A. Yehoshua - The Liberated Bride

“The roast is wonderful,” Hagit said. “So delicate.”

“Yes,” Rivlin agreed. “It doesn’t taste exactly like lamb, but it’s delicious. Something special.”

But Ofer wasn’t looking for compliments. “How did Fu’ad recognize you?” he asked.

“Why shouldn’t he? It’s only been five years.” Rivlin continued to chew while he talked. “You needn’t be so hostile to them. They speak of you affectionately. By the way, Tehila called to say that Galya has left two cartons of your old things in the hotel basement. She’s cleaning out her apartment before giving birth.”

“Giving birth?” Ofer turned white. He laid a hand on his cheek, as if hiding something.

“She’s going to have a baby.”

No one spoke.

“Who told you?”

“It was my impression from Tehila.” Rivlin spread blameless hands. “I could be wrong.”

Hagit’s furious expression, and his younger son’s pained, sad look, told him he had made a mistake.

“What did you tell her?” Ofer asked, in a rough, interrogating voice.

“What could I tell her? I said I’d come to Jerusalem and take the cartons. That was before I knew you were coming.”

“Don’t take anything! Stay away from there. Do me a favor, Abba. Leave the hotel and the family alone.”

“I’ll be glad to. But don’t you want to know what’s in those cartons?”

“It can’t be anything important.”

“Because I thought that if your flight is Monday morning and I’m still on vacation, we could drive to Jerusalem to have a look. Maybe you’ll find something…”

“That’s silly,” Hagit said. “It’s a waste of time. There’s nothing there.”

But Ofer, staring angrily as his father carved another, thicker slice of lamb, muttered something no one could make out.

And so it was that, a few hours before his flight, under a torrid morning sky, they drove past the airport on their way to Jerusalem. Rivlin, at a fever pitch, almost regretted the whole thing. He leaned forward in his loosely fastened seatbelt, intently following the curves of the road as if he and not his son were driving. Ofer, on his way to a place in which, even if it was not Paradise, he had been happier than he was now, said nothing behind the steering wheel.

It was only in Talpiyot, in the clear desert light, silently crossing the large garden with its shrubs and flowers that were swooning in the heat, that Rivlin felt, like a lightning bolt, the full force of the spurned husband’s excitement. A strange smile played over Ofer’s tense, wide-eyed face. Certain he could find the cartons by himself, he had told no one he was coming, preferring to avoid an encounter with the woman whose love entrapped him. That could only send him back to Paris branded by more of the old pain.

He appeared to know what he was doing. The morning bustle at the hotel was over. The keys hanging behind the reception desk indicated that the guests had already set out on their pilgrim mission of frequenting the lanes of Jerusalem’s Old City or the ruins of Masada. A single receptionist, a sleepy young Arab, made no comment as the nervous father and son walked past him. Rivlin prayed that they would not run into the proprietress. If she ever opens her mouth and tells Ofer how I played detective here, he thought, all the love in the world will never save me.

The kitchen was deserted. The guests’ tours fed them lunch, and supper was still a long way off. Rivlin watched with amazement as Ofer led him unerringly past the big stoves and sleek worktables. It was as if he had been here yesterday. By the little door to the basement stairs he paused and asked doubtfully:

“Are you sure you want to come down with me? Wouldn’t you rather wait in the lobby?”

“I’d better not,” said Rivlin, his heart in his mouth. “If anyone sees me, it will mean a whole long conversation, and we want to be on time for your flight.”

Ofer looked at his father as if seeing him for the first time and headed down the dark stairs, flicking on the lights one after another as though his fingers remembered where each switch was. They walked along the corridor, passed the closets and the bicycle, sidestepped the bucket of plaster and the old tire, and came to the space with the baby carriage, crib, and old monster of a boiler. As though he knew where to look for them, Ofer went straight to two small cartons in a corner. Disgustedly, hoping for nothing, he began going through them, pulling out a bare canteen, a crumpled army fatigue shirt with sergeant’s stripes, a blackened copper bowl, and some old notebooks, and stopping only when he reached an old pajama top at the bottom.

“She’s crazy,” he muttered, offended. “What did she save all these rags for?”

“She didn’t think she was saving them,” Rivlin said. “She simply went through life like your mother, without noticing how many unnecessary things she was surrounded by.”

Ofer stuffed everything irritably back into the carton, except for a single book, which he laid by the baby carriage. He was bent over the second carton, which looked no more promising than the first, when Fu’ad’s bass voice boomed through the basement:

“ Heyk, ya jama’a, bidun ma t’salem? Zay el-haramiyya? ” *

“ Shu ni’mal ?” †Rivlin put his hands behind his ears in the gesture of Muslim prayer. “We have no time to be polite. Ofer’s flight takes off in three hours.”

“Still landing and taking off, eh?” Fu’ad laughed. “How will it all end? You Jews can’t sit still. It will drive you crazy.”

He gave Ofer a warm hug.

“The years have gone by, and you’ve grown into your own man. But it wasn’t nice of you to forget all your friends here. If it weren’t for your father’s coming now and then to remind us of you, we would have forgotten you completely.”

Before Rivlin could change the subject, Ofer turned to him with open anger, a new, menacing note in his voice:

“So you were here more than once?”

“Didn’t I tell you?” He tried getting out of it with a sheepish smile.

“No. When? Why?”

“Because your father was stuck in Jerusalem with no place to sleep,” the maitre d’ explained, telling the story. “He thought he would find a room here. How was he to know we’re more full up than ever since Mr. Hendel’s death? Just imagine: your own father, whom we respect and honor, had to sleep down here in the basement! Or at least he slept here half the night, because in the middle of it the poor man woke up and ran away in a fright. Isn’t that so, Professor? Kif fakart fujatan ’an haza ardiyya…. ‡

He clapped the Orientalist on the back and gave Ofer, who stared at his father incredulously, a conspiratorial laugh.

“You agreed to sleep here?”

“What could I do? I thought…”

“You thought what?” His elder son’s voice was now a stifled cry. “What were you trying to do?”

Rivlin affected an astonished smile. “What do you mean, trying to do?”

But Ofer had already turned more gently to Fu’ad. “Is this room still in use?” he asked wonderingly.

“Why shouldn’t it be?”

“And you still don’t have the key?”

Hiding a smile, the Arab went to the baby carriage, moved the dusty toy animals, lifted the mattress, took a key, and opened the door to the accountant’s room, whose shelves creaked beneath the weight of their old files.

Ofer froze in the doorway as though caught in a dream or a fantasy. His eyes were riveted to a new, large quilt that lay on the bed like a layer of frozen white foam.

Rivlin’s heart skipped a beat at the sight of the quilt, foamy bright in the dark room. He wondered what made Fu’ad sound so exultant when he said: