A. Yehoshua - The Extra

“It became less heavy and cumbersome after I separated from you. And you, even if you wheeled it and lifted it, and even if eventually you understood how to tune it, don’t think you knew all about it.”

“Not about it , about you , because from the first moment you were my musical instrument. So now when I remember that Hasid who didn’t mind that you played on Shabbat because he hoped you would someday play in the Temple, a story you told me over and over—”

“Yes, I admit it, I sometimes repeat myself, but that’s how I hold on to a childhood that was good and happy, as opposed to your gloomy childhood.”

“Forget my childhood now and listen. Your story is not just another charming childhood tale to remember fondly, but a story with a meaning that I always sensed without being able to put my finger on it, until I saw your excitement just now when your childhood sweetheart brought you a little boy and some fruit. This was the one you talked to on the stairs, hour after hour, in total freedom and openness.”

“And if I was once in love with a gentle boy who was open to the world, whose face was still bare and smooth—”

“So perhaps it was for him that you decided to devote yourself to an ancient and ritualistic instrument his father couldn’t give him.”

“For him?” She laughs. “After such a long separation you’ve come up with a new jealousy? And by the way, since you insist on going back to my old story, why leave out its bizarre ending?”

“What ending?”

“His father told me that to play in the Temple, the girl would have to turn into a handsome lad.”

“No, Noga, I couldn’t forget the ending of that story, which you also clung to. But what I’m asking now is whether you sometimes toy with the possibility of turning into a handsome lad?”

“Why would I?”

“So as not to give birth to a child.”

“No. Absolutely not. Though I didn’t want a child forced on me, I wanted a child born out of the thought and will and agreement of its two parents.”

“And that’s why you secretly aborted the child that came by accident.”

“Secretly, because I didn’t want to hurt you.”

“But that hurt me more.”

“Because you were looking for pain and insult. And for many long months after you learned about the abortion, you decided to punish me and yourself and deny your sexual desire. But you didn’t succeed in denying it, just in poisoning it, and when you got tired of denial it was too late. Your poison also poisoned my desire.”

“I poisoned it because I was never able to get a simple admission from you: ‘Yes, I am guilty.’ You, Noga, could be the foreman of any jury and cast blame on anybody else with complete confidence, but you always exonerate yourself.”

“Jury?” she exclaims with amazement. “Wait, where’d you get that idea? Your deep attachment to me scares me sometimes. Listen, Uriah, if you don’t want to destroy your love, then go to work and take it with you, but don’t try to destroy me on its account.”

STARTLED BY THE LAST WORDS she blurted out, knowing from experience that he will be hurt and defensive, she looks with suddenly rediscovered compassion for a way to retract them. But Uriah turns abruptly away, quickly puts on his shoes and with a grim expression goes to get his jacket from the kitchen chair, shakes it out and puts it on, takes his necktie and goes to her old, familiar clothes closet and opens it, seeking a mirror.

She follows him.

“No,” she says gently, “you don’t need the tie.”

He looks at her coldly.

“Listen to me, it’s for your own good. Ties never looked right on you. They make you look uptight and bossy, especially now that your hair is turning gray.”

“Tell me,” he says as he fumbles with the knot, “why is that any of your business?”

“Why not?”

“Why not? Why not?” He imitates her mockingly. “Maybe why yes.”

“It’s only natural.”

“How I look? My look is no concern of yours. I don’t need your indulgence or anything else from you.”

He yanks apart the tangled tie and starts over.

“Listen to me. There’s a problem with that tie in particular. I saw it the minute you walked in. Not only does it not suit you in principle, but the color clashes with your shirt.”

“The color is fine.”

“Yes, but not for you, which is why I always had to help you. Can’t be that your wife didn’t also see this tie doesn’t match, unless she was busy with the kids.”

His hands freeze. The tie dangles on his shirt.

“Don’t talk about her, it drives me crazy.”

“Don’t go crazy. You didn’t come here to go crazy, but maybe to reconcile. And I’ll help you reconcile and take my share of blame. But please, lose the tie.”

Suddenly he surrenders, as she knew he would, pulls the tie from his neck and stuffs it in his pocket, but she pulls it out. “No,” she says, “let me fold it properly.”

And she straightens and folds it, hands it back to him.

He rejects her extended hand. “No, you keep it. So something tangible will remain and not just an imaginary book of poetry, and if somebody here turns into a handsome lad after all, why not have a tie handy?”

A smile crosses her lips, and for the first time she has an urge to touch him. “Just a second, before you disappear,” she says, blocking his way to the door. “Since you brought up the story you’d patiently listened to countless times — now is your chance to take a look at the protagonist, the childhood harp that started my passion for playing.”

“That harp? The little one? The old one?”

“I thought my father got rid of it years ago, but it turned out he stashed it in storage, and Honi and Ima, who found it when they were clearing out the apartment, thought this poor old harp might be just the thing to comfort me while I was far away from my orchestra.”

“And did it comfort you?”

“How could it?”

“Then why look at it?”

“You don’t have to, but since you talked about it, and you’ve never seen it, here’s your chance.”

“My chance?” He turns red with insult. “For this childhood harp I’ve made a fool of myself running after you? No, I’m here only to mourn my child that you aborted in secret.” He shoves her violently out of his way, opens the door and disappears down the stairs.

NOW, WITH THE DOOR closed after him, pain and disappointment are all that remain. Noga hurriedly removes the old bathrobe and the nightgown and takes a long shower, then phones the assisted living facility with news of the fruit offering in honor of her mother’s return to Jerusalem.

“Fruit?”

“From Mount Canaan.”

“Who brought it, Pomerantz himself or one of the grandchildren?”

“Shaya, who refused to shake my hand.”

“Why should he shake your hand? He was in love with you, but marrying him was the furthest thing from your mind.”

“Still, I was insulted. We were good friends.”

“Only on the stairs, so why be insulted?”

“True, no point in being insulted by him, but I can be insulted by a mother who informs a stranger about a decision that her two children are eagerly awaiting.”

“Honestly, Noga, were you really awaiting my decision after you claimed that you know better than I do what goes on in my mind?”

“Nevertheless, there’s a family protocol that must be observed.”

“You’re right. But since I couldn’t surprise you by the decision, I decided at least to surprise you with the way I announced it.”

“And you succeeded. And Honi?”