She listened in heavy silence, neither for nor against, though clearly disapproving of Ya’ara’s lack of economic independence. “If you expect it to work,” she declared at last, “you’ll have to become a little bit religious yourself, at least enough to suit her.” “But they don’t care about that at all,” he replied scornfully. “Why, she doesn’t even believe in God. It’s just something she goes along with!” And yet all at once he felt certain that nothing would come of it and that his counselor would never give her up. But I’ll go to bed with her anyway, he promised himself, because after all, I did love her once. “I need to rest,” he told his mother. “I have a long night ahead of me.” Yet, once in his old room, he couldn’t fall asleep.
Toward evening the Jerusalem skies clouded over unseasonably. Checking the calendar, he was astounded to see how late the Sabbath ended. It’s no wonder the religious are up in arms about daylight saving time, he thought as he drove at nine-thirty to the project, which seemed dark and quiet, as if the Day of Rest were being held prisoner. The elevator, too, was nearly empty, its only other passenger a small boy with blond earlocks who stood peeling off the chrome paint of the buttons with his fingernails. Getting off at the wrong floor, Molkho wandered down a long, dark corridor in search of the stairs, passing curious tenants until he nervously arrived at the right apartment.
His counselor opened the door. “So you’re here,” he smiled glumly, a saturnine flush in his cheeks. “You really are going through with it!” “I am?” gulped Molkho guiltily. “How is that?” His counselor laid a light hand on him. “I was afraid you’d get cold feet. But come in, come on in.”
Yet, when he entered, there was only darkness and an open suitcase on the bed where Ya’ara had lain the last time. The apartment was chilly, perhaps because the windows and shutters had been closed against the sun all day long, and smelled as if the Sabbath, trapped between its walls for over twenty-four hours, had begun to go bad. “I’ll get her,” declared Uri, reaching for his hat and explaining that Ya’ara had gone to visit a sick friend in the next building. “No, don’t go yet,” requested Molkho, blocking the way. “I have to tell you that I still don’t know what to make of all this, that I feel like I’m in a strange dream. Not that I’m against arranged matches. If they were good enough for the Middle Ages, they’re good enough for me. But I’m asking you again, why me? Why not someone else?”
“It happened by pure chance,” whispered his counselor to Molkho, who replied, feeling weak as if with stage fright, “Where do you get the strength for all this? I feel that I’m completely in your hands, that this whole thing is humanly incredible, that it will be a miracle if it works. I’ve already told my mother and elder son and was amazed it didn’t shock them, because I’m still in shock myself. Are you sure you’ve thought it through?” His counselor was listening with his eyes shut, as if to a musical theme. “You say I once loved her, but what difference does that make now? And there’s something else I don’t get either: does your divorcing her just depend on me?”
“No,” said his counselor, opening his eyes, “it depends on me too.” He smiled faintly and patted Molkho’s back. “And on her,” Molkho pointed out logically. “She’s already agreed,” smiled his counselor again. “But what does she know about me?” asked Molkho in alarm. “I’m not so easy to get along with. In fact, I was even accused by someone of causing my wife’s death.” “Forget it,” said Uri unconcernedly. “Don’t listen to what other people say. Listen to yourself. Your life is your own now.” He glanced at his watch. “It’s getting late,” Molkho said. “I’d like to get an early start.” “I’ll go get her,” said his counselor. “I really don’t know what can be keeping her.”
Molkho walked about the small apartment, in which he now took an almost proprietary interest, even entering the little bedroom to inspect the open suitcase. In it were some dresses and a pair of slippers, the thought of whose arrival in his Haifa home made him tingle expectantly. Packed away, too, was a large, mysterious package of absorbent cotton and a small jar of red pills bearing the label of a local pharmacy. Was she still bleeding from her miscarriages? Would she be penetrable or blocked by debris? Was he meant to heal her or put her out of her misery? For he did want to heal her, he thought.
Through the bedroom window, the only one open in the house, a mild scent of pine trees was borne on the cool breeze that drifted in from the Jerusalem night. Staring at the carelessly made bed, he suddenly felt that everything about it—the pillows, the blankets, even the scattered books—reeked of endless fornication. For a moment he froze; yet hearing the rumble of the elevator in the hallway, he hurried back to the living room just as the front door opened. She was alone, dressed in a checked jumper that stressed her little belly, loafers with white bobbysocks folded schoolgirlishly over them, and a tight kerchief that she removed and tossed on the table while shaking out her gray hair. “I see Uri found you,” he said, still not sure how he felt about her. Should he offer to shake hands? Not that it matters, he thought—yet he gave her his hand and she took it in her own as if not quite knowing what to do with it. “I was paying a sick call, but I’m already packed,” she explained, stepping into the bathroom to collect her toilet articles as her husband entered the apartment. “All right,” said Molkho’s counselor, “let’s go. We don’t want to take all night. Are you sure you have everything?” he asked, shutting the suitcase and carrying it outside. “Yes,” said Ya’ara after a moment’s thought. “What about toothpaste?” he asked. “She’s not going to the wilderness,” put in Molkho, who had been listening nervously. “But your book, you forgot your book,” exclaimed Uri, and she returned to the little bedroom and slipped it into her bag before putting her kerchief back on. They turned off the lights. “Wait a minute,” said Molkho’s counselor, opening the windows to let in the cool air while Molkho, dazzled by the great clusters of lights on the hillsides, remarked, “I don’t know a single one of all those new neighborhoods. I couldn’t even tell you which are Jewish and which are Arab.” Neither Uri nor Ya’ara responded. As though suddenly gripped by a powerful emotion, their attention seemed focused elsewhere.
They slipped through the building in their religious garb, which looked half like a disguise and half like an exotic costume. Opening the baggage compartment of his car, Molkho laid the suitcase in it while his counselor, who had decided to drive with them to the city limits, sat in the front seat with his wife behind him. With a sinking feeling, Molkho glanced at her in the mirror, her kerchiefed face small, lined, and gray, framed by the dusky night. It’s what I get for not looking harder, he thought bitterly, for expecting others to do it for me. Slowly he backed out of the parking lot and drove to the outskirts of town, stopping by a yellow filling station at the point where the road began its long plunge to the coast. “Do you need gas?” asked his counselor, getting slowly out of the car as if loath to part with them. “No, I have plenty,” said Molkho impatiently. “And where should Ya’ara sit?” inquired Uri, “in the front or in the back?” “In the front,” answered Molkho. “It’s more comfortable and safer, because of the seat belt.” His counselor opened the front door for her, and the two men helped belt her in. “Are you all right?” asked Uri nervously. She nodded with a dutiful smile. “Just a minute,” declared Molkho, noticing how cramped she was, “let’s give you some more legroom.” He bent toward her to pull her seat handle while his counselor pushed her back, the smell of her sweat making her seem very real. “How about taking a soldier?” asked Uri as several hitchhikers in uniform began crowding around the car. “I’d rather not,” said Molkho. “You never give lifts to soldiers?” Ya’ara asked. “Yes, I do, but not now,” he answered crossly. “Maybe later, when we reach the coast.”