A. Yehoshua - The Liberated Bride

“You’re not the only one who’s imagined that. But believe me, all that ever quakes down there is one’s heart.”

“How is your cold?”

“Thank you for remembering it. It has no time to get better. Every little problem at this hotel ends up in my lap.”

“That’s your own fault.”

“Naturally.”

“You know,” he surprised himself by saying, “Ofer is here from Paris for a week.”

“Then tell him to come. Galya left two cartons of his things in the basement.”

“Cartons?”

“Yes. She came back from abroad bursting with energy and started housecleaning. Either he takes them or I throw them out. I’m not turning this hotel into a warehouse.”

“I’ll tell him.”

“Why don’t you come, too? That will be twice as nice.”

“I’ll see,” he said, his heart skipping a beat. “Let me have Fu’ad for a minute.”

“ Aiwa, ya habibi. ” *

“ Ala kul hal, dawwar ala l’marthiyi l’adimi. ” †

“ Min shanak hatta taht al-ard .” ‡

He hung up and sat thinking of the unreal night in Jerusalem. His coffee had no taste, and he went to the cafeteria to look for a stronger brew. Although it was vacation time, the cafeteria was packed with older people who were taking summer extension courses.

He sat and sipped his coffee slowly, gazing idly at a dark-skinned boy of about ten who was circulating among the tables. Noticing a half-eaten pita, the boy stopped, looked around, snatched it from its plate, and swallowed it quickly before putting on a pair of horn-rimmed glasses and heading for the nearby library.

Rashid is here, Rivlin thought. He jumped up and followed the boy, who was stopped by a guard at the entrance to the library. “It’s all right, he’s with me,” Rivlin said. He put a hand on Rasheed’s neck and pushed him through the library door.

He was not mistaken. The boy recognized the Jewish professor who had eaten his mother’s bean soup and like a hunting dog led him up and down the floors of the library and in and out of the narrow stacks. In the end they found Rashid, squatting on his haunches while looking on the bottom shelf for a book listed on a scrap of paper.

“ Lakeyt kaman el-yahudi hada,” §the boy called to his uncle, as though he had indeed been sent to fetch Rivlin.

Rashid did not seem at all surprised by Rivlin’s appearance. Perhaps he had known that sooner or later the Jewish passenger would again need his Arab driver. Still squatting, he handed the Orientalist the catalog number.

“Can you find this?”

“What is it?”

“A play, The Dybbuk. Have you heard of it?”

“The Dybbuk? ” Rivlin burst into laughter. “Samaher sent you to bring her The Dybbuk? ”

This time, however, Rashid hadn’t come to the university for his cousin, but only on her advice. He was in the library in connection with the coming song and poetry festival in Ramallah. It was going to be a happening, with no politics or debates. A big new cultural center, named for the prominent Palestinian educator Khalil es-Sakakini, had recently opened in the West Bank city north of Jerusalem. Well-known poets like Mahmoud Darwish, who came from Amman to give readings, had already appeared there. There would be singers from Gaza and Hebron, and Jewish vocalists too. Perhaps even the Lebanese nun, for the Abuna had gone to her Lebanese convent to ask her to cheer the Christians of Palestine again. She would sing, not prayers, but folk songs, and perhaps even have one of her fainting fits.

“If she promises to faint,” Rivlin said enthusiastically, “I’ll come.”

“Of course you will. You’ll bring your wife. Why shouldn’t she hear all the wonderful music? You can bring your friends too, the more the merrier. Everyone is welcome. It’s for all believers in coexistence. No politics. No debates. No history. No who’s right and who’s wrong. Just songs and poems in Arabic and Hebrew. They even asked us to put something on the program that would be traditionally Jewish. Samaher thought we should surprise everyone with The Dybbuk, because — so she says — it’s the Hamlet of the Jews.”

The Orientalist guffawed, making the somber Arab boy stare at him.

“And Samaher? Where has she disappeared to?”

“She hasn’t disappeared anywhere. She’s sad. In the village they think it’s because of the grade she never got.”

“She never got it because she never finished her work. She keeps dragging it out, as usual. Let her do it once and for all. It isn’t that difficult. But it can’t just be oral summaries, because then I have no way of knowing what’s in the texts. I need to see at least one entire story, translated from beginning to end. I promise to give her a grade then.”

“I’ll tell her,” Rashid said.

He reached out to pat the boy, who seemed to be trying to follow the Hebrew. It would be his second language — if he were ever allowed back into Israel.

33.

TANNED AND EXUBERANT, Tsakhi and Ofer returned from their diving adventure on Saturday. They showered, changed into fresh clothes, and hurried off to the Arab market to buy lamb, vegetables, and spices for a French gastronomic experience. Rivlin had no chance to be alone with his younger son or to ask him whether, between dives, he had managed to learn anything from his brother. Tsakhi, though friendly, did not seem interested in talking to his father even when he took time out from his job as assistant chef. And when dinnertime arrived, it turned out that there were guests. Ofer had invited four old friends. The older generation, it had been decided, would eat first and then go to the movies, leaving the younger one to dine by itself.

And so Rivlin sat facing Hagit over a handsomely set table, expertly waited on by their two sons. Ofer, wielding a long knife, carved the fragrant French roast into long, thin slices swimming in sauce.

“You remind me of that elegant Arab waiter in the hotel in Jerusalem,” Rivlin said innocently. “What was his name? Fu’ad?”

The carving knife trembled momentarily in their divorced son’s hand, which quickly regained its grip.

“What about him?”

“I was just reminded of him. I think of him as the perfect waiter. I was surprised to see at the bereavement how well he still bears himself.”

“Where did you see him?”

“In that big room on the first floor.”

“The library.”

“I suppose so. He was made to stand, all in black, behind a table with a condolence book.”

“A condolence book?” Ofer’s voice filled with bitter mockery. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

“I also thought it was a bit much. But I imagine they did it for all the Christians who came to pay their respects.”

“I hope you weren’t foolish enough to write anything.”

“What’s foolish? I had no choice.”

“Why not?”

“I just didn’t. I suppose that Arab waiter made me feel it was expected of me.”

“What did you write?”

“I don’t remember. I just did.”

“There you go with your ‘justs’ again!” Hagit’s eyes were not sympathetic. “You always remember every word you write.”

“Every word? Really! That’s a bit of an exaggeration. But what does it matter what I wrote? It was just something off the top of my head. A few words about his generosity. You can’t deny him that. His light…”

Ofer bristled. “What light?”

“It was just something I wrote. For God’s sake, let me be! What does it matter?”

He carefully cut a slice of the meat on his plate, dipped it in the sauce, and put it in his mouth. It had the perfumed tang of an exotic game animal.