His counselor offered to make him some coffee to perk him up for the drive back to Haifa. “Are you sure you won’t sleep over?” he asked. “Yes,” replied Molkho, “I have to be at the office at eight.” While Uri went to the kitchen, Ya’ara asked Molkho about his work. He did his best to explain it, trying to be precise without too much dull detail, though mentioning by way of illustration his recent trips to the Galilee. “Do you travel a lot?” she asked, sucking greedily on her cigarette. “No,” he replied, feeling her bright sympathy. “During my wife’s illness I hardly went anywhere.” Through the walls of the apartment came various noises mingled with the voices of children, wide awake despite the late hour. Evidently Saturday nights were a time when the building came alive.
“We heard you had a hard year,” said his counselor’s wife huskily, her small eyes taking his measure. “Just one?” he scoffed, feeling the right to sound resentful, his own eyes resting briefly on her bulging belly before returning to her feet. “There were seven of them, all awful! It wasn’t so much the physical part; that was never the worst of it. It was the constant fear, starting with the first operation. It never left us for a moment.”
He glanced out the open window, seeking to catch a whiff of the Jerusalem air of his childhood, conscious of having betrayed his dead wife with this woman he hardly knew. Her husband brought Turkish coffee and a plate of cookies on a tray, and she rose to bring Molkho a little table to put it on. “No cookies for me, thank you,” he said, “I happen to be on a diet.” “You, on a diet! What ever for?” she asked with a laugh. “But just look at me!” he exclaimed, gladdened by this sign of her approval, though with such vehemence that his counselor, seated in a rocking chair, changed the subject to the guest’s children, especially his younger son, who appeared to be something of a problem, because the boy was doing so badly in school that there was again talk of leaving him back. “Did you ever think of sending him to a boarding school,” inquired Uri, “or aren’t there any good ones in your area? Say what you will about the Orthodox, their boarding schools are first-rate.”
The conversation now shifted to Orthodox Jews, whom Molkho was careful not to criticize, unlike his wife, who grew apoplectic at the mere mention of them. But his caution, he soon saw, was unnecessary, for Uri, rocking wildly, gave vent to such violently anti-Orthodox opinions himself that for a moment his long beard seemed no more than the badge of a bohemian kibbutznik. Ya’ara sat puffing attentively on her cigarette, the smoke swirling in little clouds out the window and into the vast night; she had, Molkho noticed sadly, several varicose veins in her legs. They must be real night owls, he thought, for they did not seem to be tired at all, and remembering the long drive ahead of him, he took advantage of the first lull to rise from his seat. “Do you ever get to Haifa?” he asked offhandedly, as if hardly expecting to see them again. “Rarely,” said his counselor, rising too, “but now we will. Perhaps Ya’ara will come visit you,” he added, putting an arm around his wife. She rose lazily from her chair, causing Molkho a moment’s worry that she might be too tall for him; but the firmness of her handshake banished all his fears, for they had already, so it seemed, decided in his favor and nothing he could say or do could make them change their minds. They were strong, self-willed people, joined by the powerful bond that only childless couples have, world travelers for whom all things were possible. Now, at this midnight hour, he felt glad to be in their hands.
“Do you own this apartment or lease it?” he asked on his way to the front door, looking with interest at the walls. The question surprised them. Neither, they replied; they simply paid a monthly rental, which was not very high. “And you don’t own a home anywhere?” Molkho asked. No, they said; they had never saved the money to buy one. He took her hand again, feeling it soft and smooth in his palm. “Well, then, I hope we’ll meet again,” he declared, tensing at the sight of her dead gray hair. “Perhaps on my next visit to Jerusalem.”
Her husband walked him to the elevator, in which children were still riding up and down, no doubt to make up for the forced inactivity of the long summer Sabbath. “You live in a busy building,” Molkho said, trying to pat the head of a little boy, who jumped back so fearfully that his companions burst out laughing.
Despite the late hour, the street was full of cars and pedestrians. “The passersby regarded him curiously, but his counselor merely nodded to them without offering to introduce him, so that Molkho thought, I suppose I’ve disappointed him after all. Yet when he unlocked the car door, something kept him rooted to the spot. “It’s damn queer, what you’re doing,” he said, swallowing hard. “My wife has been dead for ten months, and I still can’t get over it, can’t connect with anyone. It’s like having a phantom limb. For years I suffered in silence, and now I have to be careful. Why, two months ago I fell in love with a little girl in some village in the Galilee, just a black little Indian! It was the strangest thing.”
His counselor listened with bowed head. “Let her think about it,” Molkho added blackly. “You do that too, and then we might give it a try, only slowly. Don’t be so sure that I’m the right man for you. After all, what would you have done if my wife were still alive?” His counselor didn’t answer. Eyes shut and only half-listening, he seemed loath to talk, perhaps because three black-hatted youths were eavesdropping from their perch on a nearby fence. “Drive carefully,” he said. “I’ll be in touch.” Slowly Molkho backed out of the parking lot, the lights of the project in his rearview mirror like hundreds of questioning eyes.
FEELING HIS TIREDNESS lurking inside him he drove slowly, heading north along the coast, happy to see from the cars on the road and the campfires on the beach that he was not alone in the night. On the outskirts of Haifa he decided to park and walk by the sea for a breath of the humid night air. He wanted to cry, to conjure up his old high school love and relive it. Even if I never marry her, he thought. Even if she’s mine just long enough to start the sap running again.
It was after one when he came home. To his surprise, he found the living room light on. No doubt the high school boy, who was sleeping at a friend’s house, had returned for something and forgotten to turn it off. Drawers were open too, the television had been moved, and a strap was torn on one of the blinds. What on earth had gotten into the boy? Perhaps boarding school was not such a bad idea. But Molkho was too tired to pursue the thought and went to bed without showering, crawling naked between the sheets as though loath to wash off Ya’ara’s touch. Not until he was already lying in the dark did he notice the ugly white patch on the wall where a picture had been. Suddenly realizing that he had been burgled, he jumped out of bed and ran turning on the lights from room to room. The expensive tape recorder with the stereo earphones was gone. As was the electric kettle. And the alarm clock. All the closets and cabinets had been rifled too, though it was hard to tell what had been taken. Apparently the thief had started to make off with the television also, changing his mind at the last moment. Stunned, Molkho slipped on his pants and went to call the police, noticing on his way that other paintings were missing from the walls. “Call back in the morning,” the desk sergeant told him, “and meanwhile, don’t touch a thing.” “But I’ve already touched everything,” he groaned in despair. He went out to the terrace and stared down into the ravine, where a campfire was glowing. Was the burglar still down there in the bushes? Was he looking back up at him right now? Turning out the lights, he stood there for a long while in the darkness.