A. Yehoshua - Open Heart

The wedding ceremony was due to begin at half past seven, but Eyal had made us swear to arrive while it was still light so that we could enjoy the long and stunningly beautiful evening. “Don’t miss the desert sunset,” he repeatedly warned us. However, it was not only for the sake of the sunset that our little convoy set out at three o’clock in the afternoon, but in order to soften the harshness of the 150-mile drive ahead of us. My father was on the whole a good driver, but recently he had begun to experience moments of dreaminess while at the wheel, which would have ended in catastrophe if not for my mother’s vigilance. And there was also the question of navigation. Although the road to the kibbutz was straight and uncomplicated, I knew that it was sometimes just these highways, racing automatically ahead, that misled my father, who would wait tensely for the turnoff until he couldn’t stand it any longer, and at some blameless and insignificant junction he would suddenly decide that the time had come and turn the wheel. But this time it had been clearly agreed between us that he would turn off the road only when he received a clear sign from me. I began to drive slowly in front of them, as if they were important guests in a foreign land, leading them through the labyrinth of the Tel Aviv streets and onto the right lane of the expressway, where I allowed myself to put a little distance between us, and even to lose them for a while, only to catch them again in the stream of traffic before the interchange leading to the south, whose broad plains were radiant now in the warm light that flooded the inside of my helmet. Even though it was still officially winter, and the young weather forecasters who had become popular media stars during the months of storms and snow were still nostalgically predicting rain and stormy weather, the warmth of spring had already arrived to comfort fields devastated by floods, lawns shriveled by frost, and trees exhausted by strong winds; even the broad asphalt road seemed to be exuding a delightful springlike fragrance. I couldn’t resist stopping at the side of the road, and like a grim traffic cop I waved my parents down, to tell them to open their windows and breathe in the fresh new air.

I still nursed a certain resentment and anger in the wake of the disappointing confrontation in Dori’s office, but I had not yet given up hope. Still, the determination and decisiveness of her efforts to shake me off had taken me aback. In the beginning I had not hoped for anything, but when she unexpectedly responded to my fervent declaration of love, I realized that I had not suddenly turned into a deluded madman but remained what I always was, a rational, realistic person aspiring to what was within the bounds of possibility. Indeed, reality had proved that even a woman like her, ostensibly so inaccessible, could see me as a possible partner, even though I still didn’t know how or why, whether it was only because of the charm of my youth as such, or also thanks to certain inner qualities of my own, which had been revealed to her in the light of India. If she had sent me packing, it was because she was afraid, and rightly so, that I would be completely swept away by the powerful passion of which she had already experienced a small taste. Maybe I was meant to reconsider in a positive light the casual remark she had made about a bachelor’s being dangerous in an extramarital affair, and precisely now, in this state of violent infatuation, I should break my stubborn bachelorhood, for it was only in this way that I could protect her from myself, as I was protected from her. Perhaps this was cockeyed logic, but it also held out hope. Perhaps I really should get married. This simple thought began to throb inside me, rolling out in front of me on the black asphalt, awakening my blood, and without my being aware of it, I accelerated the speed of the motorcycle until I realized that my parents’ car had disappeared behind me. If they only knew what I was thinking, without of course knowing my secret reason, they would be overjoyed. I knew that they were making this tiring journey to a distant wedding with an expensive gift on the backseat of their car not only to express their affection for Eyal and their joy in his marriage, but also to send a clear signal to their only son, riding ahead of them in a leather jacket and black helmet, about what was really important to them, important above all, and about how his solitude was beginning to alarm them. “Perhaps I really should get married,” I said, addressing myself aloud, and turned onto a dirt road and rode up a little hill, which gave me a clear view not only of the road leading from north to south, but also of the agricultural settlements surrounding the housing projects of Kiryat Gat with a belt of pleasant rusticity — green squares of alfalfa, recently plowed fields of rich, brown earth; even the ugly rows of plastic shone in the bright light of the sun like the heating elements of some gigantic stove. The traffic on the road flowed at a leisurely pace, and some time passed before I caught sight of my mother’s calm face, with a scarf tied around her head to protect her hair from the wind blowing into the open window. In the backseat sat a young hitchhiker, in spite of my warnings to my father — who liked picking up hitchhikers and listening to their views on the world — not to stop on the way, so he wouldn’t disrupt the smooth progress of our little convoy. So they’re enjoying themselves, I said to myself, and I let them pass me and get a little ahead before I started my motorcycle and raced behind them to see that my father didn’t suddenly turn off in the direction of Ashkelon.

At the gas station at the exit from Beersheba we all agreed that the journey up to now had been very easy and pleasant, and there was no doubt that we would arrive on time, and even earlier than we had planned. But after we passed the Yeruham mountain ridge, which was covered with a green down because of the abundant winter rains, and began to go deeper into the desert itself, the sky clouded over, and the warm reddish light in which we had bathed so enjoyably up to now turned murky and yellow. It would be very strange if it suddenly started raining here, I thought, and in fact the clouds over our heads managed to produce no more than a few big, cold drops, but at the same time an east wind began blowing so fiercely that it threatened the balance of the Honda. I had to slow down, and the distance between myself and my parents shrank. From now on I was no longer simply their guide and leader, but I felt as if they too were watching over me, and when the wind increased I let them pass me and rode behind them so the car would break the sudden gusts of wind that buffeted me and made the motorcycle sway violently. My mother kept her head turned, anxiously watching my battle with the wind and making sure that my father didn’t lose me. From time to time she raised her hand in a strange gesture of greeting or encouragement. I had no doubt that she was secretly angry with me for my eccentric insistence on making the long trip on the Honda, but I was also sure that she would control herself and not allow a single word of rebuke or criticism to pass her lips now that the deed was done. And for this self-control I thanked her in my heart, and I waved back at her in a friendly fashion and went on battling with the savage wind. I was sure that at this pace we would only reach the wedding after dark, but when we slowly and carefully inched down the steep thousand-foot descent from the ridge to the Arava junction, I felt the wind subsiding, and immediately after a brief, warm shower, which lasted for a few minutes, gaps appeared in the murky, ugly sky, and fountains of a pure, mysterious, pinkish violet light began to well out of them as if in response to the call of the great sunset which was about to begin far away in the depths of the Mediterranean Sea. My parents wanted to give me a chance to rest after my battle with the wind, but I was impatient to cover the remaining thirty miles, believing in my heart of hearts that keeping my promise to arrive at Eyal’s wedding before it got dark would bring me a secret reward. Eyal was waiting anxiously at the kibbutz gate, as if from there he would be able to suck in from a distance any wedding guests who might be deterred at the last minute by the length of the journey. When he saw our little convoy approaching his face lit up, and when we arrived he threw his arms around me and began hugging and kissing me joyfully. But he didn’t look like a happy bridegroom. His face was pale with tension, and there were dark rings under his eyes. “Come and say hello to my mother,” he said immediately, “she’s waiting for you,” and he climbed onto the back of the motorcycle to direct us to a little canyon hidden behind the buildings, where a large lawn surrounded a pool whose still waters reflected with delicate perfection the shadow of the wild crag overhanging them in the evening light. Round white tables were dotted over the lawn like giant mushrooms, but only a few people were scattered around them, gazing pensively at the long-haired youth perched on the diving board with a guitar on his knees. As he plucked the strings, perhaps just tuning them, the slow notes, without the benefit of loudspeakers or amplifiers, enveloped the place in a feeling of pervasive goodwill. And it may have been that feeling above all which prompted my decision, which I made before I left that night, to find someone to marry.