A. Yehoshua - The Liberated Bride

He thought sorrowfully of his eldest son and of their harsh exchange in the parking lot of the hotel. I won’t defend myself against his accusations, he told himself. On the contrary, I’ll admit openly that I should never have slept in the basement with all those superannuated tax files. Still, he doesn’t have to be angry with me just because I did something foolish. If he’d told me the reason for his separation, I’d never have had to sink to such depths.

Self-pity vied with self-blame. He envied the old ghost on the terrace her outburst of writing.

His thoughts weren’t only of Ofer, his face twisted with rage. He also thought of his Circe, deftly making a bed for him with snow white sheets. Had it been the brackish light of the basement or her low-grade fever that had made her skin look so translucent and virginal? It was curious. You could count on someone like her not to take a night’s fling seriously or to expect anything from you afterward, her only loyalty being to the hotel. And yet what pleasure could there be in making love to such a bony, unattractive woman, who, for all her haughtiness, wanted protection, too? And how did you make love at all to a woman so much taller than yourself? Did you expand or did she contract?

And then there was Fu’ad. What had he been up to, turning up like that with a pillow? Had he come to warn him against an involvement that an ex-in-law should have known better than to risk, or was he protecting the proprietress? And in either case, why hadn’t the discreet maître d’ stuck to his philosophy of playing it safe and putting his own interests first?

And on the other hand, if this were really Fu’ad’s credo, why write an elegy for Ofer? Why mention it? Simply to demonstrate his friendship for an Orientalist who had told him in polished Arabic that he was dying? Or was it a signal not to give up in his pursuit of a secret that he, Fu’ad, was unable to discuss?

On a whim, Rivlin called the hotel. Without identifying himself, he asked to speak to Fu’ad, who had to be summoned from the garden.

“ Anna ba’awek aleyk? ” *

“ La, abadan, ya ahi. ” †

“What’s new? How’s Galya?”

“God be praised. She’s giving birth soon.”

“And the elegy? Al-marthiyya? Did you find it?”

“I’ve stopped looking for it, Professor. So should you. What’s gone is gone. Why lose sleep over it? If you want a new elegy, it’s no problem. I can even write you a love poem. Lately, the rhymes just keep coming. I even wrote a little poem in Hebrew.”

“Good for you.”

“I don’t know what it is, but since Mr. Hendel passed on I’ve been full of feeling. I can be in the middle of work, running the dining room or the cleaning staff, and suddenly I want to write. It’s a pity it’s all lost in the end, like that elegy. No one in our village appreciates a good poem. I wish I knew someone who could give me some constructive criticism. Back in the fifties we had a poet of our own, a fellow named Ibn Smih. Then he got into trouble with the law, and they took him away….”

5.

THAT WEEK, a movie called Passage of Memory was playing at the Japanese Museum. Two young lawyers, stopping their debate in Hagit’s chambers long enough to discuss it, had recommended it. Whereas famous stars and good reviews could not persuade Rivlin to go to a European or American movie unless he first got a detailed synopsis from his wife, he was more tolerant of films from more exotic places. Lately, he had particularly enjoyed several Iranian ones made under the regime of the ayatollahs. “Even if the plot doesn’t hold up,” he explained to Hagit, “there are still new faces, landscapes, and foods… who knows, perhaps even new and better ways of making love.”

Love was something he had slacked off at. Ten days had passed since he and Hagit had last made it, which meant it was time for action. Since in recent months the judge had been an elusive partner, prematurely tired at night and prematurely quick to rise in the morning, he had decided to consider other times of the day — such as before the Japanese movie, which was still three hours off. Hagit, however, was far from eager to undress or to miss the five o’clock news. It took many tender endearments, plus switching on the heater in the bedroom, to get her to take off her pants and blouse. Aroused by her half-naked body, Rivlin proceeded slowly, wary of making a false step or overshooting the intricate target zone of her desire.

And yet it went badly. Their kisses and caresses, even in places that had never failed them before, were stale and counterfeit. The room was too hot, and the tingle of passion soon turned to a thin, unpleasant trickle of sweat. Hagit, impatiently fretting and complaining, asked to be excused and even urged him to finish without her, which was something she generally hated. Though unhappy about it, he went ahead and made love to her motionless body for the sake of his peace of mind during the movie. Yet something about the way she shut her eyes, as though to protect herself, upset him at the wrong moment, and he came with a paltry dribble.

“It’s all right,” she said comfortingly, after he had rolled off her. “Don’t worry about it. Next time…”

He didn’t answer.

The Japanese Museum would have had a comfortable theater had the rows not lacked a middle aisle, thus forcing too many people to stand up for those taking or leaving their seats. The movie, though of recent vintage, was in black and white, presumably to convey its somber mood, while the English subtitles were difficult to read quickly — a serious problem in a film that had more talking than action. The film (so a flyer handed out to the audience explained) was about the passage from life to death and took place in a Japanese purgatory, where the newly deceased were interviewed. To gain admission to the next world, they had to forget everything about their lives except for one happy memory, which they were allowed to keep for all eternity.

It was storming outside. The drumming of rain on the roof gave Rivlin a cozy feeling as he watched the arrival of the interviewers. A likable group of young men and women who resembled social workers or vocational testers, they had their quarters in a small, drab office that reminded him of the former quarters of the income-tax bureau in an old building near Haifa port. Unlike other Japanese movies he had seen, in which the actors expressed simple, everyday emotions with a frequently jarring agitation, in this one they talked calmly and quietly. They, too, it appeared, were dead, stranded between worlds because they had been unable to choose their happiest memory. Their punishment was to have to help others choose.

After a long opening scene in which the interviewers chatted over coffee and cake, the first newly dead person arrived. Rivlin found the interview difficult to follow. His eyelids drooped, and his head fell to one side. After a while he roused himself and glanced at his wife. Hagit took her eyes off the screen, at which she had been staring with stupefaction, and smiled. “What do you think?” he whispered. “It’s one of these intellectual art movies,” she said reassuringly. “Let’s give it a chance.” He heard a thin whistling coming from his left. He turned to look at the attractive woman sitting next to him, whose large, bald husband was the source of the sound. She hurried to wake him, and he sat up, rubbed his eyes, gave Rivlin an apologetic look, and resumed staring grimly at the screen.

Outside, the rain beat down harder. Although the movie had been showing for barely ten minutes, to Rivlin it felt like a year. How much more of this could he take? The Japanese purgatory, though profoundly symbolic, did not speak to him. He scanned the audience of middle-class intellectuals and culture lovers, many of them known to him from concerts at the Philharmonic. Most seemed determined to rise to the movie’s challenge, while only a few showed signs of dropping out. He glanced back at Hagit. Although she was still managing to sit straight, her eyes were closed. Now and then, as if fighting off the sleep engulfing her, her head bobbed in agreement with the sound track, in little Japanese bows. He nudged her. She didn’t wake. He had to whisper her name to make her open her eyes and flash him another warm smile.