A. Yehoshua - Open Heart

There could have been no better opening than this for my declaration of love, which had been turning around inside me for several days. And without hesitating or stammering, dropping my head slightly so as to avoid meeting her eyes, I began unburdening myself confidently and fluently to this woman who was only a little younger than my mother. “I know that what I am about to say will seem absurd to you, because it seems absurd and strange to me too, but it’s still true. If you’ve sensed it already, you may as well hear it straight and tell me what to do with it, because ever since we returned from India I’ve been tiptoeing around you and trying to tie you to me with flimsy threads that keep on breaking. And even though you haven’t done anything to encourage me, you haven’t rejected my attempts to bind you to me either, like this apartment, which I only rented so as to have something to attach you to me, so I wouldn’t lose you altogether.” I still hadn’t raised my head to look at her, because I was afraid that the faint smile in her eyes would throw me off my speech, whose tone seemed just right to me, manly but also touching. “I have to tell you, I don’t know what’s happened to me.” I went on with my head bowed. “That last night in the hotel in Rome, after Lazar left, I fell head over heels in love with you, against all logic, and to my complete surprise, because I’ve never fallen in love with a woman older than me before. Please don’t protest the use of these words, let me tell you that I protest them too, and try to dismiss them all the time, but even if we dismiss the words, the condition won’t go away, and it fills my thoughts all day long. And I wonder if I have to fight it and eradicate it from my heart. In other words, is this an immoral love, like that of a grown man who falls in love with a little girl?” For a moment I fell silent, unable to go on talking in my excitement at having succeeded in unburdening myself of the words which had been weighing on my heart for so many days. But I couldn’t go on hanging my head and staring at the carpet, which I noticed was a little ragged at the edges — a fact that maybe should have been mentioned in the inventory — and so I raised eyes full of despair to the woman curled up in the corner of the sofa like a soft black velvet ball, whose automatic smile had completely disappeared from her eyes, and who in a gesture I had never seen before had her fist pressed to her mouth, not in amazement or ridicule but in profound attention, which encouraged me to go on talking. “I ask myself if you and Lazar wanted me to accompany you to India not just because I am a doctor but because in the depth of your hearts you hoped that I might fall in love with Einat, as in the plot of some well-intentioned British movie. But reality is a different, incredible movie, and instead of falling in love with the sick young woman you offered me, I fell in love with her mother, and I really wasn’t looking for another mother, because the one I’ve already got is perfectly good. Dori, please don’t try to explain my screwed-up psychology to me. It may be screwed up, but not here. Here there’s something else entirely, which I call, if you don’t mind, mystery. Yes, mystery, a word I’ve always fought against and that I now find myself enslaved to. And you know what? My heart told me what I was letting myself in for, because the minute I heard that you were coming with us to India, I felt so pressured that I almost decided to change my mind about going.”

Maybe this was the right moment to get up and leave her, in goodwill, in friendship, putting my hands together Indian fashion in the middle of my face. I expected nothing of her. But the contract had been signed, the keys had been handed over, and in the apartment where we were sitting, I was the host and she was the guest — and you can’t get up and leave a guest to her own devices. So I sat petrified in my place, listening to the rain dripping slowly outside and the strong wind trying unsuccessfully to blow it away. She still hadn’t said anything. Was she stunned, or had she been prepared for my confession? Perhaps she was surprised in spite of being prepared, for she went on sitting curled up in the corner of the couch, her fist still pressed against her mouth as if to protect herself from some galloping, inexorable catastrophe. Her plump face was tense and burning, but behind the lenses of her glasses her eyes were full of serenity, if not profound satisfaction. In the end a radiant smile broke through the barriers of her resistance. She took her fist from her mouth and loosened her fingers into a light wave, as if beckoning an obedient pupil or a beloved pet, and whispered, “Come here.” I rose immediately to my feet and approached the corner of the couch, but I didn’t wait to hear what she wanted, because I knew what I wanted, and I bent down, took her by the shoulders, and raised her to me. Just don’t hesitate now, I said to myself. And without asking permission, with the same movement by which I had lifted her to her feet, I began passing my lips over her forehead, her cheeks, her lips, and stroking her soft, creased neck. She began breathing heavily, struggling and trying to push me away, to say something. But I didn’t let her talk; I pressed my lips hard against hers, smelling the faint aroma of the cigarette she had recently smoked, and gave her a long, eager kiss, until I felt her hand pulling my hair. “This isn’t right,” she murmured, trying to push me gently away. “It doesn’t make sense, it’s just silly.” But I only tightened my embrace, because I knew that if physical contact was broken off now, the magic would be dispelled. Nothing had actually happened yet. I had to gather my courage to touch the body itself, to take hold of a few memories for the empty days ahead. I was desperate to hold her round breasts, which I knew were more substantial than any I had ever touched before. With desperate, childish determination I tried to pull off her velvet top, excited by the thought of glimpsing again the map of beauty spots scattered over her pure white shoulders and arms. But my hand, carried away by its own momentum, drove on, seeking a first contact with that beautiful, plump stomach. And when I touched it, I was flooded by a strong sensation of pleasure and satisfaction. Between my fingers I felt the glow of a cushion of natural warmth, which I had been seeking for years in order to lay my forehead or cheek upon it and melt the iceberg accumulating within me.

Then, though she had been the one to call me to her, I felt that it was up to me to give her the absolute advantage of the beloved over the lover. I let go of her and with lightning-swift movement took off my shoes and socks, rapidly removed the rest of my clothes, and, indifferent to the cold and before she had time to protest, I stood before her as naked as the day I was born, like a man about to step into a long-sought-after river. I wanted her to see me as I was, and to see that I had no shame before her, so that she could decide whether my love and desire were worthy of her. And despite the astonishment that seized her at the sight of my unfamiliar body, or at my suddenly offering myself to her, I saw her fears dissipate as they were absorbed into her rising desire. But she held up her hand in a quick, nervous gesture. “Not here, not here,” she said emphatically, and walked slowly to her mother’s bedroom. There she absentmindedly swept my black crash helmet off the bed, where it had for some reason been forgotten when we were examining the closets. Then, sunk in reflection, she cast a backward glance at me as I walked naked behind her, and as if afraid that I might try to undress her myself, she raised her hand in a plea which still contained some hidden anger, and said, “No, please, let me.” She sat down on the edge of the bed and slowly and with difficulty removed her long boots, after which she hesitantly and awkwardly undid a few hidden buttons on her unyielding jumpsuit, and began working her head through the narrow opening, emerging flushed, with her hair disheveled, still full of deep shame at the situation imposed on her by my sudden nakedness. With a strange obedience, like a good, loyal wife, she took off her bra, removed her panties, and lay down on the bed, resting her head on a cushion that was still covered with the grandmother’s floral cushion cover. Now she was displayed before me like the heavy naked women in art books, posed before baskets of fruit in their dark, shadowy reproductions. But the look she sent me was neither submissive nor indifferent. Still perturbed and even angry, as if I were some inexperienced young animal, she raised her hand again to warn me: “No scratches or bites.” I bowed my head compliantly, and full of love, I knelt down next to the bed and began to kiss her plump little foot, in which I discovered a dimple like the one on her face. I immediately sensed that these opening kisses were very pleasing to her, but I was afraid that in my eagerness I might come too quickly, and I stopped myself and stood up to remove the glasses from her eyes, and lowered myself carefully onto her, suddenly aware of a coolness in every limb I touched except for that plump, pampered stomach, which radiated a steady, powerful warmth, as if it possessed an independent source of heat. I kissed her again on her mouth, and on her big breasts, and I laid my forehead and cheek on the roundness of her belly. I still had no idea why she had given in to me so easily, but I suddenly felt that she was losing patience with my love games and was not prepared to let me dawdle any longer, for a confident hand was already grasping my penis, to guide it to the place that was no less on fire than I was.