West Jerusalem Noir, page 16
Rebe Kalman and Rebe Nahman were already watching over Jeremy’s shoulder, staring fearfully at the young women and their governesses as if they were about to swallow them whole. Aya thought about the only woman in Jeremy Zimmer’s book—she didn’t eat a thing.
She wanted to tell him that his allegories were meager, his similes heavy-handed, that she’d never even consider reading any of his other books, and that his version of Jerusalem was even less convincing than this restaurant. She knew Shira would have come up with a witty comeback, or at the very least scolded her, Cut it out, you’re not a child. Aya thought of Shira’s baby floating in black water, a dollop of cream just before being swallowed.
Dinner was served. Everyone agreed it was wonderful. Jeremy addressed the man sitting on his other side amiably. It turned out there were seven different ways of making Jewish stuffed fish. She bit into a wrap whose contents she did not know. She dipped a spoon into the polenta. She chewed something defined on the menu as an ancient Kurdish pastry. For one moment, clear and awful in its certainty, Aya knew he was right. She really did want a baby.
The string of lights hanging over the writers on the other side of the table trembled and flickered, and Aya tried to recall how the story about the father and son had ended. She could have just left, but discovered that, in spite of everything she’d eaten, she had not a drop of energy in her body. Susan’s gaze hovered over her.
The following week, all of this would shrink and dwindle, a dot marked with a pencil. She would see a man torn to shreds on the street, feel the dirt gathering at the city gates and on the scalps of children with her own fingers. The following week, none of them would still be there. She would sit at a table set for ten, night after night, doing everything alone. Jerusalem will fall, just like it always did. There are always reasons for falling.
Aya continued to sip from the glass in front of her, filled to the brim. “I’m sorry,” she said, “I thought it was my glass.”
PART IV
RETURNINGS
WHEN SLUMBER FELL ON ME
BY TAFAT HACOHEN-BICK
Old City
She handed the mikvah attendant her robe and took the stairs down in the nude. The water was pleasant, in spite of some hairs and a dead fly that floated in it. She fell into it, then let out all of her air desperately and screamed into the water, I can’t take it anymore, I can’t take it anymore, then louder, What am I going to do, God help me, what am I going to do? She only came up for air when her lungs were empty, then whispered a blessing for the dip, prayed for what she always prayed for, for light at home, to get back to the right bed, for their love to be good. But this time the words tasted salty. Above her, she heard a voice declaring, Kosher. She dove in again, deeper, and screamed into the water, I don’t want to dip while I’m still sinning, I don’t want to. If only things could return to their place.
When she came out of the water after the three dips, she looked into the attendant’s eyes and thought, She wouldn’t have done what I did. It’s written all over her forehead. How tidy her house is, how she always remembers to soak the kids’ stained clothes in time, how she always says the right thing. The attendant was slender and her skin was smooth and dark. She wore a very high headscarf and extra-thick brown tights. She wanted to ask the attendant to hug her, to whisper some words of comfort, to bless her, to infect her with the orderly skies above her head, but the attendant seemed to be very busy that day, only giving the fingernail check half a glance. Look at me! she wanted to yell. I may have had hair clinging to my back before I got in the water, you barely even looked. How can you abandon me today when I’m in this state?! But all the attendant said was, Health, fruit of your loins soon, amen. Then the attendant went into another room.
She walked out, dripping water all over the hallway, dried herself, and changed her white underpants for black ones, then whispered again some prayers for domestic bliss as she buttoned her shirt and wrapped her wet hair in the hood of her jacket.
As she walked outside, she was instantly enveloped by darkness. It was very cold and the roots of her hair burned. When she passed the synagogue, a sob escaped her and she barked at the darkness, What could I have done? I couldn’t have done anything about it, you know, there was light, and I couldn’t manage anything else, what could I have done, there was all that expectation, and I remembered him from all the other incarnations and thought I’d be able to fix everything, but I was wrong.
She wanted to walk inside and whisper a few words, but the synagogue was dark and shut, and she kept going, telling herself, That’s it, I’m going home now, I’ll keep my head down and walk inside. I won’t leave all of my limbs on the doorstep this time. Enough with this begging, I’ve been a beggar for too many years, and all this hunger. She whispered to herself, So what if things have been etched too deep for too many years, perhaps even from a different lifetime? I have a good love and I’ll make it work. He isn’t going to disappear into the fog. He isn’t.
It was pitch-black outside, and raining heavily. On her long way home through the flooded streets, beneath the dripping, ancient pine trees, she was glad to be washed again. She told herself, I’ll come home different. I’ll be different when I come to him. He deserves to have me different. I’ll fall into his arms and forget everything, and I’ll curl up inside his strong arms, and he’ll caress the pain of this day away, and all the wings wrapped around me will become one wing, there will be no difference, it doesn’t really matter, I just mixed the two of them up, what could I have done, I’ll repair it, I’ll lick all the shards, I’ll glue all the pieces together.
When she opened the door she found the home quiet, lit up, and squeaky clean. How does he always know what to do? How does he always get it right? This is exactly what I need right now, for things to be soft and pleasant, to be taken care of, how wonderful this is. She wanted to jump up on him, to have him set her down on the clean kitchen table, kissing her neck, holding her with his beautiful arms and his tickling stubble, but David was busy. Without even looking at her he said, I’m stepping out to throw out the trash and maybe for a quick walk. Then he went out, leaving her alone with her desire.
She walked into the children’s room and saw the four of them sleeping quietly, everything in its place, even the dolls lined up on the shelf, not stacked up in piles, the way she always put them away. She kissed each of the children and went back to the couch, turned on her laptop, read a little, waiting. What felt like a very long time went by, but David didn’t come back, and she grew sad. Let him come back. I want him. What’s with him? Why’s he running out on me like this? But he didn’t come.
She wanted to call, but told herself, Give him a minute.
Fifteen minutes later, she did call, but got his voice mail. Then voice mail again. Then again.
She sent him WhatsApp messages that went unread. What’s with him? Why’d he shut everything down like this? What happened? She recalled what people said about the kind of people who held everything inside until they broke and everything fell apart all at once. God help him, something’s wrong, something happened and he doesn’t want to share it with me. How can I convince him to be with me if he doesn’t pick up? She wanted to run outside and yell, David, David, where are you, David, I’m with you, David, but the kids were asleep and she couldn’t go outside. What should I do? How can I find you, David?
She looked around and thought, If everything is this organized, that must mean he’s planned a long journey. Where did you go? And why did you think it would be easier on me if you cleaned up everything first? She shouted into the darkness, What are you so mad at me for? What did I do? I whispered, I wrote a poem, I dreamed a lot, I skipped down the path, and I loved. Why are you so furious, and why won’t you tell me? How could you just leave like that?
No, she thought. It’s my fault. I played with fire and put us all in danger. I pulled you behind me on the tightrope, thinking you were going to be an acrobat like me, making it all the way to the end and even having a good laugh about it. I forgot how you always believe me. You saw a rope and thought, We’re going to fall. You forgot how I always reach the end, how I laugh. It’s my fault for putting us in danger, but who am I supposed to cry to now, to say, I’m sorry, there was a rope and I wanted to cross it, wanted to feel my heart beating and the sky close by, wanted to feel the fear of falling, and now I’m so sorry, I’ll pack up the tightrope in a suitcase and only walk on wide sidewalks, keeping away from the road, just come home, I’m sorry. She wanted to tell him, You know that when I walk on tightropes I always fall into your arms, and that’s my favorite thing, I like how you keep me safe, but you didn’t understand that. I was so sure you knew all of it, and I’m sorry. Why are you disappearing on me exactly when I’m ready to come back? We’re moving in opposite directions. The more I run to you, the more I lose myself in the fog, blind. Where are you? Where are you? She yelled into the darkness, but her voice was hollow and no answer came. Always with these different directions, as if we can’t synchronize our watches. Once, I dreamed I was walking toward you with the wedding veil on my face. You handed me the wineglass. The sky was our chuppah. We shook hands in every world with no separation, and you were so glad, it was everything you wanted. I woke up happy and reached out to you, but you were sad because you had the opposite dream, and I could see in your eyes how I had run out on you all night long. I wanted to tell you, Of course I didn’t! I was just coming to you! Why are we going in two different directions? But instead we got up, had coffee, made sandwiches, and hurried to drop the kids off at school, and you gave me a quick kiss so as not to hurt my feelings. What were you supposed to say? I’m mad at you because of my dream? What could you have said? But you were mad.
Where did he go now? Where could he go? I need to chase him. I need to tell somebody. But her arms were heavy, and all she did was think, Who could I possibly tell? And what would I even say? She wondered how she could call to him from a distance in her loudest voice, shaking up the universe with just the right tune, but the words shattered between her fingers, and the autocorrect kept changing things on her. She wanted to whistle through underground frequencies that would reach him and caress him just right, but nothing came out, and she dropped her hands and let go of everything, diving into bed.
Lately, a thought had been pestering her: that if they slept together constantly they’d be spared their sentence. They had sex in every corner of the house, as if signing an escrow on every square foot, confirming their lease was hermetic, on the couch, in the kitchen, in the shower, in the corner of the room, in the other corner of the room, on the floor, on the rug, in the cold, in the heat, sweating or shivering, standing up, lying down, fighting for their lives. She recalled the time she poured wine on him and then licked him clean, every corner of his body, as if, by painting herself onto every bit of him they’d last forever. She remembered how in the end they were very sticky and tired, and she thought, When love is so forced, one can’t take it anymore. He was exhausted and left. He didn’t say, Hang on, I’m tired, let’s take a breath, let’s let go of this struggle and just let love be sleepy and mediocre for once, without constantly resuscitating it, let’s give it time to recalibrate. He didn’t say that. Instead, he left. And now she couldn’t fight anymore, everything was falling through her fingers, the glass was broken, and there was nobody to cry, This is a break from which one is born! Mazel tov and good health! It was all broken and wounded, and there was nobody to talk to.
I know I was wrong, she admitted. I thought I could taste every fruit without giving into temptation. To feel without falling too deep. I’d just forgotten a few rules for a moment there. Sometimes you realize too late that life has become dangerous, that you’re at the center of a frozen lake, not knowing how you got there, or how to get back, and every move could break the ice, and you think, Maybe if I lie down and start crawling away no one will notice and I’ll be able to escape slowly, silently, before the lake comes to life and buries me whole.
She spread her limbs on the bed, lying diagonally. Her body was empty and hollow, and she felt around: arm, leg, everything there, everything in its place. And yet she was weightless, as if nothing bound her to the bed. She rolled from side to side and thought, I’m so alone now in this empty night. It’s going to be so long, in this horrible silence. She sank into the bed until finally she extricated herself, crawling into the children’s room, curling up in bed with Miriam, holding her, trying to draw warmth from her. And she thought, I’ll sleep, and I’ll think about everything tomorrow morning. Tomorrow is going to be a new day. I’ll take care of everything tomorrow.
* * *
The next day, when she saw that the car was gone too, she told the kids that Dad had gone to work early that morning, and that they’d have to hurry up and get to school by foot. They seemed to have read the stars in their sleep. They were tender, loving, attentive. She wanted to yell at them, Shout at me! Be mad at me! Things have broken in every world and it’s my fault! But they were kind, helping each other along, dropping off at their respective schools too easily, offering sweet goodbye kisses.
Too early and too fast she was free and started walking, trying to weigh the possibilities: he’d gone to the desert, he’d gone up north, he’d gone abroad. She cursed herself: Why didn’t I check if his passport is still at home? That should have been my first step. His phone was still turned off. She walked quickly, crossing Sha’arei Hesed, advancing toward downtown, toward Jaffa Gate, toward the Old City. All along she whispered to herself, I’ve got to call someone, his parents, my sister, I’ve got to report him missing. But the street was chilly and she wrapped her coat around her body and told herself, Soon, soon, there’s the Tower of David, after that comes the Western Wall. I’ll ask and I’ll pray and everything will be all right again. She started walking toward the Old City Market but became swallowed in the flow of tourists, following them down the alleyways, until she found herself in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. Enveloped in the calmness of worshippers, she thought: This is all I wanted, to indulge a little and then come back, it’s just that I mixed up the kingdoms, I’ll fix it. She stood in line, hearing herself crying among the mélange of foreign languages: God, help me, make him come home, help me correct my ways, tell me nothing is irreversible.
All of a sudden, she understood. Facing the corpse that appeared in her mind, she knew she would never be able to forgive him for this fear that now took hold of her. That was unforgivable. Then she thought, How we’ve spoiled it. How bad we’ve been. This was all one big mistake: We loved much too much, but we always realized the pain too late. If only I could love less and give up just once, making things just a little less pretty and a little less painful.
She felt the cold blowing from the stones and tried to figure out what had taken place in the loneliness of last summer, when the nights were hot and cold all at once. What could I have done? I felt as if a river was flowing under the house, and the street was filled with quicksand, and I was so alone, and within that I wanted him just to be near me, do you understand? It wasn’t instead of you, it’s just that I wanted the way he breathed on me, the way he leaned over me, whispering in my ear, that’s all, hearing him speak to me with this heat and that, this rhythm and that. Do you understand? You know that loneliness that trickles inside in midday and lodges in the throat, and if anything can alleviate it even just a little bit, how could I resist it? Just sitting together on a bench for a moment and knowing there’s somebody else there.
She wanted to get out of there, to go home, to call David again, to find him and bring him home, to yell at him for all this fear he’d brought her, to shake him, to rage at him, but also to try to repair, to ask him if they could fix it. But the side room with the beam of light and the white curtain beckoned her and she went there like a blind woman following light, feeling with her hands, there’s some light, I’m going to catch it. She was almost there, though she saw the step too late, and she tripped and fell, flattening out on the cold stone, and felt the blow to her forehead and brow. When she touched her hand to her face she realized, I’m bleeding, oh heavens, I’m bleeding too fast, I just fell, why does my blood have to make an appearance right away?
One of the tour guides ran over. Are you here alone? Do you need help?
She looked at him and said, I’m alone. To herself she said, We are always alone when our home falls apart, and we have no money and no job and no home, and we are naked, and we are alone.
Hang on, the guide said, I’ll take care of you. He helped her up and sat her on a bench across from the beam of light, and gave her some water.
She drank and sighed. Why didn’t I give up, even when I knew all our hearts were bleeding? Why didn’t I get into bed with a little less feeling, just for once? Why didn’t I realize that if blood flowed so much here, this might be too dangerous a place? Why didn’t I take good enough care of you even when I did know? And why don’t you take care of me now? She took a deep breath and thought, I need to go to urgent care. I need them to look at my eyebrow. I need somebody to take care of me before this day is over. Before the kids come home. I need to bring David back, and I need to do the dishes, and I need to fold the laundry. I’m going to have to pick them up soon and put everything away. To the guide, who was watching her with concern, she said, I’ll be all right, and I’ll remember the way in spite of the mud outside. I’ll get back home.
Slowly, holding the bandage he gave her against her eyebrow, she moved toward the exit.
