They struck out down a dark alley past some tanks of cooking gas and emerged in a square where children were running back and forth among young mothers pushing baby carriages. On one corner several men in white shirts were engrossed in lively conversation. Uri walked quickly, his head slightly bowed, looking up now and then to greet some passing acquaintance, while Molkho trailed behind him, vaguely troubled by the strange surroundings. Suddenly he stopped, reaching out to touch his counselor’s shoulder. “You’d better know now,” he whispered, “that I’m not a believer at all. Far from it.” But his counselor was undaunted. “Nothing is far from it,” he answered sharply, the hint of a rebuke in his voice. “It’s enough to say you don’t believe. Neither do I. Come, let’s cut through here.” They passed a row of garbage pails and climbed a few steps to a building, inside of which some tots and pregnant women were waiting for two elevators. “What, you have elevators?” asked Molkho in surprise. “And why not?” smiled Uri, weaving his way through the crowd of toddlers with a respectful glance at his neighbors, who all wished him a good new week. The elevators seemed to be stopping at every floor, where more crowds of children were no doubt waiting, and indeed, when one finally arrived, a horde of merry youngsters burst out of it. Though scratched and battered, it was large enough for a department store and everyone fitted easily into it. In no time, pressed by eager little hands, every button was lit, and they were stopping at floor after floor, on each of which more children got on and off under the eyes of the good-naturedly chiding adults, and Molkho, slightly alarmed by so much teeming life, glimpsed men and women lounging outside their apartments.
They got out on a top floor and walked down a long hallway, at the end of which Molkho’s counselor knocked rhythmically on a door, opening it himself when there was no answer. The apartment was dark and warm, the only light coming from a crescent moon, which shone unhindered through a window. Apparently as surprised by this state of affairs as Molkho, Uri dropped his hat on the living room table and hurried to a back room, through the doorway of which Molkho made out the lower half of a woman’s body covered by a thin blanket. Still adjusting his eyes to the darkness, he heard a whisper, no doubt a plea to get up, followed by a soft, sleepy murmur, and reminded of the times he had fought to arouse his deathward-slumbering wife, he felt a dreamy rush of desire. He shut his eyes to hear better, taking a small, weary step in their direction; but at once he caught himself and stood looking around the room, from the shadows of which now emerged some straw chairs with embroidered pillows and several hangings on the walls. On the large table were a folded tablecloth, a set of tall pewter candlesticks, a bottle of wine, an open book, and an ivory comb, each object an erotic gleam in the darkness, as though destined, like herself, for his possession.
A light was switched on in the bedroom, casting new shadows on the walls, and there was a brief laugh; then, shutting the door behind him, Molkho’s counselor returned to the living room, beaming brightly, if still a bit uncomfortably. Quickly he turned on a light there too, which fell on some more furniture stacked in a little hallway, and cleared an armchair of some books. “Sit down,” he urged Molkho. “Ya’ara went to sleep early because she decided we weren’t coming. It’s all my fault for being late. Please sit down.” He moved some books from a second chair too, hurrying to make order, but Molkho remained awkwardly standing, trying to stay calm while gazing out the window at the lights dotting the hillside across from him. You’d think this were my idea! he thought indignantly, hearing the sound of running water and of something that sounded like the beating of wings. You’d think I were some salesman who had come knocking on their door! Just then, though, the bedroom door opened and Ya’ara stepped out. Tense with expectation, he cast a soft, weary glance at her, his heart missing a beat, only to realize at once that he had confused her with someone else or, rather, combined in his memory two different people who now immediately split up again. Of course, he thought astonishedly, that’s who she was! Why, I really was in love with her; I may even have written her that love letter, he told himself, feeling a pang at the sight of the gray, though still lavish, hair gathered at the nape of her neck in an old-fashioned braid.
She was tall and long-legged, though her body, while still lissome, bulged slightly at the belly beneath a terry-cloth robe, as if all her failed pregnancies were gathered there in the form of a question mark. He shook her hand and glanced at her makeupless face, which, whether from sleep or excitement, was flushed like his own. Her skin was dry but smooth, except for the crow’s-feet by her small, pearly eyes, their strange, greenish beige color highlighted by her gray hair. “Why, you haven’t changed one bit,” she said in a husky drawl. “I’d have recognized you anywhere, I swear!” “I haven’t?” he asked self-consciously, feeling almost slighted. “But how can that be?” It was as if they wanted to keep him a boy forever, to deny that he had grown up. “Ya’ara has a wonderful memory for faces,” explained her husband, pulling up a chair for her as if she, too, were a guest. Slowly she sank into it, while Molkho sat down with an understanding nod, his covertly male glance running quickly down to her bare, snow-white feet, their small, perfect toenails as clear as if made of cut glass. He caught his breath, overwhelmed by the heat and her presence, which seemed to promise untold pleasures that he was not at all sure he could cope with. In any case, he promised himself, I’ll go to bed with her at least once.
Her husband stood beside her, affably listening to him explain his mistake. “To tell you the truth, it just now dawned on me that I was under a wrong impression. You see, I partly confused you with someone else from our class,” he stammered, mentioning a name that neither of them knew. “I pictured you differently, but it’s all come back to me now.” He made his confession gladly, though feeling parched and fatigued, and she flashed him a crimson smile, reaching into the pocket of her robe for a crumpled yellow pack, from which she blindly took a cigarette, stuck it in her mouth, lit it with a lighter in her hand, and inhaled deeply, only then remembering to offer the pack to Molkho. On it was a picture of some gaunt black horsemen who seemed to have ridden out of the pages of history. “And we really did share a desk for several months!” he added excitedly.