A. Yehoshua - The Liberated Bride

Rivlin, despite his sympathy for the Kurds, could barely keep awake. He went on repeating his mother’s words like a mantra. And indeed the snow soon stopped falling, and a first patch of blue gleamed through the windows. Slowly the sky grew calm and clear, just as he had predicted in the name of his ancestors. He nodded encouragingly at Hannah, as if to say, “See, things are looking up.” By evening, he was sure, there would be a full house.

The rear door of the auditorium opened. Rivlin turned around to see who was there. It was his trusty driver, the dybbuk.

10.

ALTHOUGH THE CONFERENCE ORGANIZERS had given the lecturers meal tickets for the cafeteria, Rivlin excused himself.

“I’ve been up since early morning, and all this snow has made me sleepy,” he told the disappointed translatoress. “I need some fresh air, not more academic chitchat. You’ll manage without me. I’ll give my ticket to Mr. Suissa.”

And going over to the bereaved father, he clasped his hand with his own two and said, “It’s wonderful to see you following in your son’s footsteps.” Suissa accepted the voucher gladly. “How is your daughter-in-law?” Rivlin asked. “She’s left Jerusalem and gone to look for work in Tel Aviv,” the father of the murdered scholar replied. “And the children?” “For the time being, they’re with us.” “I thought she and you were getting along better.” “I thought so, too,” Suissa said sadly. “But there’s nothing to be done about it. She’s a young woman in a hurry to live.” “How old is she?” Rivlin asked, blushing as if he had committed an indiscretion. “Twenty-five next spring.” “That’s all?” He had thought she was older. “With all she’s been through,” he said, “you wouldn’t think she would be hurrying anywhere.”

In the garden of the Hendels’ hotel, the snow lay fresh and virginal on the paths and formed frisky little snow cubs of the bushes. Rivlin walked ahead, with Rashid following carefully behind him. Stopping to inspect a fringe of ice gaily trimming the old gazebo, he yielded to temptation and mentioned the wedding. Only six years ago, he told his driver, they had all been standing here. And as if to make up for the disappointment of the Civil Administration Bureau, he related the story of the unexpected and difficult divorce.

“They were only married a year?” Rashid asked, a sardonic glint in his coal black eyes.

“To this day, I don’t understand what happened.”

“It must be painful for you to come back here.”

“It is. But real knowledge, Rashid, is born of pain.”

“And what do you know?”

“That’s just it. I can’t get an explanation from anyone. Not even from Fu’ad, who knew exactly what went on here.”

“Fu’ad?” Rashid read his mind. “ Hada ma bihki k’tir. Hada arabi kadim, b’tist’hi k’tir.’ ” *

The Orientalist smiled. “ B’tist’hi min sham eysh? ” †

“ B’tist’hi yehin el-yahud.” ‡

“But why should anyone be offended?”

“There’s no reason. Bas ahyanan, b’kulu andna, el-yahud biz’alu min el-hakikah ili bifatshu aleiha b’nafsehum.” §

A few minutes later, the old-fashioned maître d’ was surprised to find the two uninvited Israelis in his dining room, standing in line among the Christian pilgrims at the buffet with large, empty plates in their hands.

“What are you doing here in all this snow?” he asked, startled to see them. “ U’sayara ma t’zahlakatesh”? *

“ Ahadna jeeb bit’harak min el-amam, ” the Arab explained to the Arab, “ u’safarna mitl ala zibdeh. ” †

But though the Jerusalem snow was child’s play for the pious Christians from the American Midwest, it had blocked roads and canceled tours all over Israel, so that, as on Rivlin’s previous visit, the dining room was full up. Rather than wait for Fu’ad to apologize, he filled his plate and headed for the smoking lounge favored by Mr. Hendel, whose death now seemed to belong to the distant past.

“You see,” he said as Rashid sat down next him, “I’m still family despite my son’s divorce.”

The unexpected crush kept Fu’ad running back and forth from the kitchen to the dining room. Still, he found a few minutes to drop by the lounge and even to smoke a cigar, reminisce about the eventful trip to Ramallah, and ask about the scholar who had died.

“As a matter of fact,” Rivlin said, “I’m in Jerusalem on a snowy day like this is for a memorial conference in his honor.”

“Don’t tell me it’s already been a month!” the maître d’ marveled. It seemed to him just a few days. Sometimes, falling asleep at night, he still thought of the face he had covered with a sheet. “And how is the widow?” he asked. “What a poet!”

Rivlin clucked with sympathy. “She’s coming around slowly,” he said.

The maître d’ asked to be remembered to her. He could still hear her declaiming Al-Hallaj’s lines— My soul is his, his is mine. Who has heard of the body In which two souls combine? — as if they had been written in Hebrew. He was so moved by the great Sufi poet that he had even tried writing a few mystical poems of his own. But who had patience for such things? “ Ya’ani, el-hawa ma bikdar yimsikha. ” ‡

“ Kif el-hawa? ” Rashid asked. *

“ El-jow. †Mysticism needs peace of mind. In this country everyone just wants to hear the next news bulletin.”

He stubbed out his cigarette, cleared the dishes from the table, and suggested dessert. He would bring them ice cream and coffee.

“We’ll have neither,” Rivlin declared, getting to his feet. “We just came to see if you were still alive. It’s time we got back to the memorial.”

“But what do you mean, Professor?” Fu’ad said, taken by surprise. “Aren’t you going to say hello to the management?”

Rivlin felt a ripple of unease.

“We can’t today. Another time.”

“But how another time? I’ve told Tehila you’re here. And she said I should keep you here until she’s free, because she’s busy with all the guests whose tours were canceled. Bihyat Allah, ya Brofesor, hatta la y’hib amalha minnak .” ‡

Something gnawed at him.

“Tell her another time. I’ll be back.”

Yet even as he said it, he knew he would never be back. The chapter of the hotel had ended.

“I can’t do that,” Fu’ad said.

“Of course you can,” Rivlin told him. “We came for you this time, didn’t we, Rashid? And for you only.”

“I’m honored, Professor.” Fu’ad put down the dirty dishes on the table and pressed his hands to a grateful heart. “I appreciate it. But that isn’t something I can tell Tehila.”

“And Galya?” The image of the lost bride flashed before him as though in an old dream. “Why isn’t she here?”

“In a snowstorm in the ninth month of pregnancy? She’s enormous. You could visit her, but I wouldn’t recommend it. She rests in the afternoon. This is her first child, and she’s nervous. You’ll see her at the circumcision.”

“All right,” Rivlin said impatiently. “Rashid and I have to go.”

But Rashid didn’t move. The always polite and reserved maître d’ was physically blocking his path. As though pleading for dear life, Fu’ad said:

“I can’t let you go, Professor, without your at least saying hello to someone in the family. Go see Mrs. Hendel. I’m sure she’s up by now. You haven’t spoken to her since the week of the bereavement.”

“Next time,” Rivlin replied, laying a friendly hand on Fu’ad’s shoulder. But the maître d’ stubbornly stood his ground. “I mean it,” Rivlin said more softly. “How is Mrs. Hendel doing?”