And so once again they drove the winding roads of the Galilee. While the two sisters sat in back recollecting childhood trips, Rivlin patiently questioned his brother-in-law about developments in the Third World. Although these were enough to drive anyone to despair, he thought a knowledge of them might help him to understand his own tortured Algeria.
Early for their rendezvous on Mt. Canaan, they stopped for a bite at the same restaurant in which they had met the two corpse freezers. But Yo’el did not seem upset when told the story, perhaps because his travels in impoverished lands had inured him to the fate of corpses.
It was getting dark when they reached the double gate of the intelligence base and parked in its improvised picnic grounds, now ominously deserted. Rivlin opened two director’s chairs for the women and took the émigré, who had never lost his love of the Israeli landscape, along the fragrant goat path running up the mountain. A full moon risen in the east bathed the mountains in a generous light that enabled them to keep an eye on their wives below, sitting near the gate. Confident that they would spy Tsakhi when he appeared, they walked on in the brightening night.
A large lizard scurried across their path.
“Watch out nothing bites you,” Rivlin warned his lanky brother-in-law, who was still wearing his biblical sandals.
“After all the times I’ve been bitten in Africa and Asia, what do you think the Middle East can do to me?”
Rivlin felt a wave of warmth for the man.
“I’m afraid you don’t take us very seriously.”
“I do. But you’re all terribly spoiled. You think all the tears in the world belong to you. As if there weren’t a big, suffering universe all around you.”
The Orientalist lowered himself onto the same large rock that he had sat on ten days before and cast a glance at the two sisters below, who were looking lonely and abandoned. He was about to shout something encouraging down to them when his wife, catching sight of him and Yo’el, waved first.
The silence around them was profound. Little animals, satisfied that the invaders meant no harm, resumed their hidden munching. Yo’el looked around and breathed deeply, taking in the approach of the Israeli night. It occurred to Rivlin that he and Hagit hadn’t made love in a week, nor could they possibly do so until their two guests departed. It was remarkable how, as the years went by, his desire for his wife grew stronger, as if their psychological intimacy only increased their physical passion.
Yo’el sat chewing on the stem of a plant. Now was the time, Rivlin decided, to talk about the facts of married life. If the two sisters were at all alike in their makeup, some pointers might be gained from it.
“I’ve been wanting to ask you,” he said, broaching the topic. “It’s a small thing… you needn’t answer if you don’t want to…”
“Answer what?”
“Just don’t get annoyed.”
“But what is it?” The longer Rivlin’s prologue, the more bewildered Yo’el became.
“I’ve been wanting to ask you… just don’t get annoyed… it’s an odd question, I know… but do you and Ofra… ever shower or bathe together… I mean would she agree… because Hagit, you see…”
“But what makes you ask?” Yo’el gave him a puzzled smile. “I’ve never tried. How could I? You know Ofra. Half an hour in the shower is her minimum. My maximum is five minutes.”
An armed soldier emerged from the hidden entrance to the base.
“That must be Tsakhi,” Rivlin said, cutting the conversation short even though he knew it wasn’t his son. And indeed, back in the parking lot, they saw it was the blond, baby-faced sergeant. He had been sent to inform the visitors that something had come up to prevent the young officer from leaving his post. There was no point in waiting.
“But what happened?” Rivlin asked, disappointed.
“There’s a problem with some instrument.”
“What instrument?”
The sergeant gave him a forbearing smile.
“Tell him to come for just a few minutes,” Rivlin tried cajoling the messenger. “Just to say hello. His uncle has come especially to see him. He’s leaving the country in a few days.”
“He knows that,” the sergeant replied calmly. “Don’t think he doesn’t feel bad that…”
Rivlin interrupted him brusquely. “Go tell him anyway.”
“Forget it,” Hagit said. “If he can’t come, he can’t come. Take his word for it.”
The sergeant nodded in approval at her common sense.
25.
AT THE UNIVERSITY the next day, in the narrow hallway of the twenty-third floor, he found the messenger from Samaher. Sturdily built, sable-skinned, Rashid was eagerly awaiting his mission. Rivlin placed a pile of North African journals and newspapers in his arms and sent him to the library to photocopy the excerpts marked by the murdered Jerusalemite, plus some additional passages checked by himself.
Three hours later the Arab returned, with two thick binders of photocopies, red for the poems and green for the stories. Each entry had been indexed by author, with the date and place of publication in red ink. The originals, too, had been reorganized and were now arranged chronologically. Explanatory flags in Hebrew and Arabic, written in a clear, curling hand, were attached to them.
“About these stains, Professor…” Rashid pointed to the yellow flecks on the newspapers. “I didn’t make them….”
“Of course not.”
Rivlin revealed the awful truth.
Rashid cursed the suicide bomber roundly. “That’s life,” he said.
Rivlin was taking a liking to the young man. “Tell me,” he asked him confidentially, “what really is the matter with Samaher?”
“Ya’ani, she has moods. It’s her nerves. She’s feeling low. But she’ll get over it. She’s strong. And smart as a whip. Believe me, I tell everyone: Just wait, in a few years you’ll see Samaher in the Knesset.”
“The Knesset?”
“Yes. Someone like her belongs there.”
“Because she’s so depressed?”
Rashid laughed.
“Because it’s so depressing.”
His handsome eyes, the color of coal, had a hypnotic warmth.
“But really, what’s the matter with her?” This time his tone was sterner. “What’s going on?”
“She’s tired. Exhausted. And her husband is the nervous type. He has no patience for her.”
“She should have married you,” Rivlin blurted unthinkingly. “You seem patient enough.”
“Me?” The blood rushed to Rashid’s face, as if a leak had sprung inside him. He gave a start. “Why not?” he laughed. “Her father would never have agreed, though….”
“Because you’re cousins?”
“Because I’m dark. Too dark for his taste.”
The Orientalist asked the affable young Arab about himself. For two years, Rashid said, he had been a university student too, in the electrical-engineering department of the Haifa Technion. Then he left. Engineering didn’t interest him, nor did he believe he could find work in the field. He had bought a minibus and made good money transporting passengers. Perhaps next year he would audit a few classes.
Rivlin handed him a sheet of paper and dictated the demands he was making of his ailing student.
One: A precise but literary translation of all the poems into Hebrew.
Two: A Hebrew summary of all the stories.
Three: A list of motifs common to both.
That was all. It was pitifully little for an M.A. seminar paper. Yet what else could he do? He was beginning to feel sorry for Samaher. And there was all the more reason for her to hurry, because he was tired and ill himself and no one else in the department would put up with her shenanigans.