A. Yehoshua - The Liberated Bride

“Is he really unconscious?”

“I’d say half-conscious.”

“Which half?”

“He has difficulty talking. But he listens. He can follow.”

“But what was so urgent about seeing him? You’re always complaining that you have no time for work. Why look for still more things to do?”

“As long as I was going to the airport, I thought I’d make the gesture. I had a hunch the flight would be late.”

“What kind of hunch?”

“At eleven o’clock there was still no arrival time on the recorded announcement at the airport.”

“But if you thought the flight would be late, you should have waited for me. I would have gone with you. You know how upsetting it is for me not to be there.”

“I never imagined the delay would be for four whole hours. I thought it would be a small one.”

“You could have waited to find out. What made you rush off to Jerusalem? Since when is Tedeschi so urgent? You keep saying his problems are psychological, and suddenly you’re in a panic over him.”

“In the first place, psychological problems deserve attention too. And second, Hannah’s telephone call yesterday worried me. Sometimes people just go and die on you.”

“Not Tedeschi. You can count on him. And even if you had nothing better to do, you could have waited for me. Or at least let me know. I would have come with you. I care about Tedeschi too. I’m shut up in a dark courtroom with all kinds of shady characters and you’re gallivanting around the world.”

“What kind of gallivanting? I went to the hospital.”

“Hospitals can be fun, too. You might have waited. It was another of your premature ejaculations….”

“Are you out of your mind? What kind of way is that to talk? Me …?”

“I didn’t mean it like that. I was talking about life. About living. You know how I love going places and seeing things.”

“Nothing will be gone tomorrow. What have I done? It’s not my fault the flight was delayed. It inconvenienced me too.”

“But what are you doing now? You still have three hours left. Go to Raya’s. You can rest there until the plane lands. Does your back still hurt?”

“My back?”

“This morning you said you had a backache.”

“It’s gone.”

“You should rest at Raya’s anyway. You can lie down there. I just spoke to her fifteen minutes ago. Start out now. We rose early today. You’re not a young boy anymore. You can’t just keep going. Take a nap. By the way, it was nice of you to wash the curtain.”

“Especially since it wasn’t dirty.”

“Nothing is ever dirty, in your opinion. But what counts is that you washed it. Start out now. Raya is expecting you. I’ll phone in an hour.”

“Wait. Listen. Something’s come up. Listen to this. Her father died.”

“Whose father?”

“Yehuda.”

“Yehuda who?”

“Hendel.”

“Yehuda Hendel died? When?”

“A few days ago.”

“Who told you?”

“Carlo. Hendel was in the bed next to him. He had a stroke one night. He was gone in a matter of hours….”

“But why should Carlo have mentioned him?”

“He remembered him from Ofer’s wedding.”

“From six years ago? He sounds pretty conscious to me. How old was Hendel?”

“He must have been about my age. Maybe half a year older.”

“How terrible. When did you say it happened?”

“Three days ago. Believe me, at our age you have to read the obituaries every day. If I hadn’t gone to see Tedeschi, I’d never have heard about it.”

“In the end we hear about everything.”

“The question is what you do with what you hear. By my reckoning, they’re still sitting shiva at the hotel. As long as I’m in Jerusalem, I might as well pay them a little condolence call.”

“Forget it. Why get involved? Send them a letter. You write such lovely condolence notes. That way they’ll have a permanent record.”

“A letter isn’t enough. This calls for something more personal. They must be devastated. Just think of Galya’s mother, of how dependent she was on him.”

“That’s why it’s better to write and not barge in on them. They won’t understand what you’re doing there after five years of being out of touch. And it will look strange for you to turn up by yourself, without me….”

“What’s there to understand? It’s a condolence call. I can tell them the truth. I happened to be in Jerusalem, and you were in court.”

“Listen. Do me a favor. Don’t go. You’re overdoing it. They’re not friends of ours, and they’re no longer relatives either. You’re getting involved for no good reason. What’s got into you? I thought you were angry at them.”

“I was angry at her, not at him. He never wronged me.”

“But he’s dead. If you go there now, it’s to see her.”

“Hagit, sometimes we have to extend ourselves. She was our daughter-in-law. You can’t erase the past.”

“No one is erasing anything. Write them a nice letter. You’re the last person she needs to see now. What can you do for her?”

“I don’t have to do anything. I only have to say how I feel. If I died, wouldn’t you appreciate her coming from Jerusalem to see you?”

“You know I can’t stand your fantasies about dying. That was your family’s favorite occupation, imagining how you’d all die and mourn for each other. In my family, death wasn’t talked about.”

“Like sex.”

“Maybe. Not that it ever kept anyone from having children or dying. Listen to me. Forget about it. Go to your sister’s, and we’ll write them a letter together. Suppose you hadn’t gone to Jerusalem and happened to hear that he was dead?”

“But I’m in Jerusalem. I’m even in Talpiyot. Right next door to their hotel.”

“You are? What are you doing there?”

“I must have secret longings for the place.”

“Longings for what? I thought you wanted to relax. Wasn’t that Arab wedding enough for you?”

“Definitely. It was tediously long. That lamb is still sitting in my stomach. It was probably that wedding that made me long for Ofer’s. Listen, Hagit. There’s no point in arguing. I’m here, and it’s my to duty drop in on them.”

The judge paused to assess her husband’s intentions and reevaluate the battlefield before answering.

“All right. But remember. Condolence calls are short and sweet. You don’t want to hold up the line behind you. Don’t overstay your visit.”

“Why should I overstay it? I’ll say a few words and leave.”

“And remember to give them my condolences too. And to explain that you did all you could to keep me from coming with you.”

20.

HE HEADED FOR the third floor, where the family residence was tucked away in a wing of the hotel, but the arrows directed him to a reading room on the second floor, which had been converted into a receiving room. He was surprised to see how many callers there were, among them even some hotel guests. In a corner stood a huge table with some bottles of water and a large condolence registry tended by an elderly Arab waiter in a black suit and bow tie. His presence added a solemn formality to the occasion.

Rivlin did not wish to be recognized at once. First he wanted to spot the ex-daughter-in-law on whose account he had come and to observe the state she was in. To his disappointment and curious relief, however, a quick glance around the room revealed that she wasn’t there. He had had no idea whether his sorrow for her could get the better of his old anger. On a leather couch, lugged upstairs from the lobby, sat Tehila and Ohad, her older sister and brother, supporting their widowed mother. Dressed in black, Mrs. Hendel was stonily gripping the shoulder of a small boy of about four, apparently a grandson, who had been set on a stool at her feet to help her maintain her equilibrium. For a moment, Rivlin considered beating a retreat. Mrs. Hendel, absorbed in her grief, still hadn’t noticed him. Yet a second later Tehila, a tall, unmarried woman who had managed the hotel with her father, gave him a friendly smile, and with a look of respect in her whiskey-colored eyes rose to greet him.