Eshkol Nevo - Homesick

A tiny smile appears on her salty face. Appears and disappears. I keep on weaving the fantasy. You’ll walk around the hall that’s filled with your photographs and you won’t say a word, you’ll just listen to the hum of admiration coming from all those New York phonies. And in the morning, we’ll get up early and buy the Times , and there’ll be a review of your exhibition with the headline; Biggest Israeli Surprise Since Entebbe Raid. Or something like that. And the text will make special mention of the brilliant project on religion and God, and of the artist’s beautiful legs.

Smash.

One of those beautiful legs kicks me in the knee. Sorry, not her legs, but her compositional skill.

And what if they clobber the New York exhibition too, she asks, and turns over on to her back. She’s not curled up into a ball any more. She’s not crying. She’s looking at me with a half-bitter, half-grateful look in her eyes. We’ll go back to the Hilton, I suggest, wrinkle their sheets a little. And you’ll start working on your next exhibition. OK? OK, she says, mollified. Then she waits for a minute and asks me, looking completely serious: You’ll love me even if I’m a total failure for ever, won’t you?

*

After Amir drags Noa’s pain out of her, some of it remains in him.

And accumulates in his heart.

That’s how the law of the preservation of sadness operates, subtly.

*

It’s true. I shouldn’t have mentioned that Moshe never took all his exams. I know that’s a sensitive point with him, and it isn’t really fair to bring up something a man whispered to you once at night so you can win an argument. And anyway, there was only one test he didn’t take, English, and he’s planning to take it when Lilach gets a little older. Or when Liron starts school. I don’t remember. But with all due respect, none of that justifies what he’s doing. Not when there are two children in the house and one is pretending to be sleeping while he’s actually listening to every word. Not after the woman you’re planning to marry in a week took you to the Armon Hanatsiv promenade, sat you down on a bench and explained to you that she didn’t want any of that stuff in her life. That she’d had enough when she was a child, before her father left. The looks the neighbours gave them from their windows, the questions the children asked at school, eating supper the next day, trying so hard to chat and to smile that the muscles around their mouths hurt.

After he smashed the glass with his foot, the house was quiet. The only sound in the background while we looked at each other was the students’ happy music on the other side of the wall. I said to him: I want you to leave. Now. He didn’t say anything. I think he was just as shaken as I was. I went to the door, opened it and said: Come on. Go. I don’t want to see you. He closed it, leaned his back on it and tried to explain: I didn’t mean it, I don’t know what came over me. I’m sorry. Let’s talk. I moved him away, opened the door again and pushed him out with both hands. He didn’t resist, lifted his arms in the air, OK, OK. I slammed the door. I slid the bolt into place and stuck the key in the lock. I got a broom and a dustpan and swept up the pieces. The handle of the glass and another few large pieces were lying close to where he’d stepped on it, but the smaller splinters were scattered all over the living room: on the rug, behind the TV table, in the space under the sofa. While I was looking for them, I found Lilach’s plastic hammer. I’ve been looking for that toy for weeks. I put the broom and dustpan away in the space between the refrigerator and the wall and went to see how the kids were. Lilach was sleeping like a baby. I put the plastic hammer on the night table, a surprise for her in the morning. Liron was completely covered up, except for an elbow that stuck out. When he was younger, I was afraid he’d suffocate like that, without air, and I used to pull the blanket off his head every single night, but I saw that he did it himself anyway, in his sleep, and there was nothing to worry about. I walked over to his bed. The blanket was rising and falling too quickly. He was breathing too lightly for someone who was asleep. Could he have heard everything? And if he did, did he understand? It’s too bad we can’t ask him what he wants. Give him the chance to decide. After all, at a certain age, even children whose parents are divorced can decide who they want to stay with, the mother or the father. But Liron is still young. And anyway, what made me think of parents who are divorced? I stroked his back through the blanket. That’s our regular signal. If he’s awake and wants to, he turns over, opens his big eyes and starts talking: about the kids in kindergarten who always fight over who gets the purple paint; about the new computer game Daniel has and he wants too; about what’s hiding behind the stars in the sky. He didn’t turn around. He was entitled not to. I let him be and went out of the bedroom.

Moshe knocked at the door.

What do you want?

I have nowhere to go.

Very tragic. Go to your parents. (Tragic was Noa’s word. Was I actually starting to talk like Noa?)

They’ll ask me questions. Do you want them to ask me questions?

I don’t care.

OK, I get it. You’ve gone completely crazy. But I want you to know that it won’t help you.

We’ll see.

Then it was quiet outside. I couldn’t see anything when I looked through the peephole. But I could feel that he was still close by.

Sima?

What?

It’s freezing here. Could you please get me a blanket?

I’ll think about it.

OK, just think fast.

I went to get him a duvet. I climbed the ladder to the top shelf of the cupboard and took down the thin mattress we use for guests. And while I was doing it. I was thinking, maybe I’m exaggerating. We’ve been together for eight years and he’s never even once raised his voice to me. He was always calm and reasonable. Even now, it’s not as if he threw the glass at me. God forbid. He just put it on the rug and stepped on it. It’s a good thing his shoes have thick soles, or he would’ve cut the bottom of his foot. My sister Mirit’s voice was talking inside my head: Sima, did you lose your mind? You’re pushing things too close to the edge, men don’t like women with opinions. In the end, he’ll get sick of you and take himself a passenger, one of those women who sits behind the driver and laughs the whole way. A woman who won’t give him any trouble. So what’ll you do then, smartass? Where will you get the money to send Liron to private kindergarten? Give in, Sima, let him have his way. You saw what happened to Mum.

I don’t want to give in, I answered Mirit, and remembered those colouring books in the kindergarten on Elijah the Prophet Street, page after page of pictures of boys with skullcaps and prayer books, as if they were the only children in the world. Moshe’s being stubborn with me? So I’ll be stubborn with him. If it means I have to be alone, well, there’s nothing I can do about it. Besides, there are lots of men who’ll want me. I see how they look at me. Even Amir, the student, looks at me. I’ll go to work, what’s the big deal? I’ll manage, no one scares me. If my mother managed, so can I. Rabbi Menachem doesn’t know who he’s dealing with.

I opened the window and dropped the duvet and the mattress out. Then I went into the bedroom and got a blanket. The air blowing in from outside really was freezing. I’ll open the door for him in a little while. Or in the morning, at the latest. Before the Arab workers get here. The worker who attacked Gina keeps wandering around outside our house and I don’t want him to bump into Moshe by mistake.

*

Winter love in the Castel begins under the covers. First a little cuddling, a little snuggling till warmth begins to flow through the lovers. Then they peel off their clothes, piece by piece. Amir removes Noa’s pyjamas, the ones with the sheep. Then he wraps his arms around her. She sucks on his neck and dives under the heavy cover (Amir’s hug feels good, but it’s still cold in the room and she still has goose pimples all over). They lick and kiss in the dark, airless space under the blanket. Warm tongues find their way into ears. Slowly, they take off all their clothes except for their socks. Now they can pull down the upper part of the blanket, very gingerly, of course. Amir tries it. Noa doesn’t object. They blink in the light and take a deep breath. Their skin shines with sweet sweat. A sudden wind bangs against the windows and their desire grows. Their separateness comes undone, their souls intertwine, they blend into one. Later on, there might be pain, who knows. A fingernail might scratch. A hand might strike. Amir is into that. Noa isn’t crazy about those games, but lately, her partner seems to get carried away. For now, she tries not to care, as long as he doesn’t pull her hair. As long as he whispers loving words into her neck while he’s doing it — my darling, my only one –