“Yes, Dafi?” She gave in at last, smiling, looking at her watch. Silence in the classroom. And suddenly the bell rang and there was the usual uproar from the other classrooms, and I waited for the ringing to stop, and they were all getting edgy now, nobody likes carrying on into break time.
And then I started to say something and suddenly I got all tongue-tied, the voice wasn’t mine, it sounded thick and the words came out all mixed up. I’d waited so long to speak I was awfully nervous. And Mommy’s face went white. She was frightened, came closer to me. All eyes in the class were on me. And in the end I managed to speak.
“I don’t understand,” I said, “why you say that they were right, I mean the people of the Second Aliyah, thinking that was the only choice, after so many sufferings how can you say there wasn’t another choice and that was the only choice?”
I could see she didn’t understand.
“Whose sufferings?”
“Our suffering, all of us.”
“In what sense?”
“All this suffering around us … wars … people getting killed … generally … why was that the only choice?”
It seemed nobody understood what I meant. Mommy smiled and dodged the question.
“That is really a philosophical question. We have tried to understand their thinking, but now the bell has rung and we won’t be able to solve that question during break, I’m afraid.”
The others all laughed. I wished I could bury myself. The idiots. What was there to laugh at?
ADAM
Starting to live in real and total isolation. The family falling apart. Coming home for example on the first day of spring and finding the house deserted. Asya isn’t at home, she’s busy, running around and leaving no trace behind her. Her fondness for order has in recent weeks become an obsession. She washes the dishes from lunch, dries them and puts them back in the cupboard. Sometimes to know if she’s eaten lunch I have to look for scraps in the dustbin. Dafi’s traces are clearer, a school bag thrown down in the hall, a maths book on the kitchen table, a blouse and a bra in the study. But she isn’t at home either, lately she’s been out walking the streets. Eating my meal in loneliness, in exile. A combination of lunch and supper. Lately the food has been tasteless, quite insipid. I’ve already told Asya, half in jest and half seriously, that I’m going to employ a cook. I strip off my clothes, at least that’s something you can do in an empty house. I start wandering about naked, going from mirror to mirror, seeing a gloomy man, the hair greying on his chest and arms. Going into the shower and giving myself up, motionless and eyes closed, to the streams of water. Once more I’m coming home from work with my hands as clean as an office worker’s hands.
I come out of the shower without drying myself. Such a blazing hot day. I put on old khaki shorts, walk about barefoot, looking for the morning paper. Going into Dafi’s room and stopping on the threshold in astonishment. The room is dark, the shutters closed, on the bed a girl lying asleep. A friend of Dafi’s, called Tali or Dali or something. And there was I wandering around the house naked, thinking the place was deserted. What’s going on here? What liberty — taking off her sandals and stretching out like that in gym shorts and an open blouse. No longer a young girl. I catch my breath at the sight of those long shapely legs lying on the morning paper. Sleeping so soundly, and I was thinking I’d have to change Dafi’s mattress because she finds it so difficult to sleep at night.
She’s unaware of my presence, I retreat slowly, full of excitement. She’s supposed to be really disturbed. Dafi tells stories about her, stories that I listen to attentively. Those complicated stories that Asya is always eager to hear. Broken homes, families splitting up. At least that’s something we’ve spared Dafi.
I pace restlessly around the hallway, put on a shirt. The sight of those smooth legs laid on the morning paper gives me no peace. Fever rises in me, a choking in my throat. I go back to her, touch her shoulder gently. Her eyes open, blue, reddened by sleep.
“Excuse me” — as if I’m the intruder who must apologize — “may I take the paper?”
But she doesn’t realize she’s lying on the paper, and with a swift movement I lift both her slender legs and pull out the paper, still warm from the touch of her body, show it to her with an awkward smile. She smiles, closes her eyes and goes back to sleep.
I could die. I go out of the room, the paper in my hand, pace about choked with desire, it’s years since I’ve felt anything like this, something turning over inside me, burning inside me, my eyes growing dark. I take off the shirt, crush the paper violently till it turns to a soft dough and collapse on the bed, shaking, wishing I was dead, a sensation of death mixed with desire. I must see her again, catch a glimpse of her. I get up off the bed, put on the shirt, not fastening the buttons, go back into Dafi’s room not knowing what to say. She lies there thinking, her eyes open, I ask her where Dafi is.
“Dafi went out with her mom to buy a skirt and she told me to wait here.”
“When?”
“An hour ago, two hours maybe. What’s the time now?”
“Nearly six. Are you going to wait for her any longer?”
She sits up, her hair straggling over her face, through the open blouse I see her little breasts. She thinks I’m trying to get rid of her.
“Yes, I’ll wait … what else can I do?”
“Are you that tired?”
“No, but I always lie down like this.”
“Would you like something to drink, to eat …?” The inspirations born of desire.
“Yes … a little cold water.”
“Fruit juice?”
“No, just water …”
She speaks slowly and strangely, as if she has difficulty putting words together.
I go out. Passing from the dark room to the dazzling light in the apartment. I’m mad. It’s as if I’m in love with her. Oppressed by sudden desire. A dozen times before she’s walked around the house and I never paid any attention to her. I begin to feel afraid, perhaps I should just leave the house.
I open the fridge and take out a jug of cold water, fill a glass, look for a tray to put the glass on, the glass drops from my hand, the fragments scattering on the kitchen floor. I gather up the pieces with trembling hands. My heart beating fast. Death is upon me. Desire and death. I fill another glass and take it to her.
“Here …” My voice fails me.
She sits up and takes the glass, drinks half of it with her eyes closed, wipes her mouth, gives me the glass. Lies back again, as if she’s sick.
“You’re so kind …”
She fascinates me. I can’t leave her now. Standing over her, trapped by desire, without shame.
“Have you done your homework yet?”
As if I care.
“That’s what I came to see Dafi about …”
“Would you like the light on?”
“What for?”
“What do your parents do?”
“My father isn’t around …”
Without realizing what I’m doing I drink the rest of the water from the glass in my hand, lick the rim of the glass. She watches me in silence, as if my lust shows.
“At first when you woke me I was scared … I thought a big wild animal had come into the room … I never saw such a hairy man as you …”
Her quiet voice and the slow intensity of her speech. This is scandalous. To die at last. I crouch over her, I can’t take it any longer, my eyes going dim, wanting to bite and kiss and weep. Knowing that any moment Asya or Dafi may arrive. She puts out a thin hand to my beard and touches it. My eyes are closed. Just don’t touch. The pain of not touching. Sweat breaks over me, I clench my fists, starting to come sharply, in pain, semen spurting like blood from an opened wound, without touching her, without touching me, to myself and within me without sound or movement, out of control. Death departs. I open my eyes. Her face is troubled. Realizing something has happened to me but not understanding what.