Orly Castel-Bloom - Textile

“Leave me alone, Bahat. Let me sleep.”

“But your plane leaves at six. You have to go to the airport now. Come on, your suitcase is already in the trunk, I packed it myself. You fell asleep with your clothes on, so just get up and freshen yourself up and let’s go. I found you a new toothbrush because I already packed yours.”

“Five more minutes,” said Gruber and went back to sleep.

Five minutes passed, and the story repeated itself until in the end Gruber sat up in bed with his eyes closed and sighed bitterly. Bahat thought he was groaning in pain and her heart went out to him.

“My dear,” she said gently, “we undergo hard things in our lives. But we have to carry on. You must get up,” she bent over him. “You have responsibilities.”

“Yes, but there’s no funeral, right? So I’ll leave on the next flight. It isn’t a tragedy. You know why?” He stood up, his eyes still closed, and his clothes smelling of alcohol, sweat, and other smells banned by international conventions. “Because the tragedy has already happened. The tragedy is behind us.”

“You have a responsibility to your children to be united with them in your grief. To seclude yourselves.”

“What business is it of yours in the first place?” asked Gruber in a kind of illumination and he opened his eyes for a minute. “Where do you get off telling me to seclude myself. Why should anybody in the world tell me how to behave in a time of trouble? What’s important is where I can go on sleeping now. All the bedclothes are stinking. I need fresh clothes. I sweated like a pig last night.”

“If you like I’ll change your bedclothes right now,” said Bahat on her way out of the room.

“Why change the bedclothes!” Gruber called after her. “Just bring me some dry tracksuit. And hurry up, I don’t want to wake up, or I won’t be able to get back to sleep.” He sat down and closed his eyes again.

“Okay,” said Bahat and hurried to the walk-in closet. She still didn’t get where the Israeli was going with this, or maybe he was simply broken up and he wasn’t going anywhere. She came back with an Adidas tracksuit. Gruber was already waiting for her half naked, having thrown his dirty shirt onto the floor like a boy.

“Give it to me,” he said. He put on the tracksuit, and went back to sleep.

Bahat thought it was a question of aftereffect and delayed reaction. At the most, he would miss this flight and leave tomorrow. The airport was open tomorrow too. It wasn’t the end of the world. Nevertheless, she wasn’t cut out for decadent enigmas, but for charging ahead.

She sat down in the living room and waited. There was nothing more for her to do. There was no longer any need or point to escaping into the spider research. She went to her Jewish bookshelf and took down a volume of the Talmud and tried to read it, but she had zero focus.

At one o’clock in the afternoon, Irad came downstairs and apologized profusely. He said that he was simply no longer capable of distinguishing between what was important and what wasn’t important. Bahat said that it was only human to behave strangely in situations of distress, and that it was impossible to expect everyone to be at their best every day, what he had done yesterday was enough, he was definitely head and shoulders above the average person.

She put his coffee down in front of him.

“How about a snack? Something sweet?” she asked.

“No thank you,” he replied, and after a minute he said:

“I’ve come to a conclusion.”

“Yes?” asked Bahat curiously.

“I’m not going back to Israel. At least not soon. I need more time before I go back there. I’m staying here in the meantime, if you don’t mind. I really like your bedroom and the direction of the view; it faces east, right?”

“Yes.”

“Then let’s change, just for a few days. You get the morning sun. I don’t want to get rickets. My room doesn’t have a serious window.”

Bahat wanted to react to the criticism and tell him that she didn’t see any need for enlarging the window in the guest room since she hardly had any guests, and certainly not for long enough to make them worry about the shortcomings of the room.

“I’d like to stay in your room for a few days,” said Gruber, “and for you to sleep in the room you gave me. Just for a few days. .”

“But your children, and the terror suit project — what do you call it — the TESU.”

“My children,” he said and wrung his hands. “They have already received the blow. And now they’re ready to absorb the next one. I won’t let them know. They’ll understand for themselves. This way they’ll get it into their heads gradually. Not in a boom. I won’t answer the phone, and you’ll say that I’ve gone and you don’t know where. No,” he paused, “that’s too dramatic, I will speak to them. If they ring, I’ll talk to them.”

“And the project?”

“Last night I sent the defense minister an email. That there’s news, there’s a breakthrough, and the critics and slanderers can shut their mouths. I didn’t go into detail, so he wouldn’t take the credit at my expense. I said I was on my way. That doesn’t mean I have to be there to kowtow to him in two days’ time. Let him crawl a bit himself. There’s no question about it, Bahat, it’s a great achievement.”

For the first time she noticed that for a while now he had been calling her by her first name, and it pleased her because he pronounced the h so beautifully, with a lot of aspiration, and didn’t turn her into Bay-hat like the Americans did.

He went on:

“All you have to do, Bahat , is to understand that this is the reaction of a very sensitive man, whose ship of life has reached the gulf of oblivion. I myself haven’t yet taken in this duality, that on the one hand you’ve given me the data, and on the other hand my wife is dead and I’m a widower , can you believe it? Me? A widower? I feel as if the laws of physics have changed.”

He rested his brow on his hand, and what could Bahat say?

After a silence he added:

“I think that five hundred dollars a week, including food and laundry, would be very reasonable. Can you wheel my suitcase back in from the car?”

Bahat froze in her place, still confused.

“Irad Gruber, you are a very unusual person,” she said in the end, taut as a spring. Her nervous system reacted before she did. “Who else is like you? And who do you really care about?”

“Obviously I care about my children and my work. And my poor wife. And myself of course. But I can’t move until I restart, do you understand?”

“And you think,” she said and began pacing round the room, “that you have some special right to an absolutely deluxe restart, while others can restart in the heart of their distress?”

“I don’t think I have the right. I simply know that there’s no other way for me to get over my wife’s death except by staying a few more days in the diaspora and not jumping right back into the fray in Israel. In the past months I’ve been working so hard, and the pressure I’m under could give me a stroke on the spot, and then what? Who would take care of everybody? I’ll restart, and then I’ll check all the errors and fix them one by one, on a linear model. And you can simply relate to me as if I’m the pilot who fell into your house, and you’re the little princess who stays with him during the difficult moments until he fixes the plane.”

Bahat blushed. He’d read Saint-Exupéry?

He asked for a towel and went into the bathroom. Bahat quickly called Professor Propheta in Berkeley, and caught him on his cell phone. She apologized for turning him out, and told him about what was going on in her house. Now she understood that it was a critical mistake. She should have let him stay, and he would have helped her. They would have been two against one, now she was absolutely alone facing—