A. Yehoshua - The Liberated Bride

7.

WAS AGREEING TO his Arab driver’s suggestion to take along a blanket and two small pillows an early warning of the depth of the seduction? For although Rivlin protested that he never slept in cars, Rashid insisted on making a bed of the backseat for the comfort of the Jewish professor, who would travel “just like in an ambulance.”

Before turning onto the Northern Highway, the minibus entered a gas station on a side road. The station’s name appeared only in Arabic, the pennants decorating it were colored an Islamic green, and each driver was given a copper tray with Turkish coffee and a piece of baklava instead of the usual mudslinging Hebrew newspaper. Rashid handed these to his passenger. It was the holiday of Ramadan, and besides, he never felt hungry before evening.

“You’re right, it’s Ramadan,” Rivlin said, remembering that it was the month in which Muslims fasted by day and ate at night. “I would never have come today if I had realized that.”

“But why not, Professor? Why should Ramadan bother you? It’s a time when guests are especially welcome.”

The sleepless night, coupled with the infusion of morning slumber, had left him fuzzy-headed. He emptied the coffee cup, catching sight, as he threw back his head to drain the last drops, of the university tower in Haifa, a thin needle on the horizon.

“Still, Rashid,” he said, “tell me the truth. I need to know it before we reach the village. What’s wrong with Samaher? Is she depressed?”

Samaher’s cousin put his head in his hands, as if to think the matter through.

“Sometimes. But sometimes she’s happy and even sings songs.”

He took out a pocketknife and strode to a field behind the gas station. Finding a bush with blue flowers among the dry brambles, he deftly cut a few fresh branches and made a bouquet of them.

“You can give this to Samaher’s grandmother,” he said, with a twinkle. “We Arabs never give flowers. That’s why we’re always so glad to get them.”

The village lay silent, struck by a withering noon light. The minibus climbed a small hill and parked between the wrecks of two fifties pickup trucks, near which red Arab chickens of an obsolete stock were pecking at the ground. Rivlin, his head aching, stopped by a large, dusty fig tree, trying to remember something.

“Yes, the wedding was here,” Rashid said with a hint of melancholy. There was no telling whether his doleful tone had to do with the event itself or with its being over so soon. “We put all the Jewish guests by this tree. Your wife sat over there. She laughed all evening. We even talked about it afterward, how a woman could be a judge and laugh so much.”

“But these old trucks weren’t here then, were they?”

“They were, but we covered them with a tarpaulin. We spread olive branches on it and put the D.J. and his equipment on top of them.”

Here was the narrow lane down which Samaher’s wedding dress had rustled as she resolutely transferred her illness to her grandmother. In broad daylight it was a short, simple path. The black horse rubbing its head against the bars of the front gate was familiar, too.

Rashid stroked the animal’s unbridled neck. Gently gripping its intelligent head, he gave it an odd, quick kiss. Samaher’s mother opened the door of the large stone house. Either because of the holiday, or to distance herself from the Jewish professor who had acceded rather too quickly to her request, she was wearing a traditional peasant dress. Soon the sturdy, silent grandfather, his bald head no longer hidden by a kaffiyeh, was summoned to the scene too. Giving the Orientalist what looked like a Turkish salute, he unscoldingly led the friendly horse to its stable, as though it were a slow-witted but likable child.

By now, several women had congregated by the front door along with Afifa and the grandmother. Some young and some old, they greeted the visitor respectfully.

“ Allah yehursak.” *

“ Barak li’lah fik, ya mu’alim .” †

“ Kadis! ” ‡

“ Low kunt ba’aref ino ’l-yom Ramadan, ” Rivlin replied, “ma kuntish bawafe’ bilmarra aaji el-yom la’indikon. ” §

“But why not, Professor? Why let Ramadan stop you?” Afifa scolded him in a friendly Hebrew. “You’re not a Muslim, and Muhammad didn’t make the fast for you. And even if you were, it’s a free country….”

Samaher’s grandmother sniffed the flowers Rashid gave her. Kissing her eldest grandson’s hands, she blessed him for bringing “Samaher’s important teacher.” No one, it seemed, had really expected him to come.

8.

HE WAS LED to a spacious bedroom, in which stood a black lacquered chest, a closet, a large table, several smaller ones, and some chairs. Half-lying and half-leaning on pillows in a big bed, his student of many years looked pale and thin. Her hair was gathered in a net and traces of red polish from the wedding were still on her fingernails and toenails, which stuck out from beneath the blanket. He gave her a suspicious, pitying look. Expecting a child, he told himself, as though he had lately become an expert on false pregnancies, she was not. It looked more like a case of depression.

“You really came.” She blushed and smiled wanly. “Thank you. Thank you, Professor, for coming to our village.”

“ Sad’uni,” * he said, addressing not only Afifa and the grandmother, who had followed him into the room, but the women outside in the hallway, “I’ve been teaching at the university for thirty years, and this is my first house call. Bil sitta ow marid. ” †

“ Tiwafakt bil’aml es-saleh. ” ‡

“ Allah yibarek fik. ” §

Meanwhile, the sable-skinned impresario was arranging the stage by plumping up the squashed pillow behind his cousin, bending down to retrieve a pair of slippers from beneath the bed, throwing some wrinkled napkins into a wastepaper basket, and handing the grandmother two dirty glasses. Turning to Samaher’s medicines, with which he seemed familiar, he restored some order to them before pulling out two notebooks and pens from the lacquered chest. All this was done deftly and knowledgeably, in a code composed of short, swift sentences, as if he alone knew the desires of the recent bride.

“How’s the new husband?” Rivlin asked cautiously, putting the question to no one in particular.

“Working hard for his father.”

“What at?”

“He’s a building contractor.”

Rashid now placed Suissa’s texts in their colored binders on the large table. At least, Rivlin thought with relief, he could take them back to Haifa with him.

The messenger was not yet done. Moving a large armchair close to the bed, he placed a small table next to it and spread this with an embroidered cloth just as a girl entered the room with a knife and fork.

“ Min fadleku, la. ” *The guest returned the silverware to the hands of the frightened girl. “Don’t serve me any meals now. We have plenty of time. And what’s this about food, anyway? N’situ Ramadan? ” †

“ Shu Ramadan? Kif faj’a nat lak Ramadan?” ‡The women laughed, amused by how easy the Jew thought it was to become a Muslim. “You have your Yom Kippur, Professor. What’s Ramadan to you? Er-ruz matbuh, u’lahm el-haruf ala ’lnar. ” §

The Orientalist stuck to his guns. He was not eating now. He had already told Rashid. His wife had flown abroad early in the morning, as a result of which he hadn’t slept all night. If he ate now, he would need to sleep, which was not the purpose of his visit.

But why shouldn’t he sleep? The women took to the notion enthusiastically. “In fact, why don’t you do it the other way around, Professor, and sleep first? If your wife is out of the country, you’re in no hurry to get home. Have a light snack, and we’ll give you a nice, quiet room to lie down in. That way you’ll be fresh for the exam.”