you’re busy all the time with a baby? It isn’t appropriate, Dina, believe me.

It isn’t the same thing, she would protest, not the same thing at all, but again she retreated, we’ll wait a few more months, it’s not so terrible, these days women give birth at a much later age, she used to promise herself, and the months turned into years, and so long as she was talking and striving and waiting for agreement she was already a different woman, stronger than her, capable of bringing three children into the world, until around two years ago the doubts coalesced into an anxious certainty, and faced with this Gideon eased off a little, which had the unfortunate effect of showing her that in fact it had all been dependent on her from the start, and he had been responding to the needs of her body on the appointed days with a patronising smile, as if pandering to the whims of a charming and spoilt little girl, but the months passed and she wasn’t pregnant, and when she started knocking on the doors of doctors’ surgeries it was made clear to her it was too late, because this fruit of fertility, the mysterious and volatile fruit, menacing and miraculous, had rotted and withered away, earlier than expected, and what has been cannot be undone, and now as she’s lying under the ceiling with its old damp stains, the cat licking himself beside her, the remains of her life are sketched out before her eyes, sharp and clear. A beggar for love and affection she is destined to be, picking up scraps of wood at street-corners, never again in her life will she see one great and vivid flame blaze up but only random twigs that will flicker and light up the darkness for a moment, and with this she’ll have to be content, perhaps in this she will find a remedy, and she turns to stare at the sliding windows of the enclosed balcony, at the yellow sky reflected back to her. What would she not give now for a sign and symbol, a whisper to emerge from there and show her the way.

If only she could turn to a rabbi, a guru, some kind of necromancer, but she was always a sceptic, and a private omen is what she’s looking for, revealed only to her, without intermediary, and she gets out of bed and sits down in front of the computer. No, she’s not going to immerse herself now in the heart-warming stories of her new, anonymous friends, she’ll never go in there again, she’s not joining their fellowship, she’s not as brave as they are, or perhaps not as desperate as they are. She has something to lose, and that’s why she’s returning to the doomed community in Spain, on the verge of destruction but not aware of it yet; Valencia, Cordoba, Toledo, Seville, the end was coming upon them, even though it wasn’t the Jews themselves that Don Fernando and Donna Isabella wanted to uproot from Spanish soil so much as Judaism, it seems they didn’t realise just how deeply ingrained in Jews Judaism is, to the very marrow of their bones, and so it may be said that not only did the expulsion edict fail to achieve its objective, a mass conversion of Jews, it also engendered the phenomenon of the secret Jews, much more subversive in the eyes of the establishment. She rereads these words from the preamble to her doctoral thesis, dealing with the roots of the strange phenomenon of Judaism without Jews, since that’s what she’s supposed to be concentrating on now, not motherhood without children, and aroused in her again is the perplexity that has accompanied her for years, how come you didn’t assimilate in your masses? Were you not tempted to stay in your homes and your cities, rather than boarding unseaworthy ships and travelling to strange lands, endangering those dearest to you?

Is it possible to understand this choice in our generation? she asks, and turns her attention to the first chapter of the thesis, a chapter which she succeeded in finishing and even publishing some years ago, in an article dealing with the heinous blood-libel named after the holy child of La Guardia, of whose murder the Jews stood accused, although it turned out the entire story was pure fabrication – until the mobile on her desk starts vibrating, and she hears her brother’s voice: hey, Dini, I’m at Mum’s place, you’d better get over here, and again she’s gripped by the terror of orphanhood, what’s happened to Mum? And he says, nothing, she’s fine, don’t ask questions, just come.

I’ve just sat down to work on my thesis, she mumbles, but the briefcase is already in her hand, of course she’ll come, for the first time in years his voice instils calm and confidence in her, little brother, her first baby. She loved him so much and he too was stolen from her, she wanted to clasp him to her heart, fasten him to her skin, but her mother snatched him away. Perhaps she was afraid her daughter would harm him, perhaps she just wanted him for herself, and not only she, it seemed the whole system united to keep them separated, and even he himself, her pretty baby, found it easy to abandon her, without a word of protest.

I’m coming, little brother, she says, excitement gripping her as she stands before the mirror, fringing her eyes with black and her lips with bright lipstick, make the most of your quiet life, she mumbles to the inert assortment of limbs curled up on the bed, maybe I won’t be coming back, since it seems to her, her brother is waiting for her with news, and who knows, maybe there will be a rebirth of their old and yet immature family, which never ripened fully, perhaps there, between him and her mother, in the tiny apartment sweltering in the afternoon sun, she’ll find her redemption.

And yet nothing could prepare her for the surprise that awaits her when Nitzan opens the door to her, wearing one of her grandmother’s dressing gowns that reaches to her ankles, her hair untidy and on her face a rather solemn smile, as if it’s a grown-up and responsible thing that she’s doing, and already she’s in her arms, clinging to her in that miraculous and incomparable fusing of limbs so familiar to both of them, the girl’s head nestling in the dip of her shoulder and her lithe body held tightly. How complete is this integration of inward and outward curves, of the body and the spirit, how serene is the calm that envelops her, everything will be restored to its rightful place, she feels suddenly, restored peaceably, holding her breath for fear of defiling the sanctity of the moment, afraid to move so much as a fingertip lest their embrace be broken, lest she be deprived again of her daughter’s love, which breathes life into her limbs. It seems to her that hour upon hour they’ve been standing there thus without moving, it seems the sun has already set and in a moment it will rise again, it seems years have gone by, retreating back into the hinterland of the past, pushing forward the secrets of the future, what was and what will be, life and death, old age and adulthood and infancy, all these things are virtually the same when measured against the absolute substance of their love, when measured against the beauty of the soul accustomed to drawing out from within itself such strong and concentrated emotion, and in the seconds and years of their tight embrace she realises no one can take this beauty from her, not even Nitzan herself, since the beating heart of her existence she feels inside her own body, and all the delight they have showered on each other since Nitzan was born to this very day, nothing has been taken away, nothing has disappeared into oblivion, and for this reason she will never be grieved again, knowing that without the cold and sterile burden of regret over both past and future, every future, it will be easier, and perhaps that is the purpose of this confession of love that her daughter is offering her, to dissolve the blocks of sorrow that have fastened to her limbs till they slide down her body like melted snow, and a sudden sense of celebration will flicker in her over the joy of her daughter’s existence, even if she’s far from her, as in fact it is her existence that confirms all the charms and wonders they have experienced together.

This was no fabrication but an aspiration substantiated in full, and this past no one will steal from her, and therefore she’s suddenly calm, therefore she can now lay foundations, one by one, build the wall between what was and what will be, block the baleful intrusion of the predatory beasts that roam the inner deserts, between the twilights of time, diffusing danger and desolation. It seems to her this work is well within her capabilities, to mark out the boundaries brick after brick, and only then can she stand up and face up to the mysterious continent of her desires and analyse her actions, read the signs and the symbols. Thank you, my darling, she whispers, smoothing the soft mop of hair with her fingers, and Nitzan nestles against her, Mummy, she says, in her most melodious tone, I’m so glad you came, and she takes her hand and leads her with rhythmic steps, as if in some ancient ritual, to the hated room of her youth where her brother Avner sits in the armchair, his face very thin with hints of his former beauty still perceptible there, and in the bed, with eyes closed under wrinkled lids, her aged mother, on her lips a thin, satisfied smile.

It’s great that you’ve come, Dini, her brother says, we’ve talked a lot about your plan, the three of us, and she’s surprised, really? What have you said? And her brother says, we agree that you’re very brave, and she’s quick to protest, brave? I haven’t done anything yet, it’s still just a dream, and her brother says, even dreaming takes courage, and I know you well enough to be sure it will end in action, and I don’t think there are many bigger and more beautiful things that can be done in this life, even if it leads to problems with those closest to you. And his eyes shift to Nitzan; he’s never looked at her like this before, he’s never looked at her at all, and Nitzan often used to complain that the only uncle she had wasn’t a real uncle, he took no interest in her and wasn’t kind to her, and Dina retaliated by treating his children the same way, but now his look is warm and encouraging, and her daughter responds to him at once. We talked about this a lot, Mummy, she says, I understand you better now, and if it’s so important to you, you mustn’t give it up, certainly not on my account, and Dina smiles at her, deeply touched, thank you, my darling, it’s so nice what you’re saying, and it means a lot to me, but I’m part of a family and I don’t want to damage anyone’s interests. I was hoping we’d all do this together.

That apparently isn’t going to happen, her daughter says softly, the question is, is this a good enough reason to give up, I’ll need time to get used to the idea, but I withdraw my opposition, perhaps this isn’t enough but it’s all I can say at the moment. If you really want to adopt a child don’t give it up on my account, and Dina nods her head in bemusement, her glance lingering for some reason on the oval table covered with packets of medications. How bitterly she had wept in the shop, when she wanted to buy the table but her mother wasn’t so keen, it seemed to her that with this object the room would turn into her room, the life would become her life. What have you done to my daughter, she asks her brother with a chuckle, and what are you doing here in the middle of the day? And he says, I’m living here now, I’ve left home.

He enjoys saying these words, although sometimes it seems to him he’s lived here all his life, sleeping on the narrow single bed in the room overlooking the car park, his few clothes stowed in a rucksack at the foot of the bed.

I’ve left home, he reminds himself when he wakes in the night and listens to his mother’s moans, the keening of a baby who refuses to be soothed by any means, bottle, hug or dummy. We are both mourning the passing of our lives, Mother, and it comes so naturally to him he finds it hard to understand why he never did this before. You spend a whole lifetime agonising, fearing, striving, regretting, promising, and in the end this happens in an offhand sort of way, without thought or intention, and this is natural and even small in scale, how small the deed is in the final analysis, and perhaps death itself is the same, shrinking upon its arrival after being feared throughout life.