Look for Me (11 page)

Like all couples, we discussed cheating. “What would you do if I cheated on you?” Daniel asked one evening, as we relaxed on the sofa.

“I don’t know. I can’t imagine it. What would you do?”

“I’d leave you.”

“Really?”

“Yes. It would ruin things forever, I’d never be able to trust you, there wouldn’t be any point.”

“Are you warning me?” I asked, curious.

“Of course not. If you sleep with someone else it’s because I’ve failed you somehow. I hope you’ll tell me first if you’re ever that unhappy—not that I can imagine it. But if you sleep with another man it will be my fault.”

“But you’d still leave me?”

“Yes, because there wouldn’t be a way to fix things.”

“It won’t happen, of course.”

“I know … Both my parents had lovers,” Daniel said.

“Really! You never told me.”

“It’s no big deal. But I hated it. I hated that whole scene, and I almost lost my respect for them.”

“Why? Why did they do it?”

“I don’t know. They got along, but they were attracted to other people and they gave in to their attraction, I guess. They didn’t talk about it, of course, but we knew. My mother would come home with her eyes red from chlorine; she must have had a rich lover with a swimming pool in the building. My father would come home and go straight to the shower with this guilty look on his face. Then there were phone calls, private calls, which they would take in the bedroom, and they’d shut the door and put on the radio so no one could hear. They must have thought they had retarded kids. I think they really had no idea how obvious they were.”

“But did they know about one another?”

“I don’t know. They must have. I mean, I can’t imagine them not knowing, if it was so obvious to us, but maybe they were so absorbed in their own affairs that they didn’t notice that
their spouse was cheating too. They were bored, I think. They were bored with their lives, with their horrible clerical jobs.”

“My parents were the exact opposite. They had this twosome that was almost impenetrable, because they felt they had shared so much that other people didn’t understand. As if everyone was an outsider, except maybe for my uncle and his wife. For one thing, their experiences in South Africa bound them together, what they went through there when they were fighting apartheid.”

“What exactly did they go through?”

“I don’t really know. They never told me about it, except for hints here and there. They risked their lives and they were in prison for a while. They had a rough time in prison, but it was only for a few months, I think. I should ask my father one of these days. And then when they got here, most of the people they knew weren’t as radical as they were. They were a good match.”

“I trust you, Dana.”

“I trust you, of course.”

“Well, you—you trust a lot of people.”

“It makes life more pleasant,” I said.

“Riskier.”

“No, less risky. You’d see that if you tried it.”

“I can’t.”

“Try it sometime. Try trusting people more. You’ll see, it works out. It protects you. You think it makes you more vulnerable but it doesn’t.”

“No, I just can’t see that. I think you have to be on the lookout or you’ll get stabbed in the back.”

“I don’t believe that. Most people are nice.”

Daniel burst out laughing. “Yes, and history proves it.”

“People just get led astray.”

“I suppose that’s one way of looking at it,” Daniel said.

On the way back to my flat I knocked on Volvo’s door. “Anyone home?” I called out.

“Enter.”

I opened his door and peeked in. He was still in bed, lying on his back. He had been over six feet tall when he had his legs and now he lifted weights to keep his torso and arms in shape. He looked solid and sturdy, lying there on the bed, his stumps protruding from pajama shorts. I had painted the walls of his little room sand white and had decorated them with prints of van Gogh’s
Sidewalk Café
and Matisse’s
Window:
the café was a compromise, gently suggesting to Volvo an alternative to his rigid outlook while relenting partially on the question of sorrow, but the window, with its dazzling optimism, left no room for discussion. Volvo complained that I was being manipulative; nevertheless, I often caught him staring at Matisse’s multiple rectangles of happy light. The room contained only a narrow bed and a chair: Volvo kept his clothes in a suitcase under the bed and his books stacked in tall, precarious piles against the wall. He didn’t want to feel settled, he said. “I’ll end up in Siberia anyhow,” he added. I had no idea what he meant, and didn’t bother asking.

“Volvo, do you want to come with me to dinner tonight? Someone I met invited me. A guy, Rafi, and his wife.”

“Yeah, all right. Who’s favoring me with his or her presence today?” he asked, referring to the volunteers. He always pretended not to know the volunteer schedule, even though there were only four and they always came on the same days: Rosa on Sundays and Thursdays, Joshua on Mondays, Miss (or rather, Sister) Fitzpatrick on Wednesdays, and Daniel’s old friend Alex, the albino musician who had played in their band, on either Friday or Saturday, depending on his availability.

“Rosa’s coming today, as I’m sure you know.” Rosa was a very devoted volunteer, and though she had innumerable health problems of her own, she cleaned Volvo’s flat, went shopping for him, and did most of his cooking. She was a widow and extremely talkative; she never noticed Volvo’s bad moods because she was too busy telling him about her own tragedy-filled life, past and present.

“God help me.”

“Do you need anything?”

“If Rosa lost forty pounds and had a brain transplant she would actually be tolerable.”

“She’s fine as she is. You’re the one who’s always sulking.”

“If Rosa lost her legs at least she’d weigh less.” He began laughing hysterically.

“Very witty.”

“Where were you yesterday? That taxi driver waited for you for hours.”

“I was just out with friends,” I lied. I never had the courage to tell Volvo about my activities. I was afraid he would never speak to me again.

“And then as soon as you got home, you sent him away. So he waited for nothing, unless it was a real quickie.”

“Volvo, I’ve told you a million times, there’s nothing sexual between me and Benny, not that it’s any of your business. I sent him away because I was tired.”

“Pass me my tray, Dana. And get the hell out. What time is this dinner?”

“Rafi’s going to pick us up at seven.”

“I hope there’s room for my chair in his trunk.”

“He has a van. We’ll manage.”

“Who is this guy?”

“Just a friend.”

I went out to drop off my film for developing and on the
way I picked up some groceries: potato salad, hummus, bread. Then I returned to my novel. I noticed that I’d made several mistakes the previous night. I’d forgotten that my character’s name was Angeline and at some point I started calling her Angela. Then I forgot that Pierre was a count and I made him a prince, and his wicked cousin Martha accidentally turned into his aunt. I wasted a lot of time fixing these mistakes.

I was still writing when Rafi knocked on the door. I didn’t hear him at first, or rather, I didn’t think the sound I’d heard was a knock. “Were you asleep?” he asked, when I opened the door.

“No, I was at the computer. I’m ready, we just have to get Volvo. He’s in the flat next door.” I was very nervous.

“Relax, Dana,” he said. “There isn’t even going to be tear gas.”

We knocked on Volvo’s door but he didn’t answer. “I know you’re in there, Volvo. We’re ready, Rafi’s here. I’m coming in.”

I opened the door. Volvo was sitting in his chair reading the newspaper. I could tell he’d been waiting impatiently, but he tried to look bored.

“Volvo, this is Rafi.”

“Hi,” Rafi said.

“Do you know that when you lose your legs people assume you’re also retarded?” Volvo asked, embarking on one of his favorite subjects.

“Yes,” Rafi said. “I’ve seen it many times. They speak to you as if you’re deaf, and they use simple words as if your brain’s been damaged as well. People are idiots.”

Volvo was delighted. “Absolutely true,” he said. We wheeled Volvo to the van and Rafi lifted him onto the front seat. I folded the wheelchair and climbed in back with it. “You can’t imagine what fun it is to be carried like a sack of potatoes,” Volvo said. He held on to the door for balance and buckled himself in.

“You can’t imagine what my back is going to feel like tomorrow morning,” Rafi said. “Why don’t you get yourself some prosthetic legs, for goodness’ sake?”

“Ha! Ha ha ha. Very good, very good. A true understanding of anatomy. I see a Nobel Prize in your future, young man.”

Rafi looked embarrassed. “You’re right, I hadn’t really thought it out …I guess it wouldn’t work … Unless you combined legs with crutches maybe?”

“So you can feel better when you see me? So you won’t have to feel so bad? For your sake?” he said, embarking on his second favorite subject.

“Well, why shouldn’t I want to feel less bad?” Rafi said defensively. “What’s good about feeling bad? And if there’s nothing good about it, why endorse it?”

Volvo ignored this question. Instead he said, “Nice van. You’re obviously filthy rich.”

“My wife’s rich,” Rafi said.

“Yeah, what is she, a drug pusher?”

“She’s a pianist, Volvo, and I resent that comment. And if you want to come to my house I’d like an apology.”

Volvo grunted. “Very touchy.”

“I don’t like racist stereotyping.”

“I don’t even know your wife!”

“You assume she’s Sephardi like me.”

“You’re totally paranoid,” Volvo said. “I have no idea what your background is and I couldn’t care less.”

“Good,” Rafi said. “I’m glad to hear it.”

“So, how
did
she get rich?”

“Her parents are rich. They own a bathing suit company, they export to Europe and the States.”

“Obviously
they’re
not Sephardi,” he said wickedly. “Just kidding!”

Rafi decided not to respond.

“I used to like to swim,” Volvo said glumly. “Well, those days are gone.”

“I forgot to ask the two of you if there’s any food you don’t eat or don’t like.”

“I eat everything except shrimp, brain, tongue, belly button,” I said. “Or liver. I don’t want to recognize anything I’m eating, that’s the general rule.”

“I’m a strict vegetarian,” Volvo said. “I don’t eat vegetables.” He began to laugh in his crazy, hysterical way.

“I did make a lot of vegetable dishes,” Rafi said in a worried voice.

“He’s just joking,” I said.

“I am present,” Volvo said imperiously.

“Yes, how could we possibly forget?” Rafi smiled.

It didn’t take us long to reach Rafi’s building. He pulled the van in front of a luxury apartment building and helped Volvo into his chair. I wheeled Volvo into the lobby and we waited while Rafi parked the van. I felt sorry for the lobby. The building was striving to look like one of the newer five-star hotels along the beach and there was something rather desperate about the little water fountain with its blue and green lights, and the black leather sofas set carefully around it. Daniel used to say I was the only person in the world who felt sorry for places.

In the elevator Rafi pressed the button to the penthouse floor.

“Penthouse!” Volvo said. “How pretentious can you get?”

“Those are the largest flats,” Rafi said. “My wife needs room for her piano.”

Rafi’s wife met us at the door. Her name was Graciela. She had fair skin, a high forehead, and long black hair braided in back. She was taller than Rafi and she was untouchable.

Graciela’s shiny piano took up half the living room. The flat was beautiful: thick beige carpets, a panoramic view of the sea, simple Danish furniture, framed paintings and prints on the
walls. An inviting place, elegant and sophisticated and at the same time bohemian. It matched Graciela’s outfit: a top made of dark crimson velvet and lace, with flowers in relief on the dark velvet, and a matching skirt. The velvet changed color with every movement or change of light, like the sea.

“Hello, Dana,” she said. “I’m glad you could come. Our daughter just fell asleep, too bad you missed her. She doesn’t usually go to bed so early, but she had a birthday party in the afternoon and she was tired.”

I couldn’t answer. “Excuse me, I don’t feel well,” I said, and escaped to the bathroom. There I sat on the edge of the bath and tried to find a way to resurface. I wanted everything Graciela had, except maybe for the flat, because I loved our place, and when we moved it would be into a house Daniel designed. It would be as elegant, as sophisticated, as this apartment. But the rest hurt me. Once, a long time ago, I too wore beautiful clothes. And their daughter, their daughter! I was thirty-seven.

Rafi knocked on the door. “Dana? Everything okay?”

“Yes.”

He’d lied to me. He said he would protect me and he did the opposite. He flaunted it all.

“Can I come in?”

“If you want.”

Rafi came into the washroom, leaned against the sink.