“Of course not,” protested Molkho. “How could I forget you? You were the best thing to happen to us, even if there was all kinds of gossip about you.” “Yes,” said his counselor, as though recalling it with relish, “and not all of it was pure gossip, let me tell you. But you yourself were never really one of us. Ideas didn’t interest you—not just ours, but anyone’s. I can still remember you sitting quietly through our meetings like a well-brought-up little boy.” “Yes, I’ve never been an intellectual,” confessed Molkho, trying to make the best of it. “I was always too realistic.” “And in the end you dropped out of the movement without even trying life on a kibbutz, didn’t you?” asked his counselor. “Yes,” admitted Molkho, marveling how this ancient transgression could still be held against him. “And what did you do in the army?” inquired Uri. “I was a medic,” Molkho said. “That’s where I met my wife.”
They walked back and forth in the fringe of shade by the box office, Molkho first speaking about himself, amazed that Uri already knew so much about him, and then listening to the story of his old counselor’s life with Ya’ara, over which hung the misfortune of a childless marriage. “That’s been our great tragedy,” said Uri, “though it took us a long time to accept it.” There had been, he told Molkho, a long series of painful miscarriages, terminated pregnancies, and endless treatments, during which they had gone from place to place in search of better luck: from the kibbutz in the Galilee to a farming village, and then to the city, and then to South America (where Uri worked as an agricultural adviser, saving money for more visits to the doctors), and then to the Far East for a fling at meditation and Oriental healing. Finally, ten years ago, they had returned to Israel with the realization that they had gotten nowhere.
It was his despair of having children that made Molkho’s old counselor turn to Judaism and become a disciple of an Orthodox rabbi. At first, he thought of this, too, as merely a stage; yet gradually he came to see that the process was a long one, and indeed, there was still no end to it in sight, because the wisdom he was seeking could not be found in books but only through contact with those who lived it. True, he refused to be labeled “a penitent Jew,” a fundamentalist expression he abhorred; in the last elections he had actually voted for a left-wing candidate. But the fact remained that if he was to make any spiritual progress at all he had to be accepted by the rabbi and his followers, which was far from easy, since an outsider like himself was always under suspicion. They were difficult people, and for several years they had been urging him to remarry and have children, a childless man being religiously incomplete. At first, he hadn’t wanted to hear of it; yet the longer he spent with them, the more he saw the inner logic of the demand, spiritually if not psychologically. He felt torn in two, because his love for his wife, whom it wasn’t simple to live with under such circumstances, was as great as ever; but the years were going by, he wasn’t getting any younger, and his craving for children, which was only aggravated by his situation, kept growing. In fact, he had even been offered a match, and Ya’ara was ready to divorce him. “It’s my fate to be childless,” she had told him, “but you can still have a family. Just don’t imagine that I can go on living with you and watching you suffer.” He had been agonizing about it for a year now, for how could a professionless woman of over fifty (her life having passed in travel and trying to become pregnant, so that to this day she was only an assistant in a kindergarten) get along on her own, especially as he himself earned precious little from his job as a public-school teacher, most of his time being devoted to study? Naturally, the rabbi’s followers were willing to find a match for her too; but she had no desire to join their community, while he refused even to consider a divorce before her future was taken care of. Yet whom could they find for her when they were socially so out of touch? The only old friends they ever saw were those they ran into by chance, from one of whom they had heard about Molkho. They had actually looked him up in an old photograph from the movement, a chubby, friendly-looking boy. “But what do we remember about him?” Molkho’s old counselor had asked his wife. “Was he really in love with you?”
Molkho walked beside him in the shrinking line of shade, listening in a turmoil. “So you want me to marry your wife?” he asked at last, looking at his old counselor, who stood staring palely into space. “Yes,” replied Uri, returning an anxious glance. “It would be a way of keeping it in the family. After all, we were once all so close.”
THAT EVENING, when it was already dark and the sky was strewn with clear summer stars above a city flapping in the hot desert wind like a woman awakened from her afternoon nap and crossly dragging her bedclothes, Molkho stood waiting for his counselor by the entrance to the Edison Cinema on the corner of Isaiah and Rabbi Isaac of Prague streets, along which ran the unofficial border between observant and nonobservant Jerusalem, watching some moviegoers decide whether to buy tickets for the first show. Although he hadn’t been in this spot for years, everything was as he remembered it from his childhood, which had passed unhappily a few blocks away. The large white building, a teenage haunt of his, was unchanged too; nostalgically he surveyed its three marble steps and long vitrines, with their pictures of movie stars, while recalling the many hours he had spent in its front rows, the cheapest seats available, his eyes tearing from the flickering screen and the sad fate of Vivien Leigh in Gone With the Wind, with whom he had fallen so madly in love that he had spent weeks imagining how, despite his tender age, he might become her beau.
The last undecideds outside the theater made up their minds at last and vanished into its darkened hall while the old ticket-taker locked the glass doors, switched off the lights in the lobby, and retired to a comfortable corner. His counselor’s lateness, by now considerable, was beginning to annoy Molkho. Was he waiting in the wrong place? Could he have been such a flop that morning that the whole thing had been called off? And I still have to drive all the way back to Haifa, he grumbled to himself, striding moodily down the dark street that led to the Orthodox North Side, which lay spread out before him in a great puddle of light. He should at least have thought of taking down their address, since they hadn’t any telephone. But, just then, up the street swung a nearly empty, brightly lit bus, inside of which he made out his old counselor, dressed the same except for the black hat, which now rested on his head, though tilted back with a jaunty defiance. Angry at having been kept waiting, he remained standing on the dark street, but his counselor, stepping quickly off the bus at the stop opposite the theater and spotting Molkho at once, was already striding toward him apologetically; the rabbi’s weekly sermon, he explained, had run on past the end of the Sabbath and there had been a long wait for the bus. “I was afraid we had gotten our signals crossed,” confessed Molkho, the words scarcely out of his mouth before he regretted sounding overeager. Uri made no reply. His breezy manner of the morning gone, he regarded Molkho with a worried look. Both felt the awkwardness of the situation. “I should have gone straight to your house,” Molkho said. “You never would have found it,” said his counselor. “You may have grown up in this city, but in the neighborhood I live in, even a native could get lost.”
They walked to Molkho’s car, which seemed to arouse his counselor’s interest. “It’s considered quite feminine,” Molkho chuckled, pointing out its special features. “A feminine car?” marveled Uri. “Do cars have sexes, then?” “Only if you want them to,” answered Molkho, pleased with his witty rejoinder. “It’s amazing,” declared his counselor, removing his hat and settling into the front seat, “how refined the anatomy of human pleasure has become.” At the first corner, they turned left toward a neighborhood where Molkho’s grandfather had lived years ago, in whose empty streets the desert heat of the day seemed transmuted into a sad solitude. “I was born near here,” Molkho said, stopping for four black-coated Talmudists to cross the street with unreasonable slowness. “I wouldn’t recognize the house, though. I haven’t been here for ages and everything’s changed.” “I suppose it would be,” said his counselor, guiding them through a maze of streets that were full of dead ends and no-entrances. “The ultra-Orthodox have taken over here too,” he added, telling Molkho to bear right at a traffic light onto a northbound highway and then right again toward a project that seemed to grow vaster the further into it they drove, so that Molkho, who had lost his bearings completely, felt as if they had left dark Jerusalem behind them and were now in another city lit by thousands of bulbs like a gigantic power plant. “This is Kiryat Mattersdorf,” explained his counselor while piloting him through a large, full parking lot to an empty space in a far corner that seemed reserved just for them.