A. Yehoshua - The Liberated Bride

Rivlin glanced at the big garden and at the gazebo surrounded by lanterns, nostalgic for his first condolence call, which seemed to have taken place years ago.

“Why nonsense, Fu’ad? Today everything goes. Reincarnation is big with the young folks. As long as no one gets hurt by it.”

“You’re so right, Professor. Inteh bit’ul hada kul hal’ad hilu. *What I was thinking was, it’s only natural for a father’s death to — what’s the word? — b’ghazel …. Right. To stimulate the daughter to be a mother. And you know, Galya isn’t that young. She never gave your poor Ofer a chance. Believe me, my friend, I may be a stranger to you, and an Arab in addition, but it grieves me that you and I won’t have a grandson together. I always said to myself, The Professor, he’s a good man, he’s never jealous. Galya is a sensitive girl. She deserves to be happy. She’s the opposite of her sister, who doesn’t give a damn about anyone.”

A bow-tied young waitress whispered something in Fu’ad’s ear.

“That’s it. The buses are here. Now the fun starts. I’m sorry to have to go without helping. Listen, Professor. The next time you want to sleep here, give us a call first. I wouldn’t want to disappoint you again.”

But Rivlin was not going to let the night’s visit end like this. Gripping the shoulder of the Arab, who appeared to know more than he let on, he said:

“ Al hal, ya Fu’ad, a’tini ishi aakul…. †

The maître d’ squirmed and swore that there wasn’t room for another pin in the dining room. Every table and chair was taken. The guests would proceed straight to their meal from the buses. “But I’ll tell you what, Professor. I can put you in the smoking lounge next to the bar, where you sat with Galya. Mr. Hendel sometimes used to order a snack there with his cigar. Have a seat and we’ll bring you something. The soup is on its way.”

The large windows of the lobby shook as the buses flooded the parking lot with their headlights, setting the bushes of the garden aflame before lining up in a long, silent row. The elderly Christians poured into the lobby in a swift but orderly wave. Pennants were raised and hymns struck up as they marched into the dining room as smartly as conscripts in boot camp.

The Jew nearly followed them in. At the last minute, he turned and headed for the lounge, sniffing its air as though to scent the deceased’s last springtime cigar. He passed through the dark, windowless bar, its counter glowing with bottles that seemed to have their own source of light, and sat in the easy chair from which his ex-daughter-in-law had dueled with him. Could he manage, without risking too much on the home front, to abscond to the very place his son had been banished from?

A heavily made-up waitress in a pantsuit brought him a large cup of hot soup and some crackers. Would he, she asked, prefer crab or a vegetarian platter for his main course?

“Crab?” He had never eaten crab in his life. “Why not?”

“Do you have enough light, sir?”

For the moment, he had all the light he wanted.

From the dining room came the voice of a woman welcoming the guests in the name of the hotel and the nearby holy sites. It took him a while to realize it was Tehila. Though down with a cold, she had made sure to be present. He wondered if Fu’ad had told her he was there.

He shut his solitary eyes and strove to return to that summer night like this one — that night that was still, despite all that had happened since then, the happiest of his life. Although he could deal with the anger of his wife, who knew he loved her come what may, he was worried that she might try phoning the home of his old mentor — where, having finished their supper, the Tedeschis were now seated with Akri in the large library, showing him Hannah’s latest translations of pre-Islamic war and love poetry.

A brief, matter-of-fact grace was said in the dining room, followed by the soft chime of plates and glasses as the waiters hurried to feed the hungry pilgrims. Meanwhile, Rivlin waited for his food. But even if that Arab has forgotten me completely, he thought, I’m not going anywhere.

22.

FU’AD, HOWEVER, had forgotten neither him nor his solitude, which was now broken by the waitress, who returned to expertly spread a white cloth on the table and set it with silverware and wineglasses for two. Soon the curtain of the lounge parted, and in came his dinner partner, the new proprietress of the hotel. Tall and slightly stooped in her light housedress, her hair cropped short above her sallow, bony face, she planted, despite her cold, a warm but casual kiss on his cheek, as if he were still a member of the family. She wanted to thank him, she said, for taking seriously her admonition not to wait for another death before coming again. True, he had dropped in without warning on the craziest day of the year, but what of it? What mattered was that he hadn’t forgotten them. She knew, of course, that it wasn’t her or her mother he had come to see, but his lost daughter-in-law. Still, he was a dear and honored guest. Nor should he feel insulted at being made to dine in the lounge. Even she, the proprietress, hadn’t found a seat in the dining room. She hoped he didn’t object, then, to her joining him as his fellow pariah in the lounge.

The sly gleam in her little whiskey-colored eyes matched the reddish glow of the bottles on the counter.

Object? How could he, he replied, when she was the owner and he was her guest?

She sighed. She felt more like a slave than like an owner. Far from losing business after her father’s death, the hotel was doing better and better, and she was coming down with more and more colds. But why complain about success when so many people could only complain about failure? How was his wife? And what had made him come again without her — and at night, of all times? She hoped the judge wasn’t angry at them.

Rivlin felt a shiver. His wife, angry? Why should she be angry? She had taken Ofer’s divorce more easily than he had. It was only lack of time that kept her from joining him on his visits, which had all been last-minute decisions. Take tonight, for example. He was stuck in Jerusalem without a place to sleep. Perhaps only a naive historian could have hoped that her father’s promise of a room, although made long ago, still held.

The tall, pale woman, who seemed to have taken a liking to him, laid a hand on her heart and swore solemnly in the name of the new management to honor the commitments of the old one.

“Then how about a room?” His heart pounded strongly.

But there was none available. Nor, Tehila added with a naughty laugh, was there likely to be one, since she had taken to overbooking — an offense she was paying for tonight by having to forfeit a room of her little wing to an extra pilgrim, even though she was running a fever.

The waitress gracefully put on the table a gleaming brass implement that resembled a dentist’s tooth extractor. From a large serving dish she transferred to their plates a boiled king crab that had been divided, eyes, whiskers, and all, into two symmetrical halves. Only the claws, reaching out toward each other over plates they were too long for, seemed unreconciled to their separation.

“Would you like more light, Miss Hendel?” the waitress asked.

“No,” Rivlin answered for the second time, though the question had not been put to him. “It’s frightening enough to eat this thing in the dark.” Laughing gaily but apprehensively, he lifted his wineglass to toast the bony woman. She had already seized the brass implement and was cracking the legs of his crab for him, extracting white fibers of meat—“The best part, make sure you eat it!”—with long fingers.