But when I reached home, I thought that perhaps I should have accepted my mother’s offer to go to sleep in their room after all, for Michaela and Stephanie were still deep in animated conversation with the midwife, who in spite of the pain in her ankle was sitting in our bedroom with her daughter, drinking her second or third cup of tea, holding not our baby but the little Indian statuette with its many outflung arms between her hands and speaking now not of births and babies but of life itself, its purpose and meaning, a subject on which I was invited to give my opinion. Stephanie poured me a cup of tea, and I took off my shoes and lay down on the bed, crushed between five women, counting the fingers and toes on my new daughter, who lay next to me blinking her eyes. I discovered that Michaela and Stephanie had good reason for being under the spell of this midwife, who turned out to be an original woman with an eloquent style of speech and strange and diverting ideas. Beyond the practical, competent professional veneer lay a fervent belief in the transmigration of souls, and not necessarily after death but in the midst of the bustle and flow of life. Her idea of the soul was of something flimsier and lighter than the conventional notion, for she removed the heavier parts, such as memory, and left only the anxieties and aspirations, which allowed it to drift slowly around and also to migrate deliberately from place to place and person to person. For example, she said that when her ankle had been injured in the evening and she had been taken to the hospital and realized that she wouldn’t be able to reach us in time, she had sent her soul to enter into those present in this room, especially into me. Hadn’t I felt, she asked me, that I had done things more easily and confidently than I had ever done them in my life before? “Yes, I did feel that,” I admitted honestly. “But if your soul entered into me,” I asked innocently, with an exhausted smile, “where was my soul? Surely I didn’t have two souls inside me last night?”
“It was in me, of course.” The midwife answered my challenge simply and without embarrassment. “I kept it until the birth was over and you returned my soul to me.”
“And how did my soul seem to you?” I went on provocatively. “To tell you the truth, a rather childish soul,” she replied seriously, blushing as if she had disclosed an embarrassing secret. “A childish soul?” I laughed in surprise but also in pique at this unexpected reply. “In what sense childish?”
“In the strange way it falls in love,” she replied. “Falls in love?” I cried in astonishment. “With who?”
“Me, for example,” she replied brazenly, staring at me intently, until her daughter, who had been watching her mother worshipfully all this time, burst into ringing laughter, which immediately infected Michaela and Stephanie too, and in the end also the midwife herself, who stood up and lightly stroked the baby’s hair and then laid her hand on my shoulder to placate me.
But after the three females had at long last left the apartment and Michaela had moved into the living room with the baby to give me a chance to sleep for she herself was still too excited to sleep — I suddenly felt, in the fog of exhaustion buzzing in my brain, that perhaps I really was capable of falling in love with this proud, white-haired midwife, just as I had fallen in love with Dori, who soon appeared to me in a muddled dream; and when I woke up and found myself so far away from her — a man with a little family in a gray London winter — I wanted to weep with longing. It was three o’clock in the afternoon, outside it was drizzling, and in the next room I heard my mother talking excitedly to Michaela, who had not yet closed her eyes and was still elated, perhaps because the crib, bath, and baby carriage had arrived from the department store. The baby already had a corner of her own in the world, and since some small things were still missing, my father had gone out into the rain to procure them. At six o’clock that evening I was able to go to my shift at the hospital knowing that the baby was in the safe hands of Michaela and my parents, and that life at home would soon be back to normal. I hastily replaced the borrowed injections and instruments, very relieved that nobody had noticed their absence. But I was sorry that I couldn’t tell any of my colleagues about the home birth, since I was afraid that it would be seen as a vote of no confidence in the hospital. Nor could I boast of delivering the baby myself, for fear of seeming irresponsible to them. So I kept quiet, and since the freezing cold outside kept the number of patients at a minimum, I was free to bask in an inner glow of self-congratulation at my efficient performance of the night before. After midnight, when my shift ended, I went home and found Michaela sitting and breast-feeding the baby. My parents had only just left, evidently unable to tear themselves away from their sweet granddaughter, and perhaps also unwilling to leave Michaela alone. This was the first time we had been alone together since the birth. “You’ll collapse if you don’t get some sleep,” I said to her gently. “Don’t worry, I’m fine.” She smiled at me affectionately. There was no doubt that the birth had strengthened our mutual esteem. Michaela could not help but be impressed by my skill as a doctor, while the memory of how nobly she had borne her pain filled me with respect for her. I don’t know if it crossed her mind that I had refused to give her a sedative or an analgesic not only because I wanted her to be completely lucid during the birth, but also because I secretly wished to avenge myself on her for forcing me to act as her midwife. I had a strange feeling that our growing respect for each other would do nothing to increase the love that was supposed to bring us together, but would have the opposite effect — a feeling reinforced at this midnight hour by my indifference at the sight of her two pear-shaped breasts, which did not give rise to the faintest desire in me, not even to brush one of her nipples with my lips in order to feel what my daughter was feeling now.
During the following week Michaela gradually made up for the hours of lost sleep and prepared herself efficiently to return to her normal life, especially her exploration of London. My mother and father were always at her disposal as baby-sitters, but she was unwilling to rely too much on their help, both because she wanted them to enjoy their vacation, which was coming to an end in two or three weeks, and because we had to start managing without them. She hung a baby sling on her stomach, which had already returned to its normal size, and in it she deposited Shiva, who felt as snug and comfortable there as a baby kangaroo in its mother’s pouch. And thus, one week after giving birth, Michaela was already able to return to her little cleaning job in the chapel, with the baby riding on her stomach, and also to visit old friends from India who were now living in East London. Her natural self-confidence began to rub off on the baby, who seemed to be growing to resemble her mother spiritually, for not only did she suffer being dragged around London in silence, she appeared to actually enjoy it. It was still too early to tell whom she resembled physically, in spite of my parents’ suggestions. She didn’t look like me, and she hadn’t inherited Michaela’s stunning eyes either. One afternoon when I was alone in the house with her, something about her slightly flattened skull and narrow eyes put me in mind of the pale and faintly mysterious figure of our non-Jewish English relation, the husband of my father’s niece, who was very friendly to my parents. One Sunday afternoon, for instance, he and his wife saw fit to invite all our English relatives to a little party in honor of the baby’s birth; one of the guests was my energetic aunt from Glasgow, who did her best to persuade my parents to go and spend a week with her in Scotland before they returned to Israel. In spite of her love for her younger sister, my mother hesitated, mostly because she was unwilling to part from the baby, though she wouldn’t admit it. In the meantime, we discovered the existence of a semiofficial nursery attached to the pediatric department at the hospital, for the children of the staff. The nursery was not intended for babies as young as Shiva, but Michaela succeeded in persuading the nurse in charge to take her from time to time for a little while. And so my parents were able accept my aunt’s insistent invitation after all with a clear conscience and conclude their successful visit to Britain with a return to the scenes of my mother’s Scottish childhood.