We've never spoken of it since, even during the last two months, when she knew I was writing the story, and when I begged her to give me a hint, something, she claimed she had erased it all, that from her point of view it was over. She, who was incapable of keeping a secret for a second, never betrayed that secret, his and hers. So all I have is fragments, no more, the normal fragments of mosaic from which children somehow piece together the mystery of their parents' lives. "But that's it, it's over," I tell her, and then I say it again, as if one of us is not completely convinced. "Enough, it's enough, it's over, and just think what price you paid." Maybe even the illness too-this I don't say, of course, but I'm certain it's gone through her mind too-because how could one conceive that she, of all people, and at such a young age.
On the last evening she gets an idea-what an idiot for only thinking of it now-to suggest to him that they work at night too. He rejoices-yes! And he dances around her. She's never seen him this way. She asks if he's not tired, and he laughs-he'll keep going all night, right up until he leaves.
The spa area is locked at night, so she invites him to come to her room. She nervously tidies it in anticipation, until she hears a soft knock at the door, and he comes in hesitantly. As he did when he first entered the yoga room, he takes a few sliding steps until he is standing exactly in the right place for her, in the solar plexus of her round straw mat. He stands there for a moment absorbing, unconsciously, and only then he suddenly wakes up and is surprised to find her room so small-it doesn't look anything like a hotel room, with her Indian fabrics hanging on the walls, which suddenly look pathetic to her: the mattress on the floor, the plastic bags bursting with all kinds of foods he doesn't recognize-her seeds-and the spice jars arranged on the bureau. He walks around slowly inspecting. By all means, let him look, it's all part of learning. He even peeks in her ashtray and finds the cigarette butt from lunchtime. He looks at her slightly shocked. "Are cigarettes allowed in yoga?"
She shrugs her shoulders. "What can I do? Don't tell on me. I only have one a day. But when I do, I want the smoke to fill every single cell of my lungs!"
They work enthusiastically and with a kind of pre-separation euphoria. They repeat things she taught him and she finds that he hasn't forgotten any of the poses, not even the more complex ones, and that his body seems to have recorded every nuance: when to breathe and when to hold the breath, where the foot points when the fingers of the opposite hand are stretched out. And she thinks, not for the first time, that perhaps she did not teach him anything, just blew some dust off an ancient manuscript lying inside him.
An hour goes by, then another. They move quietly, almost in silence. They feel as if they are the beating heart of the huge, unfeeling hotel. Every so often they rest, talk a little, sink into relaxation, tell each other that it's all right if they fall asleep for a few minutes, and after the relaxation their bodies start moving again of their own accord, pulled from one pose to the next, choosing their favorite asanas. Nili asks him not to try too hard. He has a long day of traveling ahead of him. He says again that he's willing to go all night like this, and in fact she is too. She wants to equip him with as much as possible, with the richest supplies, with her royal jelly, and she can already see that she won't have time to even touch the tip of the iceberg, and she is sorry for that, and consoles herself, and is happy and sad and a little drunk.
During one of their sleepy nocturnal conversations, he tells her that every week he sends a letter to a different country, in alphabetical order, with the name of his friend but no address, just the country name. Then he waits. He knows there's no chance-but maybe there is? Sometimes miracles happen, don't they? She says nothing, glancing at his watch, imagining to herself his secret, persistent wanderings among the countries, and now she sees in her mind's eye a completely different boy-short, with brown curly hair, a refined and slightly lost boy with a birdlike face, huge eyes, and lips that always seem poised to question.
He suddenly fills up with freshness and even becomes garrulous, and he tells her about the restaurant he's going to open. He'll build it in the most remote place in the world, on a cliff in the desert, or even in Eilat, as long as there aren't a lot of people there. "But there are people in Eilat, loads of people," she is forced to point out. "No," he says firmly, "what do you mean? There aren't any people there at all, Eilat is a wilderness." "That's not true," she retorts, "what are you talking about?" He is quiet for a minute as he lies on his back, holding his left arm straight up in the air. That's how he likes to think. He can even fall asleep that way. At boarding school they're used to it now, but at home, with his dad, it really gets on his nerves, and he always goes into his room and knocks his arm down. "Then more remote than Eilat," he finally gives in, "on Mount Sinai even. Or on Venus." But there aren't any people at all on Venus, she thinks, but doesn't say it. "There are people," he says argumentatively, as if she had tried to refute him; "they sent spaceships there and now there are people." She listens to his voice and wonders what she's hearing now, and if she should perhaps save him a little from embarrassing ignorance-who better than her to know how embarrassing. But suddenly, in a moment of illumination, she blurts out: "Of course there are people on Venus, how could I forget? They sent a spaceship there from India." That's just it, he says, and she hears him making an ef-
fort to turn off any hint of a smile in his voice. "And the Indians are all black," he continues the thread she has given him, "because Venus is close to the sun." "Assuming, of course, that the elephants don't eat them," she cheerfully summarizes, and senses his hidden laughter, like a boy squirming beneath a blanket. She trembles in delight at the little discovery he has allowed her about his secret life, his underground, his anarchic struggle against dry, hateful facts-
"Why did you stop?"
"I thought you were asleep."
"Why did you stop?"
"Because. " My eyes suddenly well up.
She looks at me and understands. "It wasn't really like that." She sighs. I sense she is being cautious with me now, and that's even more painful. "You're the one who invented the whole business with the spaceship and the elephants and the facts," she explains to me as if to a child, trying to console, to go backwards and correct.
"Yes, of course. I don't know." I stand up and sit down again, fighting with all my power against an idiotic sob that has suddenly erupted in my nose, completely out of season. "Just the fact that you laughed with him there, it doesn't matter over what, but you must have laughed at something together, that's the most-"
"Yes," she says quietly, looking at me as if she is photographing something and taking it with her for the road. She closes her eyes, tightens her large face, and I don't know where she is; perhaps she is seeing my side of the story for a moment, perhaps for once she sees only my side. What do I know? What can you know about another person, even if they're your mother? Ultimately, the umbilical cord is cut off or shrivels up and a glacial loneliness surrounds you. This immersion of hers goes on for a long time, and I suddenly get scared that now is the moment the illness will really defeat her, all of a sudden, and I say, "Stop, Nili, Mom, let's go on."