A. Yehoshua - The Liberated Bride

“It’s the only one I belong to,” Akri replied, in what was either an apology or a complaint, and promised to send Rivlin a summary of their talk. Exasperated by the pedantic nature of the man he had appointed to succeed him, Rivlin decided to goad him with the story of his visit to Mansura. The Near Eastern department head was not only goaded, he was perturbed. “You let them leave you alone in a bedroom with a sick Arab woman, just like that?” he scolded his colleague, warning him to be more careful in the future. Although it was important, even imperative, to be forthcoming with Arabs, intimacy was to be avoided. It could only lead to misunderstanding.

Rivlin was in a hurry to get to the airport and in no mood to argue. Yet no sooner had he changed to a fresh shirt than the phone rang again. This time it was an insistent saleswoman who had to talk “to your wife and only your wife.” When the Orientalist asked what about, he was told that it concerned a new vacuum cleaner of such remarkable capabilities that it was being marketed only to a select clientele. Though he had no time, he felt obliged to chastise the caller for her lack of feminist consciousness, there being many men in today’s world — himself, for example — who used vacuum cleaners more often than their wives. The saleswoman was delighted to hear this. In that case, she said, she would gladly discuss the new appliance with him. It was a Kirby and could vacuum anything imaginable. Rivlin thanked her for the information, adding that he was in a hurry and that the vacuum cleaner they had worked perfectly well. “One more minute,” the voice at the other end of the phone pleaded, hanging on to him for dear life. “I’m only asking you to listen. There’s no obligation. This is a new concept in housecleaning, a revolution your wife will want to hear about. It’s called a vacuum cleaner only because our language lacks a better word.” “But my wife isn’t here!” Rivlin exclaimed triumphantly. “I’ve been trying to tell you that I’m on my way to the airport to pick her up.” “Wish her a happy homecoming for me,” the dogged saleswoman congratulated him. “I hope she lands safely and gets some rest. We’ll be at your house for a free demonstration the day after tomorrow. How about 8 P.M.?”

“Just make sure you phone first,” Rivlin warned her. And before hanging up, he repeated: “Make sure you phone.”

In the new airport terminal, amid the chirping of cell phones that welcomed the arriving passengers before they had time to arrive, the pervasive smell of burned coffee, and the plashing of fountains that serenaded the crowd waiting for the returnees (who, in the seconds between clearing customs and coming into sight, had their happy-to-be-home-again faces televised on a closed-circuit screen for the benefit of their welcomers) — here, and here alone, the professor from Haifa reflected, was the erotic epicenter of the Jewish state. The Jewish heart might throb in Jerusalem, and the Jewish brain might grow sharp or soft in Tel Aviv, but the passionate focus of Israeli life was here, in the going and the coming. It took an Arab of the old school, like Fu’ad, to realize that what might seem to be Jewish solidarity, as displayed by the tall man coming over to tell him that his wife was on her way, was only Jewish hyperactivity.

Rivlin wasn’t sure whether this person, who had gently put down his suitcase, was the prosecutor or the defense counsel in the mysterious trial. He himself was already looking at his wife on the closed-circuit screen. Her few seconds there were enough to tell him that something was on her mind. He hurried to take her suitcase, hoping to learn, before they joined the patiently waiting man, what it was. “Not now,” she whispered, giving him a grateful hug for his powers of observation. “There’s a split decision to convict, and I’m the dissenting opinion. We’ll talk about it later. Did you miss me? I missed you terribly. That man is the assistant district attorney of the Northern Circuit. We’re giving him a ride to Haifa. I couldn’t refuse. Don’t ask him too many questions. Just be nice.”

Her two colleagues on the bench had stayed an extra night in Vienna to take in an opera, while the chagrined defense counsel was on business in Germany. That left the prosecutor, now ensconced in the backseat of their car. Satisfied with the results of their journey, which had tipped the case against the defendant, an accused spy he had long been trying to nail, but aware that Judge Rivlin had doubts about the testimony given in the Asiatic republic, he chatted about other things. One of these, which he mentioned in a rather snide tone, was the opening of an exhibition of oils and watercolors by former Supreme Court Justice Granot, a stroke victim who had taken up painting.

“Granot has another show?” Hagit turned, upset, to her husband. “How come I didn’t know? Why didn’t you show me the invitation? You know I wouldn’t want him to think I’d forgotten him.”

“But what makes you think I saw an invitation?” Rivlin answered. “It must have been sent to your office and got lost.”

He refrained from commenting in the presence of a stranger on the chronic disorder of his wife’s desk, a consequence of her inability to throw anything away.

“If the exhibition is still on, we’ll go to it tomorrow,” Hagit comforted herself before lapsing into a drowsy silence. She looked gray and tired in the yellow light of the road. Rivlin fell silent, too. He felt the eyes of the prosecutor, who was sitting alertly behind him, drilling into his back, as if contemplating indicting him as well.

Back in their duplex, Hagit kicked off her shoes and stretched out on their bed as if to stamp it with the impressions of her trip while he emptied her suitcase out beside her, shut it again, and slipped it beneath the bed. Before hanging up her clothes, he examined them to see which items had paid their way and which had traveled as hitchhikers. He dumped a bag of his wife’s underwear into the laundry basket and carried her toilet kit to the bathroom.

“You can arrange your bathroom things by yourself,” he said.

“Of course.”

“So who goes first, you or me?”

“I don’t have much to tell. We went to a primitive place at the end of the world to listen to the fantasies of either a psychopath or a highly sophisticated liar. I honestly don’t know whether someone in the district attorney’s office or the Mossad thought they could put one over on us or they’re so naive that they think the man is telling the truth.”

“What did the other judges think?”

“They didn’t see it that way. They’ve been sold an opera like the one they’re going to in Vienna. Not that the defendant isn’t a can of worms. But you don’t put someone away for fifteen years without better proof.”

“Fifteen years?” His curiosity was piqued.

“It could be. There are charges of treason.”

“What kind of treason?”

“Never mind. There’s not much I can tell you. I’d rather not talk about it. I’m fed up with the whole trial. And I feel bad for Granot. He must think I’ve abandoned him.”

“You exaggerate. In his condition, he has other things to think about.”

“Precisely in his condition! When you can’t talk and can only think, every little thing becomes crucial. I know how much I mean to him. We have no choice. Tomorrow or the day after, we’ll go to his exhibition and buy a painting.”

“A painting of Granot’s? What for?”

“He needs the money. Why do you think he’s exhibiting? His wife never worked, he has no savings, and it’s hard to cover an invalid’s expenses on a pension, even a Supreme Court justice’s.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“There’s nothing to think about. We’ll go to the exhibition and buy a painting. Now tell me about yourself. Did the peace and quiet I gave you help you to make progress?”