A. Yehoshua - The Liberated Bride

“Never!”

“But there’s a hole in them.”

“I can wear them around the house.”

“With a hole? I don’t deserve the honor.”

4.

YET THOUGH YOU knew you would have trouble sleeping the night before she left, you never thought such desolate sorrow would chip away at you, slowly and dully, minute by minute. Already at ten-thirty, feeling the impending signs, you hurriedly put on your pajamas, threw another pillow on the bed, turned off the lights, and lowered the blinds to shut out the moon, as if in it lay the threat to your sleep. And even then, still not reassured, you preemptively swallowed a blue sleeping pill to stun the day’s anxieties and the morrow’s premonitions. Not that you were reckless. Afraid of sleeping through the alarm, you divided the pill in two, taking half for yourself and giving the other half to the guileless traveler, a stranger to worry and insomnia. Excited by her adventure and protesting the loss of the newspaper that you snatched from her hands while switching off the reading light, she kissed you gently and curled herself, to the serenade of her musical snores, into her usual, peaceful ball of sleep.

How could you have been so slow then to recognize the poison dripping into you as you tossed for a whole hour in bed, dozing fitfully, rumpling sheets and kicking off blankets, until you went to lie down on the convertible couch in your study, the royal bed from which you vainly tried to shake the leftovers of your fragile sister-in-law’s sleep, until at midnight, with a desperate hope, you swallowed another sleeping pill, this time a whole one ingested with a glass of brandy that, though it hit you like an uppercut, merely poured more fuel on the stubborn flame inside you?

Can it be that your beloved’s folded clothes, now lying resigned to their fate in a higher pile than you had counted on, reminded you of happier times? Because Hagit, after fighting tooth and nail for each item, suddenly reversed course and joined your clearance campaign with such ardor that you had to stop her in a panic, uncertain whether this was a shrewd ploy to make you back down or a genuine decision to prune her wardrobe, which would inevitably be followed by a demand for its massive renewal.

And so, fatigued and confused by new and old desires, you return after midnight to reconsider the old dresses, skirts, and blouses. By the glow of the reddish night-light between the two floors of the duplex, you run your hand over worn velvet, finger beloved embroidery, caress light wool, and sniff at a never-worn pair of red high-heeled shoes that you called “whorish” because you thought their provocative nature would bring a blush to the cheeks of defendants and plaintiffs alike. Their straps shamelessly seductive, they have fled from drawer to drawer, closet to closet, and apartment to apartment before being apprehended at last and added to the pile of castaways waiting to be sent to some charity.

You know what is the one thing capable of chaining to your bed the recalcitrant sleep now wandering about the apartment. But you know, too, that your mate of many years will never allow you to mix love with slumber, lest she lose control over an act that is in her opinion more spiritual than physical. And so, reduced to raising the blinds again in the hope that the rebuffed moonlight may dispel the darkness of the room, you whimper (though not to tomorrow’s traveler, whose sleep is precious, but to the sky, the stars, the sleeping ghost across the street, the blue pill that has been swallowed by your anxiety rather than vice versa):

“I haven’t slept a wink. Not for one minute.”

And you lapse into silence, not knowing whether your voice has made a dent in the woman beside you. After a while comes her faint but clear answer. It is on automatic pilot, that unconscious critique born of pure judgment that enables her, in all times and places, no matter how deep the night or her sleep, to utter words of reassurance or reproach that not only are unremembered by her in the morning, but amuse her greatly when she is told of them.

“Never mind, my love. There’s nothing sacred about sleep.”

“Look who’s talking.”

“Ben-Gurion slept four hours a night and was the best prime minister the country ever had.”

“Give me four hours and I’ll be a happy man.”

“You can sleep all you want when I’m gone.”

“How? When? What are you talking about? The housekeeper is coming tomorrow. How can I sleep with her around? And that goddamn Samaher is sending me her cousin with her material. What made me get involved with her? God Almighty, how did I let it happen?”

“Never mind. You’ll sleep afterward.”

“I’m a wreck.”

“What’s the matter with you tonight? Don’t tell me you envy me too.”

“Of course not. There’s nothing enviable about you. It’s just the injustice of it. You can abscond all the way to Europe, while I can’t even do it for a few hours to Jerusalem without feeling guilty.”

“When did you abscond to Jerusalem?”

“I didn’t.”

“Then what do you feel guilty about?”

“You. Wherever I go makes you jealous and angry.”

“Because I don’t like being without you. Tomorrow will be hard for me too. But what was I supposed to do? You mustn’t mind my going. I had no choice. Believe me, I’m not looking forward to it.”

Astonished, you stare at this woman making perfect sense in her sleep, from the depths of which she talks like an obedient fetus.

“All right, all right. It doesn’t matter. Go on sleeping. You only have an hour and a half left.”

“Would you like me to put you to sleep too?”

But already her breathing grows regular, and she sinks back under, beneath the straight blanket, upon the crisp sheet, her fist against her mouth like the last trace of an old habit of thumb-sucking. You snuggle up to her from behind, one hand on her stomach, trying but failing to access her warmth, to cling to her, fetus-to-fetus, your breath in one rhythm with hers, sucking in the generous bounty of her calm, untroubled sleep — only to give up and, with a sudden movement, despairing and reconciled at once, free her of the burden of you. Oddly, your mood improves at once. Slipping out of bed, you put on your bifocals, shut the bedroom door behind you, turn the light on in the kitchen, put up some water up to boil, and go to switch on your computer, across whose screen float the words “Be of Good Cheer.”

5.

ONLY WITH THE first glimmerings of dawn was Rivlin permitted to shut the suitcase and stand it by the front door. Hagit, wearing makeup and her regulation black suit that no number of clearance campaigns would eliminate, joined him for coffee. Beaming and expectant, she agreed to help finish an old piece of cake left over from her sister’s visit. The two of them sat looking at each other with a deep and weary affection, surprised to discover that their rare, if brief, separation was really about to take place.

“What would you like the housekeeper to cook for you today?”

“Nothing. The fridge is full of leftovers.”

“Will you come downstairs with me?”

“Of course.”

“It’s not necessary. The suitcase isn’t heavy.”

“What’s necessary is to get a coherent explanation from you of how we’re going to be in touch and how I’ll know when you’ll be back. This whole trip is a little too mysterious for me.”

“Mysterious? It’s only for three or four days. And I won’t be alone.”

“But who will be responsible for all of you?”

“Why does anyone have to be responsible? The embassy in Vienna will know where to contact us. Just don’t expect a phone call today. Maybe tomorrow. Are you going to change that shirt?”