“To tell the truth, I already am sick,” the guest said with a smile, looking through the window at a lovely white cloud sailing by. The thought of the illness born here ten days ago made him feel a sweet pang. Stricken, he bowed his head and whispered to the man in the dark suit and black bow tie:
“I’m quite ill.”
The maître d’ looked at the Orientalist suspiciously.
“Ill, Professor? But that can’t be.”
“Why not?”
“Is that what you told Galya last week?”
“Among other things.”
“Mish ma’ool, ya eyni.”*
“Leysh la? Ma’ool jiddan.”†
“Ma t’zalnish al-fadi. Kulna minhibak k’tir hon.”‡
“Shu ni’mal, hada min Allah.”§
“Shu Allah? Ma lak uma l’Allah? Ma tistahbilnish.”∥
The two elderly pilgrims, surprised by the change of language in mid-conversation, sat up like two pinkish, blue-eyed elephants given a secret command and took their prudent leave.
“Where is Galya?”
“Perhaps with her mother.”
“And husband?”
“Of course.”
“Could you bring her here? Bas hi. B’sif.”*
“Ala rasi.”†
19.
IT WASN’T JUST from crying, Rivlin decided cheerfully upon seeing his ex-daughter-in-law, still dressed in black, emerge hesitantly from a side door. She really had lost her looks, and the short haircut she had got since their last meeting only emphasized this. He rose to greet her from the dark corner of a little lounge set off from the dining room. It was here that Hendel, seated before a full-length mirror in which he watched the smoke spiral up from the cigars that his wife couldn’t stand, had come when he’d wanted to indulge. Any man, friend, foe, neighbor, or stranger had the right to appear at a bereavement and offer his consolation to the mourners. Yet her ex-father-in-law’s insistence on a second meeting perplexed the young woman who, regarding him with a mixture of pity and fear, now slipped into the chair by his side.
“I’ve received a letter from Ofer,” she said at once, using the son to shield her from the prying father.
He shivered with joy.
“A short one. And a nasty one. He was very hard on me. That’s no way to comfort anyone. But it doesn’t matter. I took it for what it was.”
“You see?”
“See what?”
“Despite all the time that’s gone by, he hasn’t given up.”
“But on what?”
“On wanting to know. To understand. Like me.”
She shook her cropped head angrily. “You’re wrong. His letter had nothing to do with that. I’ve already told you that he understands all he needs to.”
He felt his confidence shaken by her firmness. He reached out a fatherly hand that fell short of touching her. In the mirror he saw Fu’ad moving slowly across the empty dining room. The maître d’ cast a glance at their dark corner and disappeared.
“Listen carefully, Galya. If I thought for a moment that he understood why you left him, or had come to terms with it, I’d never have stooped to come here again.”
“But why is it stooping?” she protested hotly. “You mustn’t say such things, Yochanan. I was very touched by your last visit. I’m touched by this one, too. We’re all grateful. If only there were some way I could help…. But you mustn’t try to make me feel guilty or take your anger out on me. I have enough problems.”
A desert wind riffled the curtain. Rivlin took the plunge.
“I’ve already told you…”
“What?”
“That I haven’t much time left.”
“How do you mean?”
“I told you.”
“But what’s wrong with you?”
“The details don’t matter. I don’t like to discuss them. I’m not asking for pity, only for justice.”
“But what does this have to do with justice?”
He bowed his head and said nothing, feeling a stirring in her.
“You’re torturing yourself for no reason. What does it matter? People get together and break up all the time. I left your son because we couldn’t go on the way we were. Because it would have been wrong to. Ask him. Why should I tell you what he won’t?”
“He would like to. He can’t.”
She made no reply.
In the mirror behind her Rivlin saw her ponytailed husband peer into the dining room.
“Fine. I won’t bother you again. Just do me one last favor. Answer his letter.”
“But he told me not to,” she said with a triumphant gleam. “Those were his last words.”
“Never mind.” His anger turned against his son. “Write him. It doesn’t matter what. Just give him a sign. If he swallowed his pride enough to send you a condolence note, he must want an answer even if he denies it. Give him one. Anything. A few words. It makes no difference what they are. Do it for my sake. You owe me that much.”
“Owe you?” He felt her waver.
“Morally. We treated you like a daughter from the minute you set foot in our home. We couldn’t have loved you more. Whatever you wanted, whatever you asked for, even hinted at, was yours. We never said a word when you broke up the marriage. We just gritted our teeth, Hagit and I. We tried being high-minded about it.”
She nodded slowly in confirmation. The word “high-minded” swept him along.
“Even if you think you owe us nothing, do it for your father’s sake. Don’t leave me in the dark. I won’t come again, I promise. This is the last time. Not even Hagit knows I’m here. She would be furious if she saw me pleading with you like this. Promise you’ll write to Ofer. Even if he doesn’t want you to. Just this once.”
“But what should I say?” she whispered despairingly, like a student bewildered by a teacher’s demands.
“Anything. Make him realize he understands.” She weighed his words carefully before making a movement with her head. He couldn’t tell if she was nodding it or shaking it. Her eyes were damp with what looked like old tears. Again, something told him that she was pregnant.
The tall husband passed again across the mirror. The two blue-eyed, evangelical elephants reentered the dining room and wandered slowly through it, lifting the tablecloths as though looking for something they had lost.
20.
“YOU DIDN’T BELIEVE me. Well, now you’ve seen for yourself. She gets more lucid from day to day. She even remembered the names of places in South America that Yo’el told her about three years ago. It’s not just her memory, either. She can explain things, see connections. And she’s so funny! She has a sense of humor she never had before. Did you hear what she said about Yochi? It’s too bad, Yochi, that you weren’t there. Where were you all that time? You would have enjoyed her. Imagine: she not only thought of asking about your work, she even remembered it had to do with Algeria. At first she said Morocco and then she caught herself. When I told her you were stuck she asked me to tell you she understood. She has real empathy. I’m sorry you didn’t stay. Where on earth did you disappear to? To think that for years the psychiatrists sent her from one institution to another without holding out any hope! It’s no wonder I bristle whenever one of them gets on the witness stand and spouts some diagnosis.”
“Don’t generalize.”
“You’re right. One mustn’t. But I’ve seen enough to be skeptical about the experts. I can understand wanting to make a science of mental disorder. But do it modestly, with a sense of proportion. After all, they’re not pathologists analyzing DNA in a lab. How can they label every hoodlum psychotic or schizophrenic or posttraumatic?”