And what if you never do decipher it? Surely you are being treated to special grace. You have been permitted to sense for an instant, in the moments before the dawn, that there really is a code. Through a half-felt touch on your spine. Now you know two things that you didn't know when you strained to make out the design of the elusive shapes on the wallpaper in the hotel room in Frankfurt: that there is an order, and that you will not decipher it. And what if there is not one code, but many? Suppose each person has his own code? You, who amazed the entire service when you managed to discover what it was that really made the blind millionaire coffee tycoon from Colombia seek out the Jewish secret service on his own initiative and volunteer an up-to-date mailing list of Nazis in hiding, from Acapulco to Valparaiso, how is it you are unable to distinguish between a guitar and a cello? Between a short circuit and a power outage. Between illness and longing. Between a panther and a Byzantine icon. Between Bangkok and Manila. And where the hell is that confounded wrench hiding? Let's go and fix the faucet, and then we'll turn the sprinklers on. Soon there'll be coffee too. That's it. Off you go. Forward march.
20
Then he put the wrench away. He filled a saucer with milk for the cat and her kittens in the shed. He turned on the sprinklers for the lawn and watched them for a while, then entered the kitchen through the back door. Remembering that the newspaper was still outside on the windowsill, he went back and picked it up, then put on the percolator. While the coffee was brewing, he made some toast. And took the jam and cheese and honey out of the refrigerator, set the table for breakfast, and stood at the window. Still standing he glanced at the headlines of his newspaper, but he could not take in what was written. He did take in that it was time and switched on the transistor radio to listen to the seven o'clock news, but by the time he remembered to listen to what the newscaster was saying the news was over and the outlook was fair to partially overcast with moderate temperatures for the time of year. Avigail came in and said: "You've got it all ready by yourself again. Just like a big boy. But how many times have I told you not to take the milk out of the refrigerator till it's needed. It's summer, and milk that's left out soon turns sour." Yoel thought about this for a moment; he found no error in her words. Although the word "sour" struck him as rather too strong. He said: "Yes. That's right." Just after the beginning of Alex Anski's chat show, Netta and Lisa joined them. Lisa was wearing a brown housecoat with huge buttons down the front, and Netta was in her light-blue school uniform. For a moment she struck Yoel as not plain, almost pretty, and after a moment there came into his mind the suntanned, mustached, thick-armed kibbutznik, and he was almost glad that her hair, for all that she washed it in all kinds of shampoos, always looked greasy.
Lisa said: "All the night I didn't close my eyes. Again I have all kinds of pains. Whole nights I don't slep."
Avigail said: "If we took you seriously, Lisa, we should have to believe that you haven't slept a wink for the past thirty years. The last time you slept, according to you, was before the Eichmann trial. Since then you haven't slept."
Netta said: "You slep like logs, the pair of you. What's all this nonsense?"
"Sleep," said Avigail, "One says sleep, not slep."
"Tell that to my other granny."
"She only says slep to make fun from me," Lisa said ruefully. "I am sick with pains and this child is making fun from me."
"Of me," said Avigail. "One does not say 'make fun from me,' one says 'make fun of me.'"
"That's enough," said Yoel. "What is all this? That'll do now. If it goes on like this, they'll have to send the peacekeeping troops in."
"You don't slep at night neither," declared his mother sadly, and nodded her head several times as though she were mourning for him or agreeing with herself at last after a hard inner dispute. "You got no friends, you got no work, you got nothing to do with yourself, you'll end up making yourself ill or else religious or something. Better you should go swimming every day in the swimming pool."
"Lisa," said Avigail, "what a way to speak to him. What do you think he is, a baby? He's almost fifty years old. Leave him alone. Why do you get on his nerves all the time? He'll find his way in his own good time. Let him be. Let him live his own life."
"The one who really ruined his life," Lisa hissed in a whisper. And stopped in mid-sentence.
Netta said: "Tell me, why do you always jump up before we've finished our coffee and start clearing the table and washing up? Is it because you want us to finish and piss off? Or is it a protest against the oppression of men? Or do you want to make everyone feel guilty?"
"It's because it's already quarter to eight," Yoel said, "and you should have been off to school ten minutes ago. You'll be late again."
"And if you clear away and wash up, will that stop my being late?"
"All right. Come on, I'll give you a lift."
"I have pains," Lisa said softly, to herself this time, as though mourning, repeating the words twice, as though she knew no one would listen, "pains in the belly, pains in the side: all night I didn't slep, and then in the morning they make fun."
"All right," Yoel said. "All right, all right. One at a time, please. I'll deal with you in a minute." And he drove Netta to school without saying a word on the way about their meeting in the kitchen in the early hours of the morning, with the Safed cheese and the spicy black olives and the fragrant mint tea and the tender silence that went on for about half an hour, until Yoel went back to his room, without either of them violating it.
On the way back he stopped at the shopping center and bought his mother-in-law some lemon shampoo and a literary magazine she had asked him to get. When he got home he called and made an appointment for his mother with her gynecologist. Then, carrying a sheet, a book, a newspaper, a pair of glasses, a transistor radio, suntan lotion, two screwdrivers, and a glass of iced cider, he went outside to lie in the hammock. Out of professional habit he noticed from the corner of his eye that the Asiatic beauty who worked for the neighbors was carrying her shopping not in a heavy basket and bags but in a wire cart. Why hadn't they thought of it before? he asked himself. Why is everything always solved too late? Better late than never, he replied, in the words his mother always used. Yoel checked this sentence as he lay in the hammock, and found no error in it. But his rest was disturbed. He left everything behind and went to look for his mother in her room. The room was empty and flooded with morning light and tidy and pleasant and clean. He found her in the kitchen, still sitting shoulder to shoulder with Avigail; they were whispering animatedly while they chopped vegetables for a soup for lunch. The moment he entered they stopped talking. Again they looked to him as alike as two sisters even though he knew that really there was no resemblance. Avigail looked at him with the strong, bright face of a Slav peasant, with high, almost Mongolian cheekbones, her young blue eyes expressing resolute good nature and crushing kindness. His mother, on the other hand, looked like a bedraggled bird, with her elderly brown dress, her brown face, her pursed or sunken lips, and her bitter, offended expression.
"Well? So how are you feeling now?"
Silence.
"Are you feeling better? I've made an urgent appointment for you to see Dr. Litwin. Make a note. It's at two o'clock on Thursday."
Silence.
"And Netta got there just as the bell went. I jumped two traffic lights to get her there in time."
Avigail said:
"You've upset your mother and now you're trying to make amends, but it's too little and too late. Your mother is a sensitive person and she's not well. It would seem that one catastrophe was not enough for you. Think carefully, Yoel, before it's too late. Think carefully and maybe you'll decide to try a little harder."
"Of course," Yoel said.
Avigail said:
"There you are. You see. That's just what I mean. With that same coolness. That irony of yours. That self-control. That's how you finished her off. And that's how you'll bury all of us one by one."
"Avigail,
" said Yoel.
"All right. Off you go," said his mother-in-law. "I can see you're in a hurry. Your hand's already on the door handle. Don't let us keep you. And she loved you. Maybe you didn't notice, or no one remembered to tell you, but she loved you all those years. Right to the end. She even forgave you for Netta's trouble. She forgave you for everything. But you were too busy. It's not your fault. You simply didn't have time, and that's why you didn't take any notice of her or her love for you until it was too late. Even now you're in a hurry. So go. What are you standing there for? Go. What is there for you to do in this old people's home? Off you go. Will you be back for lunch?"
"Maybe," said Yoel. "I don't know. We'll see."
His mother suddenly broke her silence. She addressed not him but Avigail, and her voice was soft and logical:
"Don't you start with all that again. Enough of that we heard from you already. All the time you just try to make us feel badly. What's the matter? What did he do to her? Who shut herself away like in a golden palace? Who didn't let the other one come in? So just you leave Yoel alone. And after everything that he did for you all. Stop making us all feel badly. As if you're the only one that's all right. What's the matter? We don't keep up the mourning properly? So do you keep up the mourning? Who was it went straight off to have her hair done and a manicure and a facial even before the stone-setting? So you can't talk. In the whole country there's no other man does half as much in the home as what Yoel does. All the time trying. Worrying. He doesn't even slep at night."
"Sleep," said Avigail. "One says sleep, not slep. I'm going to give you two Valium tablets, Lisa. They'll do you good. Help you calm down."
"See you later," said Yoel.
And Avigail said:
"Wait a minute. Come over here. Let me just arrange your collar for you if you have a rendezvous. And comb your hair, otherwise no young lady will even look at you. Are you coming home for lunch? At two o'clock, when Netta comes back? Why don't you simply bring her home from school?"
"I'll see," said Yoel.
"And if you get detained by some beauty, at least give us a call to let us know. So we don't wait lunch for you till all hours. At least try to remember your mother's mental and physical condition, and don't add to her worries."
"Let him be, already," said Lisa. "He can come home whenever he likes."
"Listen how she speaks to her fifty-year-old child." Avigail chuckled, her face radiating forgiveness and overwhelming good nature.
"See you later," said Yoel.
As he was leaving Avigail said:
"What a pity. I could have just done with the car this morning, so I could take your electric pad in to be mended, Lisa. It helps you so much with your pains. But never mind, I'll walk. Why don't we both go for a nice stroll? Or shall I just call Mr. Krantz and ask him for a lift? Such a lovely man. I'm sure he'll come and get me and bring me back. Don't be late. Good-bye. What are you standing there in the doorway for?"
21
Later that afternoon, when Yoel was roaming around the house in his bare feet, with Yitzhak Rabin being interviewed on the transistor radio in his one hand, the other hand carrying the electric drill on its extension cord, looking to see where else he could ram its tip in and improve something, the telephone in the entrance hall rang. It was Le Patron again: How are you all, what's new, do you need anything? Yoel said, Everything's fine, we don't need anything, thanks, and added: Netta's not here. She's gone out. Didn't say when she'd be back. Why Netta, said the man on the other end of the line, laughing; what, haven't you and I got anything to talk about?
And with a smooth gear change he began to talk to Yoel about a new political scandal that had captured the headlines and was threatening to bring the government down. He refrained from expressing his own opinion, but gave an excellent sketch of the various differences. Warmly and sympathetically, as was his wont, he described conflicting standpoints as though each of them were the embodiment of a higher type of justice. Finally, with acute logic, he reduced what might happen to two scenarios, one of which, A or B, was inevitable. Until Yoel despaired of understanding what was required of him. Then the man altered his tone again and inquired with special affection whether Yoel felt like dropping into the office for a cup of coffee tomorrow morning: There are some good friends here who are dying to see you, longing for the benefit of your wisdom, and perhaps—who knows?—the Acrobat might feel like taking the opportunity to put one or two questions to you about some ancient case that you handled with your habitual expertise but that was perhaps not carried through to its ultimate conclusion, and one way or another the Acrobat still has a question or two sitting in his soft belly and only your assistance can finally bring him peace of mind. In a nutshell—it'll be fun and not in the least boring. Around ten tomorrow, then. Tsippy has brought one of her delicious homemade cakes in, and I fought like a tiger to make sure they didn't finish it so there'll be a few pieces left over for you tomorrow. And the coffee is on the house. Will you come? We'll have a good old chin-wag. Maybe we'll even turn over a new leaf.
Yoel asked whether he was supposed to infer that he was being called in for questioning. At once he realized that he had blundered badly. At the sound of the word "questioning" Le Patron let out a cry of pained alarm, like an elderly rabbi's wife who has just heard a shocking obscenity. Pish, the man exclaimed. Shame on you. We're just inviting you for a—how should I put it?—for a family reunion. There, there. We were offended but we've forgiven. We won't breathe a word to anybody about your little slip of the tongue. 'Questioning' indeed! I've forgotten all about it. Even electric shock wouldn't make me remember. Don't worry. It's finished. You never said it. We'll contain ourselves. We'll wait patiently for you to begin to miss us. We won't wake or rouse you. And of course we won't bear grudges. In general, Yoel, life's too short for taking offense or feeling insulted. Drop it. Let it rest in peace. In a nutshell, if you feel like it, look in for coffee tomorrow morning at ten, a bit earlier, a bit later, it doesn't matter. Whenever suits you. Tsippy knows you're coming. Come straight up to my room and she'll show you right in without asking any questions. I said to her, Yoel has the right of free access here for life. Without prior arrangement. Day or night. No? You prefer not to come? Then just forget all about this call. Just give Netta a pat from me. Never mind. Incidentally, we wanted to see you especially tomorrow so we could pass on some greetings for you from Bangkok. But we won't mess around with the message. Suit yourself. All the best.
Yoel said: "What!" But the man had decided, apparently, that the conversation had already gone on far too long. He apologized for taking up precious time. Once again he asked him to give his love to Netta and his best respects to the two ladies. He promised to arrive someday like a thunderbolt out of a clear sky, begged Yoel to get better and get plenty of rest, and took his leave with the words: "The only thing that matters is to take good care of yourself."
For several minutes Yoel sat almost motionless on the stool by the phone in the hall, with the electric drill on his lap. He dissected Le Patron's words into small units, which he then rearranged in various combinations. As he had been accustomed to do in his work. "Two scenarios, one of which is inevitable." Also "soft belly," "greetings from Bangkok," "fifty-year-old child," "loved right to the end," "electric shock," "right of free access," "rest in peace," "such a lovely man." These combinations seemed to him to point toward a small minefield. Whereas in the advice "take good care of yourself" he could not manage to find any error. For a moment he thought of using the drill to remove the tiny black thing from the entrance of the ruined Romanesque abbey. But he immediately came to his senses and realized that he would only spoil it. All he had wanted to do was to see what else he could fix, as best he could.
He went off again on his tour of the empty house, checking each room in turn. He picked up and folded a blanket lying in a heap at the foot of Netta's bed and laid it beside her pillow. He glanced at a novel by Jacob Wassermann on his mother's bedside table, and
instead of putting it back as it was, open and upside down, he slipped a bookmark inside it and placed it at right angles next to her radio. He put her heap of medicine bottles and pillboxes in order. Then he sniffed Avigail Lublin's perfumes, attempting in vain to recall the odors to which he was trying to compare them. In his own room he stood for a few moments inspecting through his French priest's glasses the expression on the face of his landlord, Mr. Kramer, the section manager for El Al, in his old photograph in Armored Corps uniform, clasping the hand of the Chief of Staff, General Elazar. The Chief of Staff looked gloomy and tired, his eyes half closed, like a man who can see his own death not far off and is not particularly moved. Whereas Mr. Kramer glowed in the picture with the radiance of someone who is turning a new page in his life and is certain that from now on nothing will be as it was, everything will be different, more festive, more exciting, more important. Finding a flyspeck on the landlord's chest in the photo, he immediately removed it with the nib of the pen that Ivria had had to dip in the inkwell every ten words. Yoel remembered coming home sometimes toward the end of a summer's day, when they were still living in Jerusalem, and sensing, rather than hearing, when he was still on the stairs the sound of the lonely neighbor's guitar coming from his own apartment. Taking care to enter like a thief, without making a sound as he turned the key in the lock, walking with silent steps, as he had been trained to do, he found his wife and daughter, one sitting in an armchair and the other standing with her back to the room and her face to the open window, through which could be seen, between a wall and the branches of a dusty pine tree, a small section of the barren Mountains of Moab beyond the Dead Sea. The two of them carried away by the music, and the man sitting and pouring his soul into his strings, with his eyes closed. On his face Yoel could sometimes see an unbelievable expression, a strange blend of melancholy longing and sober bitterness, which was concentrated perhaps in the left corner of his mouth. Unawares, Yoel tried to arrange his own face into such an expression. They were so alike, the mother and daughter, engulfed by the music, with the evening twilight spreading among the furniture, and the electric light not switched on, that on one occasion Yoel, tiptoeing in silently, kissed the back of Netta's neck, mistaking her for Ivria. Though he and his daughter were generally careful not to touch.