A. Yehoshua - The Liberated Bride

The hypnotic, coal black eyes of the messenger stared intently at the baffled professor, who failed to fathom the swift transition from the curves of an unmarried woman awakening in the morning to the ruins of lamenting Arabs.

“Where is the Arabic original?” he asked.

The messenger had brought the translation alone.

The second poem was written by the same poet, Farouk el-Janabi, and was about the same mystery figure:

How stunning is night’s color in her eyes! / In them she hides a note from her lover, / And a cool ring with which to cheat Time. / How stunning is night’s color in her eyes! / She paints a tattered flag, / A black cloak, / For those turned back / By the gates of her glory. / She paints the night / So that none are seen by none. / O unmatched woman…. / How beauteous is her misfortune!

“What about the stories?” Rivlin asked disappointedly.

“Samaher is still working on them,” her cousin said. “She spends all her time in bed. It’s easier for her to do short poems. But don’t you worry, Professor. She’ll have it all in good time.”

“Can she really be pregnant so soon?” he asked incredulously.

“That’s what her mother says,” was the noncommittal answer.

2.

MEANWHILE, THERE WAS a new development in the closed-door trial. A key witness for the prosecution, who, fearing for his life, had fled to an Asian republic of the former Soviet Union, had now agreed after concerted pressure to testify, but only on condition that the court, in whose closed doors he had no faith, hear him in a place of his own choosing outside of Israel. At first, a single judge had seemed sufficient. But the defense, worried that the testimony might be highly damaging, had insisted that all three judges attend. This meant Hagit too.

“The court agreed without knowing where it’s going?”

“That was the condition. But there’s no need to worry. We’ll be told the exact location as soon as we get to Vienna. And the Israeli embassy will know where we are.”

“But suppose I were to abscond like that?”

“I’d be annoyed,” Hagit admitted with an unflappable smile. “But that’s only because you could always take me with you. I can’t take you. But why should you care? Won’t it be nice to be rid of me for a while?”

“Not like this.”

“Then like what?”

“I’d need a more thorough break from you.”

Taken aback, she laughed and went to kiss him.

“Don’t imagine it’s going to be all fun and games. This is a working trip.”

Yet she did not seem put out by the prospect of it. Her mood was one of excitement. Besides the adventure itself, there was the prospect of new evidence deciding a case that had dragged on inconclusively for months. And surrounded by male colleagues, she would surely be getting at least as much attention as could be provided by a single husband.

Rivlin felt an anxious sadness, coupled with an unfamiliar aggressiveness. Their impending separation, though short, was a rare event, and his wife’s forensic talents, marshaled to convince him that it was a blessing in disguise that might revive his powers of concentration, did not reassure him. He grumbled not only about the fancy restaurants and good meals she would enjoy without him and the new places he would not get to see with her, but about the chronic disorder she always left behind. This was why he insisted, on the eve of her departure, on her keeping an old promise, made earlier in the year and repeated before her sister’s visit, to go through the clothing in her closet and throw out what wasn’t needed. It was time they gave their stuffy life an airing.

3.

EVEN THOUGH HAGIT was leaving the next day and hadn’t yet decided what to pack, so that she swore she would do “anything” for her husband if only he put off closet-cleaning until her return, he was determined to have his way. And so at 10 P.M., two chairs were set up in their bedroom, one for the clothes whose fate had been sealed and one for those granted a temporary reprieve. Hagit hated parting with her old things, which were an inseparable part of the self she felt comfortable with. Not surprisingly, the Rivlins were at loggerheads at once.

“First of all, what about this?” He grabbed a faded gray coat by its fur collar as though it were a beggar caught panhandling in the closet. “The last time I wanted to throw this out you promised to wear it, but I’m still waiting for that to happen. All it did was spend two more years growing moldy in the closet and infecting everything else.”

“You can’t blame me if we haven’t had any real winters.”

“You wouldn’t have worn it if we had. A heavy coat with a fur collar is an absurdity in this country.”

“But I love it.”

“Strictly platonically. The time has come to part.”

“We’ll regret it the first cold winter that we have.”

“Bye-bye, sweetheart,” Rivlin said, depositing the folded coat on the first chair. “And now, before we do anything else, the moment has come, ten years after her death, to pay our last respects to your mother’s woolen skirt.”

“Don’t you dare touch it!”

“But why not? You’ve never worn it, and you never will. Give it to some new immigrant from Russia.”

“Don’t Russia me. It stays right here.”

“Why?”

“I’ve already told you. It has sentimental value.”

“I’ll be damned if I understand what sentiments an old black skirt of your mother’s can arouse.”

“You would understand better if you had ever felt any sentiments for your own mother.”

“I certainly never felt any for her old skirts. How long does this skirt have to hang over us like a black fate?”

“What’s fateful about it? It’s a memento.”

“It doesn’t look like we’re going to get far tonight.”

“I told you we wouldn’t. I’m tired. Why do we have to do this now? I have to be up at three in the morning. I promise to go through everything when I get back.”

“I’ve heard such promises before. You’ll come back exhausted, and that will be the end of it. Here, let’s give it one more try. Fifteen more minutes. I deserve a less cluttered house. Look at this embroidered blue blouse. It’s lovely, but it’s reached the end of the road. It’s much too tight on you.”

“Do you remember when we bought it?”

“In Zurich.”

“No. In Geneva. In a little store near the lake. It cost a fortune, and you were against spending the money.”

“I wasn’t. I just had my doubts.”

“That was so long ago. And look how alive this purple embroidery still is! Do you have any idea how often I’ve worn this? How much use I’ve got out of it?”

“Of course I do. It’s one of your uniforms.”

“Then let’s spare it. For a blouse like this, I’m ready to lose weight.”

“Hagit, you know you’ll never lose weight. Bye-bye, blouse. It’s been good to know you. Now lie down and let yourself be folded like a good girl.”

“I can’t stand giving it away.”

“And now, Hagiti, look this brown suit in the eye and admit that it’s been five years since you last touched it.”

“No, it hasn’t. I wore it to the party you were given by the oriental Society.”

“So you did. But my partying days are over.”

“It’s not my fault if it’s out of fashion.”

“That’s what you said the day you bought it.”

“It could come back in.”

“Not a chance.”

“You’re a hard man. What’s it to you if I own another suit?”

“I told you. It clutters up your closet and hides the clothes that are wearable.”

“Then let’s put it in your closet.”

“Are you out of your mind? Come on, bite the bullet! This suit will make a perfect gift to some poor, penniless woman who can’t afford to be in fashion. And she can also have these old velvet pants of yours….”