What happened to her? I asked, and Kobi showed another sign of longing: his shoulders drooped.
We lost her, he said quietly, and his right hand clenched into a fist. My wife went out to walk her in the grove of trees near the house and came back without her.
From his tone, I could tell that he thought if he’d gone out to walk her, it wouldn’t have happened.
We did everything to find her, he went on. We put notices on trees. We went looking for her at night. I even called that woman who has that all-night radio programme and asked her to announce that we’d give a reward to the finder.
And nothing helped?
Nothing. Someone must have dragged her into his van and sold her for a lot of money. She was pedigree, with papers.
And you didn’t want another dog?
Are you crazy?! Kobi said angrily, as if I’d parked in a handicapped spot and would have to pay a huge fine. How could we, after such a thing happened?
You’re right, I agreed quickly, so he wouldn’t get really angry and walk off. And … Tell me, do you have anything left of Snow’s, a memento?
I have a few pictures at home, he said, pulling a bunch of keys out of his pocket. And I have her tag.
He separated the tag from the rest of the keys and handed it to me. It had the Tel Aviv/Jaffa logo on it, along with a small drawing of a dog and a serial number. If it had been a little larger, it would have been perfect. But the way it was, I’d have to close the frame to get him and the tag in it. And a closed frame wouldn’t be right for the feeling.
A tall guy with a short dog turned into the street. Ordinarily, I wouldn’t have had the nerve to walk up to a total stranger, but when I take pictures, I become shameless. Wait a second, I asked the parking attendant. I don’t have all day, miss, he protested, but his tone was more complaining than angry. I ran over to the tall guy, ignored his dog’s barking, smiled my number two smile and asked if I could borrow his leash just for a minute. With the leash in my hand, I ran back to the parking attendant and asked him to hold it. How, like I’m walking a dog? he asked, and I grabbed my camera and said, however you want. Hold it any way you feel like. He moved to the right a little and wound the leash around his neck, like a scarf.
Is that what you used to do with the leash when you walked Snow? I asked.
Yes, he said, and gave a small, nostalgic smile.
I clicked the shutter. That was exactly the smile I’d been hoping for.
*
I hope you realise that this will influence the reference I give you, Nava said. You can’t just disappear for a month and expect it to go unnoticed.
I never thought it would, I replied, looking at the picture on the calendar hanging behind her — two tiger cubs fighting playfully.
Do you have other people to give you references? she asked, and before I could answer, she continued: because if you do, you should probably go to them instead of coming to me.
It’s OK, I reassured her: for the time being, I’m not planning to register for a Master’s.
You’re not?!! she cried, as if such a thing — someone who wasn’t dying to be a psychologist — were impossible.
No, I repeated, stretching my legs comfortably. That was the first time I’d spoken my decision out loud, and I liked the sound of it.
But why, Nava said, surprising me by removing the black ponytail band that held her hair, why, if I may ask?
Lots of reasons.
It would be a shame if it’s because of what happened in your crossword puzzle group. Things like that happen, and with time and experience, we learn how to handle them. How to set limits.
I raised an inner eyebrow — am I imagining it, or did this woman just show some real caring for me? I looked at her and thought that with her hair loose, she actually looked nice. She felt my eyes on her and pulled her hair back into a ponytail again. That’s just it, I said. I don’t think I can set limits. How can I explain it to you … Did you ever have a talk with Shmuel?
Nava nodded.
He probably told you that he didn’t have a protective layer of skin, I said, and that’s why he feels everyone’s unhappiness penetrating his body, and when he told you that, you obviously thought he was crazy, that he was talking nonsense. But here’s the thing: I’m just like him. I feel other people, especially their inner pain, at full volume. And I’m not sure I want to turn that into a profession. It makes my personal life complicated enough as it is.
I understand, Nava said, and unlike the hundreds of time she’d said ‘I understand’ before, this time it felt real. So I raised the barrier and told her some even more secret things: that I was sick of the sensitive psychologist image I’d been selling to the public for so long that I’d forgotten it was just an image; that I wanted to talk, not just to listen; that since the time I was a child, I’ve always listened, taken an interest, learned how everyone behaved, and then I talked, and I was sick of that, sick of trying to make myself fit in because I was the new kid in the building, in the neighbourhood, at school; I was sick of keeping all my thoughts to myself because it was too dangerous to expose my true, ugly, jealous, nervous self, the one only my family knew, the one Noa had begun scratching the silver coating off and maybe that’s why, that’s why …
That’s why what? Nava asked.
Never mind, I said. And thought: enough. You’ve opened up too much already.
So what you’re really saying, Nava said, is that you want to remove yourself from playing the role of a psychologist and keep yourself out of it permanently.
Yes, I admitted. Even though I hate it when people mirror me.
Are you sure that’s the real reason you don’t want to continue studying?
You know, I shot back at her, that’s exactly what annoys me, your thinking that there’s another, truer reason and you have to guide me to it. I’m not sure that there are absolute reasons for things. For me, the lines between right and wrong are very thin. Sometimes, only an asterisk separates them. And the really important things that happen between people are hidden and can’t be broken down into words. So how can I pretend to tell people what’s good and what’s bad?
That’s not exactly what psychologists do, Nava said, and the muscle in her cheek trembled slightly, a sign that she wanted to say even harsher things. But let’s leave that for a minute. There’s something else I don’t understand: why is it so important to you to come back to the club if you don’t plan to stay in the field anyway?
Why? I said, feeling my anger spray her with the most naked words I had inside me. Why?! Because for once in my life, I want to say goodbye the right way. You don’t know me. I’m one of those people you’re about to end a phone conversation with and before you can say bye, they’ve already hung up. Enough. I want to stop being like that. I have unfinished business here and I want to finish it slowly, gently.
OK, I have to think about it, Nava said, stealing a quick glance at the pile of papers on her desk. A very crooked paper clip sat on top of the pile.
Will you let me know? I asked, clutching the edges of the chair.
Yes, she said, writing something on a piece of coloured notepaper, probably my name. Then, just when I expected her to look pointedly at her watch or shift restlessly in her chair, she leaned back and spread her arms to the sides as if she had all the time in the world, as if now conditions were ripe for a simple conversation between two ordinary people who didn’t have the threat of a reference hanging between them, a conversation on a subject not related to the club or to psychology, let’s say a conversation about the mating habits of tigers, or the kind of music she likes. I almost asked her, but in the end I didn’t say anything and let the waves of loneliness she was suddenly emitting break on my skin, and her eyes roam the wall behind me. I have to tell Noa about this moment, I thought, I have to describe every little detail of it to her. Including the colour of the ponytail band, because Noa was the only person who’d been with me through all my previous Nava moments and she was the only one in the world who could understand what’s so weird here, so absurd.