Mishka Ben-David - Forbidden Love in St. Petersburg

I felt heavy hearted. About her and about myself. That little child was no more. Not there, not anywhere. He barely remained in her memory or in mine. And the youth who slept there after the child was also no more. Neither was the young man, or his hopes, dreams, and passions. And the vitality of the man who arrives every weekend resembled more the fading old man and the demented old lady. Like them he couldn’t understand where his youth had vanished to or who he was and what he was doing there. There, or anywhere else for that matter.

When I left the house on Saturday nights, my father’s carer would lock the doors because from time to time my mother tried to walk out and ‘go home’.

I didn’t see the other woman who had spurned me as if I was a stranger. We talked once on the phone when Orit asked me to sign a document waiving any claim to the frozen embryo. I thought that holding on to this group of cells as a way of getting Orit back would not be an honourable thing to do. I also didn’t want to exploit this issue in order to meet up with her. I saw no point in telling her yet again that destroying an embryo was also murder. Nor did I really believe that.

I suggested she leave the form at my parents’ house, and told her I would think about it. I knew she went there every few days to see how they were getting on and offer her help.

At the weekend I picked up the form several times, read it, but couldn’t bring myself to sign. It was a waiver written by the Department of Health’s legal advisor necessitated by the problem we had created–one of us wanting to destroy the frozen embryo, the other wanting it to be kept. Various ideas flashed through my mind. To keep the embryo frozen until times were different–Orit would perhaps change her mind; perhaps keep it until I wanted a child of my own, whether or not Orit was involved? If ever such a time would come. Somewhere in the recesses of my brain a realization began to dawn which I tried to push away; that if till now I had failed to bring a child into the world my prospects of future success were much diminished. And, slowly, one thing did become clear. Orit was never going to allow a child of ours to be born.

Signing the form would consign me to an eternity of childlessness and loneliness. But I could think of no rational, sober, honourable, or sound reason for turning down Orit’s explicit request.

A moment before going out to the car that Saturday evening, I signed and then fled the house. I could barely breathe as I heard my father’s carer lock the house door. The sound of the double lock triggered two locks within me, one closing off the past, the other shutting off the future. All that was left of my present reality was a thin, hollow layer of brittle veneer.

There are other things Orit will have to do, I thought in despair; take the form, add her signature, and hand it to the hospital. Perhaps something will intervene and stop her.

A week later I was informed that the embryo had been destroyed. And with it the remaining hope I had of a different future.

ALMOST HALF A year had passed since our separation when Orit phoned and asked me to come and see her. It’s not a conversation you’re going to like, she said, sparing me any false hope.

But she didn’t save me from shock and heartache.

Again we sat in our kitchen. It looked different though I couldn’t put my finger on what it was that had changed. Orit also looked different. Ending the treatment had apparently done her good. She’d filled out a bit, was a little tanned, a spark of life in her eyes. But her demeanour remained serious, very serious. I want us to divorce formally now, she said, cutting to the chase. I’ve met someone. I think it has a chance. And I can’t afford the luxury of wasting any more time.

I’m thankful for your trust, I told her. She could, after all, have withheld the news about this ‘someone’ till after the divorce.

I’ve known you since our childhood. You won’t make it a problem, she replied.

I’m perhaps a murderer and a liar but I’m neither petty nor vengeful, I said trying, unsuccessfully, to smile.

You said it, she responded.

The calm I felt surprised even me. As the months passed I hadn’t pinned my hopes on Orit changing her mind. In fact, I’d almost stopped thinking about her.

I’m ready to go with you to the Rabbinate whenever you want, I said. Orit burst into tears. I couldn’t decide whether this was a cry of relief at my having agreed or of sadness that our fate was now sealed. And then I too felt a gut-wrenching sadness.

A week later we attended the regional Rabbinical court in Beersheba. I thought it more than a little ironic that it was on a street named ‘hope’. Orit was wearing a particularly dark pair of sunglasses, looked very stressed, and said almost nothing. When the Rabbinical judge suggested reconciliation and I told him we were skipping that stage, I feared for a moment that my tone of voice would sound insincere. In the event my sorrow turned out to be more under control than I thought. The die was cast and I was deeply aware that things could hardly have been otherwise. Not in the face of the punishment inflicted by the lifestyle I’d imposed on both of us. Like Orit, that was the only way I could understand the barrenness of two healthy people.

What awaited us next were the religious proceedings. These reignited all the misgivings I had towards every religious ritual and any intrusion of the state in my private life.

We asked the same two classmates, Guy and Dori, who’d been witnesses at our wedding, to confirm our divorce. They were clearly upset and Guy said: your divorce has destroyed what faith I still had in married life. And I felt utterly dazed when the Rabbinical Judge checked whether I understood that Orit would from now on be permitted to any man and again when I saw her, as if through a fog, taking off the ring and displaying her thin now ring-less finger to him.

This is your divorce certificate, I repeated the words of the Rabbinical Judge, and with it you are now divorced from me and are permitted to any man.

Actually it’s Orit who divorced me, I thought to myself, when the word ‘divorced’ spilled from my dry mouth. How come that everything has been turned upside down?

She picked up the document, tears streaming from beneath her sunglasses which she had not removed even in the bleak light of the court room. She then took a few steps back and returned to where she’d been standing. A sudden surge of hope overwhelmed me when I saw her returning and placing the certificate on the table. But that wish immediately faded when I realized that this was merely part of the ceremony. Only then did I understand how much, despite everything, I wanted to turn the clock back.

When we stepped out into the brightness of the desert sun lighting up the paved concourse and stone-walled buildings, we were close to one another and I thought of kissing her on the cheek. Apparently that was a somewhat quixotic and uncalled-for gesture judging from the way Orit remained standing still, as if at attention. Offering to shake her hand would also be theatrical, I thought. So all the best, I said, trying to smile, and she replied, to you too, and hurried to her car. Guy accompanied her and I walked with Dori to a nearby kiosk in an attempt to relieve the lump in my throat. Both Orit and I, it seems, hoped that once the procedure was over the distress would ease. That’s not how it went for me.

As I turned back from the kiosk I caught sight of Orit, sitting in her car. The engine was running, her head was leaning on the driving wheel. Alarmed I hurried towards her. But at that moment she sat bolt upright, turned her head, and at speed reversed out of the car park.