“Shu ma l’ha issa? Shu m’dayi’ha?”*
“Pardon?”
“Shu indha il’an?”†
“She has that sickness of hers again,” Afifa answered, declining to speak to Rivlin in Arabic. “She wants me to ask you for another postponement for that composition she owes you.”
Who, Rivlin wondered, did the woman think he was — a grade-school teacher on Parents’ Day? Yet, loath to offend her, he asked gently again in Arabic:
“Shu maradha?”‡
The attractive woman crimsoned as brightly as if she had been to Tierra del Fuego herself. A tear, dabbed at in vain with a little handkerchief held in her hand, dropped from her large, almond-shaped eyes. The handkerchief was torn by a wail, a primitive bleat of pain that burst from her throat and sent a seductive shudder through his loins.
When had a woman last cried like this in front of him? Only on television. Hagit was too accustomed to the sobs of her defendants to indulge in such a thing herself, while his sister cried only over the telephone — hardly the place for the cleansing, eye-dilating tears he was looking at now. As if reluctant to let go of them, Afifa went on dabbing at them with her little handkerchief even when he carefully nudged toward her a box of tissues.
But at least now she gave in and switched to her own language. In a colorful village patois, she described Samaher’s depressions, which had grown so bad a year ago that her daughter had had to be hospitalized for a while in Safed and put on powerful drugs, which affected her concentration and ability to write. Ashamed to tell her professor about it, his M.A. student had blamed her grandmother, who loved her dearly and would do anything for her.
Rivlin thought of, but did not mention, his wife’s opinion of psychiatrists. Why undermine the Arabs’ faith in the Jews’ ability to cure them? It surprised him that he had not noticed anything amiss in Samaher, who, her usual chatty self, had sat in the second row of his seminar class. Even in her “Hamas period,” as she referred to the year when she’d come to his classes in a long dress and white shawl, she had retained her vivaciousness. Was his knowledge of his students that superficial? Or had he become so detached from reality himself that the aberrations of others seemed normal?
“But what is it that you want?” he asked, reverting to Hebrew before their intimacy could grow too great.
“Iza b’ti’dar, Elbrofesor Rivlin, aazilhha shwoy elwaza’if.”*
“Another postponement? I’ve already given her too many….”
“Then ahsan shi tilghi’ha bilmara.”†
“But I can’t just forget about it!” He rocked again in his chair, amused by the impudence of it.
“Because she’ll never finish it. She’ll lose a whole year’s credit. And she’s pregnant and has to stay home because the doctor says school is bad for her depressions. Why can’t you? What difference would it make? Give her an exam instead of a paper, anything to help her get the degree. Maskini, ishtaghlat ketir lisanawat adidi.”‡
“It’s out of the question. Shu fi hon, su’?”§
“But why a marketplace?” The affront made her flush. “Why can’t you give her an exam instead of a paper? Isn’t it the same?”
“Not at all.”
“But you can make it the same. Samaher says so. Professor Rivlin is the best and most important teacher, she says. Everyone listens to him.”
“Ha!”
“Everyone does. They all say so. You’re the one who has the power. The head of everything. That’s what she told us from her first day as a student. He’s the man, she said. The one worth studying for. The most interesting and important. Much more important than that dark, nasty man who was at the wedding. She’s always talking about you. At first her father was afraid for her. He thought she’d gone and fallen in love with some young teacher. ‘But he isn’t that at all,’ she told us. ‘He’s an elderly, dignified man. He could be a grandfather.’”
Rivlin smiled a melancholy smile.
“Listen,” he said. “It’s no use. This is a university. I’m not the one who makes the rules. You can’t change a paper to an exam. If it’s too much for her, she can put the M.A. off. She already has a B.A. That’s enough for the time being. She can continue later. We’ll help her.”
“How? Once you drop out, you’re out.”
“Not necessarily.”
“What about me? The secretaries at the wedding said I’d have to start all over again.”
“If you really wanted to go back to school, we could make a special arrangement.”
“You see? You can do it if you want to.”
He grinned.
“Well? What do you say?”
“I’m sorry. First she needs to shake off her depression. Let her have some children. Then we’ll see. Trust in Allah.”
He didn’t know what in the world had made him say that. And yet why not? Allah was a handy word.
The little room fell silent. The woman, refusing to accept defeat, remained in her seat. Her glance drifted past him to the hills of the Galilee, returning to regard him with a quiet hostility that only increased her beauty.
“It’s no tragedy,” he said soothingly. “Unless you’re interested in an academic career, there’s no great difference in Near Eastern studies between a B.A. and an M.A. Samaher can get a government job with just the B.A.”
Her mother placed a soft white hand despairingly on the table.
“You’re making fun of us, Professor. Samaher, a government job? You think she needs to work? The degree is for her honor. For ours, too. We promised the groom’s parents. They didn’t like her depressions. They only agreed to the marriage because we explained how educated she was to be getting her M.A.”
He shut his eyes for a moment, wishing she would cry some more.
“I’ll tell you what.”
Afifa regarded him.
“Tell Samaher to come see me. I’ll give her a new subject. An easier one.”
But she just kept at him.
“Samaher can’t come to the university now. Her husband won’t let her leave the village. Hayif ti’malu-lo doshe.”*
“Ay doshe?”†
“Ma ba’aref. Huwa bahaf min el-habl.”‡
This time the bleat was stifled. Rivlin reached out cautiously and gave the moist, pudgy hand on his desk a friendly pat.
“I’ll give Samaher something in place of a paper. Something from the newspapers you see on this desk. She’ll read some passages and summarize them. Nothing complicated. Just a few stories and poems. She can do it at home. She won’t need a library. Maybe it will even help get her out of her depression.”
“I’ll take them with me now.”
“Easy does it! In the first place, they’re too heavy for you. And second, I have to photocopy them. They’re rare material and not mine. Why don’t you send Samaher’s husband to make copies?”
“Forget about her husband. He has no time. I’ll send someone else. The cousin who drove you to the wedding.”
“Rashid.”
“Rashid.” She was surprised Rivlin remembered the name. “Rashid is best. He’ll take care of everything. Stories and poems are just the thing for her.”
24.
THAT MONDAY THE young officer was supposed get leave so that he could see his newly arrived uncle. At the last minute, however, he yielded his turn to a friend, a romantic soul with an urgent need to talk a girlfriend out of leaving him. Not knowing when he might get another pass, Tsakhi asked his parents to bring Yo’el and Ofra to the base that evening.