A. Yehoshua - The Liberated Bride

“No warning?” She smiled mockingly. “As if that were possible.”

“There were signs in advance?”

“Of course there were. There had to be.”

“Well, they must have been too subtle for us. In any case, I’m telling you — listen carefully — that Ofer couldn’t explain it. That was the reason he didn’t want to talk to us.”

“Then why keep trying to make him?” She was upset now.

“We stopped doing that long ago. It’s a subject we avoid. But even then, he feels our sadness and keeps away from it….” He paused to phrase it more exactly. “I suppose I should say my sadness. I’m less able than Hagit to live with it, perhaps because Ofer is closer to me and more like me. I identify with him more. Listen. I’ll say it again. A long time has gone by. We’ve come to accept your divorce. But I still refuse to accept its mysteriousness. It keeps Ofer from freeing himself like you and meeting someone else.”

“You’re overstating it,” she accused him boldly, almost contemptuously. “There was nothing mysterious about it.”

“If there wasn’t, so much the better. Then you can explain to me right now what happened, and I’ll free myself, too.”

And he added softly after a brief silence:

“From you.”

“But why from me?” She seemed exasperated. “Why can’t you let things be? Maybe we discovered that we simply weren’t compatible. Isn’t that enough for you?”

“But you were compatible!” exclaimed the ex-father-in-law. “You still are….”

“That’s not up to you to decide.” She narrowed her large, pretty eyes despairingly. “What do you want from me? If he didn’t tell you why we separated, he had his reasons.”

“Then you tell me!” He was growing more heated. “If it’s too intimate, or even… forgive me… too deep or complicated… perhaps sexual… something you don’t want me to know about… then tell Hagit. You know what a good listener she is. She’s wise and she’s honest and she’s loyal. Believe me, she keeps the darkest secrets from me as if she had been told them behind closed doors in a courtroom. She’ll keep yours, too.”

He felt relieved. Not simply because he had got it off his chest at last, but because his unstinting praise of his wife, who was no doubt furious at his disappearance, made up in part for this strange conversation that would only have aggravated her even more.

Galya tossed her head, eyeing him with distrust.

“What happened? Tell me!” He was losing his temper. “Why can’t you give me a straight answer? Or is it that you, too, don’t understand what you did?”

His open refusal to believe her set her on edge. She had lost a dearly loved father three days ago and now, still overwhelmed by it, needed all the tenderness she could get, not this cruel rebuff.

“But who says I owe you anything?” Her eyes blazed. “It’s over with. It’s all over with. I’ve remarried. If it were not for my father’s death, I could consider myself a happy woman. It’s your son’s own problem if he can’t free himself of me. It’s not mine. How old is he now, thirty-two? Thirty-three? If he still doesn’t know why I had to leave him, even though… even though I loved him a lot… then he has a problem. Maybe you do too. Maybe — who knows? — you’re even the cause of it….”

25.

A QUARTER OF an hour had gone by. He had to stick to his schedule, especially because he might yet be caught in the rush-hour traffic leaving Jerusalem. But if this singular encounter ended now, with no resolution, he simply would have added to his old torment a new sense of missed opportunity.

His glance wandered to two pink-skinned Holy Land pilgrims who, undaunted by the chill evening air, were diving into the swimming pool that had replaced the old dance floor. On that floor, six years ago, a happy and ravishing young bride had determinedly approached a cerebral, middle-aged couple who hadn’t danced for so many years that they were as intimidated by the old dances as they were by the new ones. Hesitantly, Rivlin had let himself be coaxed, encouraged by the young people around him. He needn’t fear looking foolish, they assured him, because nowadays there were no rules. Next came the turn of his wife, dragged laughing onto the floor by her sons, so that midnight found the two of them pawing the air with their hands and feet like two endearingly wary bears. Mr. and Mrs. Hendel, whose long years in the hotel business had made them excellent dancers, cheered them on. After a while the same bride who now sat sullenly hunched before him had made them all join hands and dance in a circle around her.

“Suppose you’re right,” he said, trying to outflank the swift passage of time with a hurried admission. “Suppose, indirectly, we too had to do with the failure of your marriage. Isn’t that a reason why we deserve to understand what happened? It’s painful to think we’ve been kept in the dark when even your new husband knows all about it. It doesn’t matter if you’ve been inconsiderate or simply scared. As far as I’m concerned, it’s all the same.”

She said nothing, her resentful glance protesting — justifiably, he knew — the pitiless way he had turned a condolence call into a bill of indictment. His wife had been right again. The visit was ending with a pointless exacerbation of past wounds. In his despair he thrust a lance he hadn’t known he possessed.

“Listen, Galya. I’m in a hurry to get to the airport. And you have to rejoin your family. I just want to say that, though we haven’t spoken for five years, your father’s death is truly hard for me…. We’re no longer one family, and I wasn’t obliged to come today. Still, you see that I did anyway. This death is a double blow for me, because for five years — secretly, without telling Hagit, because she’s too proud to acknowledge her feelings — I’ve kept hoping that one day it would be possible to ask your father to help me to understand. I’ve always thought that he of all people, who loved you so much and was so attached to you, was the one to do it….”

His reference to her dead father, he saw at once, only heightened her distress. She rose, the setting sun red on her eyes.

“My father knew nothing. And even if he had suspected something, he would never have revealed to anyone, not even my mother, a secret having to do with me. He respected me totally.”

“I know he did. Yet I’m convinced he would have agreed had he known…. What I’m trying to say is… had he known the truth about me….”

“What truth?”

He made a supreme effort to pretend that his next words were no more his than the gray birds flying heedlessly above the pine trees he had played among as a child.

“The truth about my situation. I’m talking about my illness… because I don’t have much time left to live. I’m sure he would have taken that into account….”

“You’re ill?”

“Yes,” he said. Unforeseen and absurd, the declaration was made calmly. “I haven’t much time left.”

In the time that remained his imagination wove a narrative of intricate arabesques out of the secret illness of Samaher, the pretended illness of her narghile-puffing grandmother, the actual and deadly illness of Mr. Hendel, who was presently hovering above the two believers in his resurrection who were splashing in the swimming pool, and the illness that he now invented, with its real pain and imaginary symptoms, for an internationally renowned Orientalist improvising a lecture on it from his fantasies.

“Yes,” he said again, lowering his gaze to avoid the eyes of the young woman he had forced to factor his death into her father’s. “It’s a fatal disease that my wife alone knows about — and believe me, she too doesn’t know everything. We haven’t told Ofer or his brother yet. For the time being, I’d rather spare them. I’m telling you this, while swearing you to secrecy, only to prick your conscience, if you have one, into helping me get at the truth, or at least your version of it. It’s not only for my son’s sake. It’s for my own inner peace as well.”