Grossman David - Her Body Knows

He went on in that same strange voice, alternately tense and relaxed, as if carried on some endless internal current, and Esti drove slowly and thought the Volvo was barely moving. It seemed as if it were only the huge hills around them that were stretching out into the darkness and changing into plains that slowly flattened backwards, only to be swallowed up by new plains, and she no longer knew whether Shaul was opening up to her with this sorrow that had been crammed and trapped inside him for so many years, or whether something completely different was going on here, on frequencies that her brain could not pick up but in which her soul was trembling with pain. Every few moments a question would come to her lips, an absolutely logical question, such as: But how can you be certain that.? Or: How can you hide from her? And: What would happen if you just told her you knew everything? And even: Why do you let it go on and torment the three of you like this? But her tongue was heavy and thick, and she'd forget, and soon a new question would collect in her like a drop of water

They link to form rows around him, crowded, silent, breathless. Their eyes burn, almost red. He can smell their breath. A few of them look familiar, or almost familiar, or like the rough draft of someone familiar, but all their faces are distorted into one eager, wolfish expression. Tell us, a weak voice whispers from behind. Tell, another adds. Tell, tell, tell, they add one voice to another, spark whisper to whisper, and the dull grumble surrounds him and intertwines into a long, throaty growl mixed with crushed words, and he listens and tries to decipher word fragments, breaths, sighs. They want him to tell them about her, that must be it, that's all, and it certainly makes sense and is even legitimate-clearly the most important details are the ones given by the missing person's relatives. That must be what they are demanding from him with their warm, sour breaths, and it's probably worth their while to delay the search for another few moments so they can equip themselves-they breathlessly tell him as one-with information that only the husband can provide, and here they fall silent and gaze at him with tense expectation.

But how and what should he tell them? he wonders, and they lean in toward him even closer, as if they had heard his precise thought, and ready themselves to pounce, each and every one of them, to be the first to snatch every crumb of a thought that may pass through his mind. He decides he must focus, so he can finally be of some use, and he sucks his cheeks in as he always does when he thinks, and shifts from one foot to the other, and embarrassed by their penetrating looks, he lets out a silly twittering sound in a high squeaky voice and they quickly draw back and then lean in again. Then he realizes that they have already begun to "equip themselves" with information, that in fact they are already in the midst of the process and that even now, in the way he stands, in his hesitant shifting, his sudden screech, he is probably telling them something important about her, about his Elisheva, and perhaps about her uncontrollable urge to go off into the distance every so often and be alone.

Tell me-she could no longer bear what she thought he was doing to himself with a kind of tortured lust, so she dove into his silence and tore him out of it and brought him to the surface-that man, Paul, is he married? Does he have a family?

Shaul said, No, he isn't married. Because of her, I think. He sighed helplessly. I'm telling you, Esther, this is not just a fling. She is his great love. He paused, then sighed again with absolute sincerity. She is the love of his life- The Volvo suddenly rocked violently and leaped forward as she slammed on the brakes. What happened? Shaul shouted.

Nothing, Esti mumbled. It's these pedals, sorry, I got confused. Shaul looked at her and straightened his broken leg a little. A crooked line formed between his eyebrows.

Every few weeks, he said after a few minutes-and now there was the trill of a newfound boldness in his voice-she offers to shave him. For no particular reason, just so he'll have a close shave, because he always misses a bit. He made an effort to smile as he explained, and saw Elisheva preparing a bowl with hot water and lathering his face with his ancient brush. Her tongue peeks out from between her lips as she concentrates on his upper lip, careful not to cut it, but even if she does, even if thick, dark red blood spurts out, she blots it so softly that it's hard to tell, then goes back to running the blade over his chin and cheeks, carving him. Her face is very close to his, and she gently pushes his hand away when it reaches out to her from below. She carefully washes his warm face, pats it, and holds it between her hands. At that moment, he said, she has a smile I'm not familiar with. In fact, he whispered, that's true of all her expressions there, when she's with him-those are expressions I've never seen in her-

Like what? she interrupted him, almost rudely.

I don't know, he said, but they're definitely sharper expressions of everything, of all the emotions. Passion, obviously, but also sadness, happiness, longing.

Esti said nothing.

That's the way it is, he explained what she knew in every cell of her body. Even when she's with him she misses him. Or misses being with him somewhere else, or in a different state. And he sighs: You know, I sometimes sit at home and count the minutes and think, Maybe today she'll be home five minutes earlier. Maybe today, for a change, they'll have had enough a little earlier, one minute earlier. And it's never yet happened, do you understand? Ten years, and it's never yet happened to them.

In an instant of enchanting illusion, her vision became blurred and she herself was Elisheva, driving to the man's house in her little Polo, sewing up the margins of the night with little bright green stitches. You know, she said after a while, I've never heard you talk like this.

I never do talk like this. And he gave her a long look and bit his lip with a tiny gesture of loneliness. I can't even comprehend yet that I'm really talking.

That's exactly how I feel, she murmured. As if I'm somehow reading your mind.

He nodded. They were quiet. That's it, she thought.

To tell you the truth? Her fingers tightened their grip on the wheel. I don't know how you have the courage.

Courage? He laughed in surprise. I don't think it has anything to do with courage. I may be a little drunk now, from talking, but what will I have tomorrow, when I'm hungover? Tell me that.

Call me, she said immediately. We'll talk in the daylight too.

Oh yeah? He shot her a playful, slanted look, almost charming for a moment. We'll have a support group?

No, she said. Yes, why not. Just the guys from the rosemary bush.

Sometimes, like when we eat, he said, after a minute, I look up at her when she's distracted and try to guess what that face looks like when she's with him, when his look alters her. And just in general I picture how her whole appearance changes-the aging and the little wrinkles and the tiredness-how when she's there they are smoothed over and refreshed, how she's illuminated there. That's the word, "illuminated."

And what then? she whispered.

And then it hurts, he said, and his voice broke. Then she's incredible.

Tell me.

Wait, he said, and held his hand up in front of his face. Wait. He spoke with the voice of someone excusing himself because he needs to be alone. And they had already tacitly agreed that every so often he needed to retire to another place, to take a different road, a side road, which was also-she guessed-part of the pleasure of his torment, just as she herself, it occurred to her, could retire and disappear into herself during these moments-