Amos Oz - The Same Sea

scrubbed, scented and cheerful, he would come and sit on the edge

of the bed. He started with a gentle word of affection, turned out the light

to spare her blushes, drew aside the sheet, caressed her sparingly,

and eventually rested his hand on her breast. She was always

on her back, her nightdress rolled up, he was always on top of her,

while outside the door the pendulum wall-clock with gilt fittings

slowly beat time. He rammed. He groaned. Had she wished, every night

she could have counted about twenty moderate thrusts, the final one

reinforced with a tenor note. Then he wrapped himself up and slept.

In the thick darkness she lay empty and bewildered

for another hour at least. Sometimes solacing her body herself. In a whisper

she told her closest friend, who would say, When there is love

it feels different, but how can you explain butterflies to a tortoise.

Several times she woke at five, put on a housecoat and went up on the roof

to fetch in the washing. She could see empty rooftops, a patch of forest,

a deserted plain. Then her father and her husband, setting off together

to early-morning prayers. Day after day she shopped and cleaned

and cooked. On Sabbath eves guests came, imbibed and dined

and nibbled and argued. On her back in bed when it was all over

she sometimes had thoughts about a baby.

After about three years it became clear that she could not give him children either. The widower, sadly, divorced her and married her cousin instead. Because of the shame and grief she was suffering her parents gave her permission to join her brother and sister-in-law who had settled in Israel, and live there under their supervision. Her brother rented a room for her on the roof of a building in Bat Yam and arranged for her to work in a sewing shop. The money she had received from the divorce he deposited in a savings account for her. And so, at the age of twenty, she was a single girl again. She enjoyed being on her own for much of the time. Her brother and his wife kept an eye on her, but in fact it was unnecessary. Sometimes she baby-sat for them in the evening and sometimes she went out with somebody or other to a cafe or the cinema, without getting involved. She was not attracted by the thought of being put on her back again with her nightdress rolled up; and she could easily keep her own body quiet At work she was considered a serious, responsible worker and in general a lovely girl. One night she happened to go to the cinema with a quiet, sensible young man, an accountant who was distantly related to her sister-in-law. When he escorted her home he apologized for not flirting with her; it wasn't because he didn't find her attractive, heaven forbid, but, on the contrary, because he didn't know how to go about it In the past some girls had made fun of him for this, he explained, and he even laughed at himself a little, but it was the plain truth. When he said this, she suddenly felt a sort of pleasant inner roughness at the nape of her neck in the roots of her hair that radiated warmth towards her shoulders and armpits, which is why she suggested, Lets meet again on Tuesday at eight o'clock. Almost joyfully Albert said: I'd like that.

There was also sex for money. It happened in a low-roofed

backpackers' hostel in Kathmandu. She had a dark voice like a muffled bell,

not unlike a fado-singer's bitter wistfulness. She was a tall,

well-rounded woman from Portugal who had been thrown out of a convent

on account of temptation (which she had both committed and succumbed to).

The Saviour had forgiven her. Her trespasses were themselves

her penance and her penitence. Now she took in wayfarers for a modest

charge. Her name was Maria. She spoke some English. She was not young,

her makeup was thick, but her knees were shapely and her breasts

unrestrained. In the tender furrow that crossed the neckline of her dress

a pendant hung, two fine silver lines running down till they met at a cross

that appeared and disappeared and reappeared

at the opening of her dress whenever she moved or laughed or bent over.

The L-shaped room contained only some mattresses, a low cupboard,

a washbasin, an earthenware jug, some tin mugs. The four Dutchmen,

Thomas, Johan, Wim and Paul, drank a strange, sluggish beer

brewed locally from a mountain shrub known as monkey marrow. Rico

sipped it curiously, it was tepid, thick and rather bitter.

For a modest fee she would grant them "grace and favor" in her room. One

at a time, twenty minutes each. Or else all five of them at once,

at a discount. She had a weakness for really young, woman-hungry men

coming down off the mountains: they always gave her such a soft,

maternal feeling. For all she cared they could see her at work. Let them

watch, it would be more exciting. For them and for her. She guessed

at the pent-up rivers of desire accumulated by mountain climbers

up there, in the empty snowfields and stark valleys. There were five of them

and she was a woman, and their desperation

made her feel compassionate too. Now you, come close and just touch me

here, then back off. Now you. Now wait Watch.

She took off her dress slowly, swaying her hips, her eyes lowered, as though

to some sacred chant inaudible to them. The little green cross

hanging on her chest quivered on its silver thread, caressed by her breasts.

Paul snickered. At once she covered up with both hands: no.

This would not do. She insisted: no laughing. Anyone who had come here

to mock could have his money back and go elsewhere. Here

everything was decent and unsullied; there was room for aching bodies

but not for filthy minds. This evening she had a yen for a wedding night:

she would bestow her favors on every groom, then lull them to sleep

on her belly, a she-wolf with her cubs. Just as the Christ

gave His body and His blood—

so she went on, until Thomas and Johan, on either side, sealed her lips.

Rico was last, feeling for her warm soft conch and missing. Her hands

slid down and guided him. He lingered inside for an eternity,

holding back, not thrusting, mastering the surge lest it end

like a fleeting dream. Wherefore the woman Maria was filled with tenderness

as waters cover the sea. As though seized with labor pains,

she clenched him lightly, with descending and ascending contractions:

suckling him and being suckled to the very last.

Rebellious son. Stubborn son. I am asleep

but my heart is awake. My heart is awake

and makes lament,

the smell of my son is like the smell of a harlot.

There is no peace for my bones

on account of your wanderings.

How long?

His mother says:

My view is different

Wandering is fitting

for those who have lost their way.

Kiss the feet my son

of the woman Maria

whose womb, for an instant,

returned you to mine.

— But what more is going to happen between you and me, Albert? Here

we are again on your balcony in the evening. Under the neon light It's not

you and another woman, it's not me and another man,

and it's not two other people either.

Herbal tea. Watermelon. Cheese. It's very nice of you

to buy me a present A silk square. Can you really see me wearing