Amos Oz - A Perfect Peace

"Turn off that radio. I'm talking to you."

Rimona turned it off. Irately, as if that were not enough, Yonatan yanked the plug from the socket. There was a moment's silence. The rain outside had stopped. From the neighboring apartment came the sound of something falling, as if a tower of blocks had collapsed on the rug. The neighbors laughed.

"Listen, Rimona," said Yonatan.

"Yes."

"I guess I should start explaining, why and how and since when. That's hard for me."

"You don't have to explain."

"No? You mean to tell me you're so smart you don't need any explanations?"

"Yonatan. Look. I don't understand what's the matter with you, but I don't want you to start explaining. People always want to explain and understand, as if life were just a matter of explanations and solutions. When my father lay dying in the hospital of cancer, and I sat next to him all day without talking, just holding his hand, the doctor came by and said, 'Young lady, if you'd care to step into my office for a few minutes, I'll explain the situation to you,' and I said, thank you, doctor, there's no need to, and he must have thought I was either callous or an imbecile. And when I gave birth to Efrat and they told us she was stillborn, and Dr. Schillinger in Haifa wanted to explain it to us, you yourself, Yoni, said, 'What is there to explain? She's dead.'

"Rimona, please. Don't bring that up now. Not that."

"I'm not."

"You're all right," said Yonatan uncertainly, his voice betraying a momentary wave of affection. "You're just a strange girl."

"It isn't that, though," said Rimona. She stared at him, and then, as if fathoming the tip of some obscure idea, she added, "It's hard for you."

Yonatan didn't answer. He laid his broad, ugly hand on the table close to Rimona's pale, thin fingertips, taking great care not to graze them. The contrast with his own stubby fingers with their hairy knuckles and nails black from engine oil pleased and soothed him. In some enigmatic way it seemed not only just but comforting.

"When do you intend to do it?" asked Rimona.

"I don't know. In two weeks. Maybe a month. We'll see."

"You'll have to tell your parents. There'll be all sorts of meetings. Everyone will talk about it. There'll be lots and lots of talk."

"Let them talk. What do I care."

"But you'll have to talk too."

"I have nothing to say to them."

"And I'll have to prepare all kinds of things for you to take with you."

"Please, Rimona. Do me a favor. Don't prepare anything. What's there to prepare? Nothing. I'll just throw a few things in my knapsack and take off. I'll just pick up and go."

"If you'd rather I didn't, I won't."

"Right. All I want is for you to keep cool during the next few days. And if it's not too much to ask, to try not to hate me too much."

"I don't hate you. You're mine. Will you be taking Tia?"

"I don't know. I hadn't thought about her. Maybe. Yes."

"Do you want to talk some more? No, you don't."

"Right."

She fell silent again. Yet it was not an ordinary silence. It was as if she were listening, as if now that the talking had ceased she could concentrate on hearing alone. After a brief interval she took his hand in both her own, glanced at his watch, and said, "It's almost eleven now. If you'd like, we can listen to the news and go to sleep. We have to be up early."

Yonatan felt her fingers on his wrist. A moment later he felt them on his shoulder, because he still hadn't answered. Was she saying, "Listen to me, Yoni, what I wanted to say was that it's almost eleven and you'll miss the news, and besides, you're terribly tired and so am I, so let's go to sleep"?

Her fingers were still on his shoulder. His hand reached out and groped for the coffee mug on the table, but when he raised it to his lips, it was empty.

When the baby was stillborn at the end of the previous summer, Yonatan drove straight to the hospital from the citrus groves in his work clothes and sat on a hard bench outside the maternity ward all afternoon and evening. When night came, someone said to him, "Why don't you go to sleep now, fellow, and come back in the morning." But he refused to leave and continued sitting there with a crossword puzzle on his knees that couldn't be solved because it had been misprinted, all its Downs and Acrosses confused. Close to midnight an ugly old nurse with a flattened nose and a hairy black mole like a blind, third eye stepped out of the ward. "Excuse me, nurse," he said, "maybe you could tell me what's going on in there." And she answered him in a voice rubbed raw by cigarettes and worries, "Look, you're the husband, you know your wife's not a simple case. We're doing our best but she's not a simple case. As long as you're here, you might as well make yourself some coffee in the staff kitchen. Just don't leave a mess." At three in the morning the same god-awful-looking woman appeared again and said, "Lifshitz, try to be strong. Women can have normal births even after more than one such mishap. Two hours ago we decided to get Professor Schillinger himself out of bed for you. He drove all the way from the outskirts of Mount Carmel just in time to save, I literally mean save, your wife's life. He's still working on her now. Perhaps he'll have a few minutes to talk to you when he's done, but please don't keep him too long. Tomorrow, I mean today, he has several operations to perform and he isn't a young man any longer. Meanwhile, make yourself another cup of coffee in the kitchen but please leave it clean."

Yonatan shouted, "What did you do to her?" The nurse replied, "Young man, I'll ask you not to shout here. Really, what's the matter with you? Stop behaving like a caveman. Try to think logically. You'll see that all that matters is that your wife is alive. Professor Schillinger literally revived her. Instead of being thankful for the blessing you've received, you stand here shouting. She'll be all right and the two of you are young."

Outside, by the hospital gate, the dusty, decrepit old jeep that belonged to the field hands was waiting for him. Completely forgetting that they would need it for work by four or four-thirty, he started it up and headed southward until he ran out of gas some thirty kilometers past Beersheba. A hot, sandstormy morning was breaking beneath a grimy sky. The desert was gray and shabby, its hills like garbage dumps, and beyond its huge mountain peaks like scrap metal running the length of the horizon. Yonatan left the jeep, walked a short distance, relieved himself, lay down, and fell fast asleep in the sand. Three paratroopers passing by in a command car woke him. Get up, you crazy nut, they said, we thought you'd killed yourself or been slaughtered by the Bedouin. Yonatan looked around him at the filthy, shifting sand dunes polluting the air with dust and at the hideous mountains in the distance.

Yonatan turned on the radio, but the station was off the air. He took a sheet and blankets from the linen chest, and went to the bathroom to wash up and brush his teeth. When he emerged, Rimona had already made their bed and was setting the clock by the twelve o'clock news from the army broadcasting service. The announcer expressed grave concern over the possible results of the conference of Arab military chiefs scheduled for the next day in Cairo. The situation gave signs of rapid deterioration. Yonatan said he was going out to the porch for a last cigarette and then forgot to do so. Rimona undressed in the shower as usual, reappearing in the heavy brown flannel nightgown that resembled a winter coat. When they woke Tia from her snooze at the foot of the table, she arched her back, shook herself, let out a yawn that turned to a thin whine, padded to the front door, and waited to be let out. A few minutes later she was let back in, and the lights were turned out.