The Remains of Love (10 page)

Without another glance at her or at his mother he’s out of there, his hands still probing his neck as if trying to loosen a tight collar, or perhaps change ties, feeling a surge of excitement as he passes the bench where that man was sitting, his short-term neighbour, before being taken to the car, gilded like a royal carriage; there can’t be many cars like that round here, and suddenly it seems to him nothing would be simpler than locating a gold Citroën in the biggest city in the country, and in a state of agitation he walks on under the ferocious sun of early summer, which is likewise stretching out incandescent fingers to massage his neck.

He loves this path leading to his office, the combination of elegance and squalor; to reach it you walk between piles of broken bottles and empty crack-cocaine bags, with smells of urine and dog faeces, and suddenly before your eyes the building is revealed in all its antique glory, revealed and at once disappearing again, on account of two ugly extra storeys tacked on to the top of it. He is like this too, at least in his own eyes: the handsome and debonair young man to whom the years have added storeys, suspending a repulsive stomach from his midriff, sticking puffy bags under his eyes, and plucking out his smooth, black and glossy hair, a kind of cruel joke: let’s see how you cope with a different façade, and he’s already almost giving up; how wearisome is this daily struggle, and how little depends on it, and who is it for anyway, after all Shlomit and the boys accept him as he is, they don’t have much choice, and only at certain moments, like now in the doorway of the office when he stands watching his intern, does he believe it would be possible to peel off all of these things with a single accurate touch.

How he loves to stand in the doorway when she hasn’t noticed him, to look at her as if her image is projected on a screen and impossible to touch, and hence his attempts at closeness are not so different from the efforts of his younger son to touch the colourful images that he sees, but the truth is he doesn’t want to touch her, touching is such a crude and simple thing. She moves through her little domain stiffly, and when she turns her back the broad line of her bra appears, constricting her back, and beneath it the gathered folds of her flesh, but she doesn’t know, and her not-knowing touches his heart when he is party to a private secret hidden even from her.

Until a year ago he had two interns in his office, and it seemed to him sometimes, especially when he was on his way in, that this was what coming home should be like, so much more pleasant than returning to Shloamit and the boys. Wasn’t this his true home, wasn’t this his real family, single-parent father to two grown-up, talented girls? He enjoyed supervising them, and even when they made mistakes he wasn’t too censorious, and the fact that they were replaced every year or so didn’t impair the sense of family but even deepened it, since even in a family it really makes no difference which of them are the practical souls; it’s a question of what functions they are required to fulfil.

Lately his work has contracted, and so he has been forced to make do with one intern, becoming a single parent father to a single daughter, and at the beginning he was reminded now and then of his first-born son Tomer and his long years as an only child, and it was only after Yotam was born that he understood how tiresome they were, but it seems the two of them are accustomed to this restricted frame, and he really doesn’t need an extra intern, and he’s happy with her enthusiasm, her seriousness and her maturity, and it’s only her choice of nickname that irritates him sometimes, Anati, it has such a childish ring to it, and yet she’s so wise and so quick on the uptake, what does she need with any extra letters.

Attorney’s office, good morning, she answers the phone, no, he hasn’t arrived yet, his mother’s in hospital, I expect he’ll be here before midday, have they blocked your application again? I’ll tell him to contact you at once. Her face lights up on hearing of the fresh injustice and she hurries to record all the details in her notebook, and when he sees how well the office is functioning without him he feels a pang of acute sorrow, yes, in the same way the world will function without him one of these days, full of injustices, desperate phone conversations, blouses buttoned up to the neck, mothers and sons, nothing will be diminished. Likewise the world will function without the man he met this morning, if you could call this a meeting, as he didn’t notice him at all, just gazed at his wife with his last vestiges of strength, as if trying to imprint her features in his memory, so now he will also try to memorise the sight of those delicate lips despatching words into the receiver, and those animated fingers avidly recording the contentious details. Outside the window their ugly ailanthus tree is flourishing, the tree that he learned to love, an urban survivor that can hold on anywhere. There’s no such thing as an ugly tree, Anati said when he apologised on behalf of the tree, his regular joke, and suddenly he wakes up with a start, as if he’s overslept and held up an urgent assignment, and he says to her without preamble, Anati, I need your help. It seems to him that if he involves her in this strange project the strangeness will be cancelled out, that if she and not he contacts the vehicle agency and asks who has bought a gold-coloured Citroën in the last year, this unavoidable mission will become a natural part of his world, and she looks up at him and says Avni, how is your mother? as if trying to re-arrange his entry here. Suleiman is looking for you, she adds, he’s on his way here now, and barely has she spoken his name when he appears, as if he too has been hanging back and watching them, expecting an official announcement.

Many years have passed since they met almost by chance, as Suleiman was trimming the ivy at the entrance to their building, and when Avner acknowledged him he was tentatively asked if he was the lawyer who lived here; the neighbours had told him a lawyer lived upstairs and Avner, who had only just completed his studies and was already regretting his choice of career, confirmed this in a faint voice and at once found himself listening and volunteering to help in a small issue, a biblical-style dispute taking place at the end of the second millennium, the case of three shepherds whose flock had been confiscated on the grounds that they were operating in a closed military sector, and the huge indemnity that had been imposed on them for the return of their livestock. It was his first case and it dragged on for nearly two years, a minor case which became a big one and went all the way to the Supreme Court, in which he was able to prove that the order for closure of the area had not been properly presented, and not only did he succeed in getting their money back with interest, he also ensured that their right of residence would be recognised in law, and since then members of the Bedouin clan, Suleiman included, had tended to credit him with higher powers. But now Avner sees disappointment and scepticism in his face as he says, did you see that the application has been rejected? They’ve served us with a demolition order on the school, and at once he pats his stomach and adds, you’ve put on weight, Horowitz.

Don’t worry, that was to be expected, he says hurriedly, so we’ll lodge an appeal, apply for an interim injunction to delay the demolition, would you like some coffee? And Suleiman says, no, I must be moving, I have no time. Despite his immaculate attire, his striped shirt and light linen trousers, despite his shaved cheeks and the pen gleaming in his breast pocket, he exudes involuntarily the smell of the clan, the pungent smell of fire and dust. Another appeal? How many are we allowed? he complains bitterly, it’s about time a solution was found, and Avner sighs, believe me I’m doing everything I can, how did you manage to get here?

I came here for medical tests, and I’m running late, maybe I’ll come back afterwards, he says and already he’s going, lithe and athletic, and Avner sits at his desk exhausted, staring at the files that surround him, files full of documents, documents full of words, so many words on this impasse that’s a matter of life and death for them, so many words about structures illegally demolished and rebuilt without licences, when building with licences is impossible, files crammed with documents about wretched utility buildings erected in the desert, ramshackle prefabs, appeals upon appeals, this frightened country of his fighting every symbol of permanence, attributing menacing significance to every toilet seat, is it possible to make war on fear without creating fear? Is defence possible without attack? If there was an opportunity it’s been lost, but more and more it seems to him there never was.

These crammed files give him an overview of the deceptive geography of this land, a double, triple geography, Hebron both far and near, Gaza both far and near, files in place of people of flesh and blood, since most of his clients are barred from access to his office, and with a sigh he rubs his neck, which is still painful, how many appeals? For long years he has fought against the stronger parties: the state, the army, security services, he has fought over territory and compensation, over flocks of sheep and mud huts, over hovels and toilet seats, because that’s where the dignity of mankind is found in the line of fire: the dignity of sixteen-year-old Khaled, who worked for a stonemasonry contractor until a crane dropped a tombstone on his back, and since then he’s been paralysed, and because he was working there illegally the contractor refuses to have anything to do with him, and the family dare not complain because in the meantime he’s employing his younger brother, and who’s going to fight to get him some compensation; and who will care about Halla, due to be deported to Jordan in contravention of the basic right of the individual to marriage and family, and about the three children who were playing with an unexploded mortar shell and were fatally injured, and who will defend the interests of Suleiman’s oppressed community, the free spirits of the desert, the Bedouin who were once proud nomads and are now shovelling shit on the urban fringes? Few are prepared to represent the powerless, and the most brilliant brains put themselves at the disposal of the most powerful; how tempting it could be to represent the government, the banks, the wealthy of the land, but when you put on the gown and perform in the Supreme Court, you feel strong in the very act of speaking up for the poor and the downtrodden against mighty forces and even getting the better of them from time to time, and you’re no longer powerless, even though in recent years your successes have been fewer, and he remembers the disappointment on Suleiman’s face; is it he who has grown weaker, or is the state getting stronger, meaning that it’s weakened and for this reason is defending itself all the more vigorously, and he shifts his gaze from the files to the tree that is flourishing confidently as if winter will never return. Anati, I need your help, it’s really urgent, he repeats, because it seems to him suddenly that if he succeeds in locating the car and thereby the couple who travelled in it, perhaps he may also succeed in delaying the demolition order in the High Court.

The tiles are still cold from the winter that has only just left, and when they meet her incandescent back they emit a soft hissing sound; it seems to her she is wreathed in vapours when she opens her eyes and finds beside her on the floor the delectable body of her daughter, leaning over her; a sweet smell of summer fruits wafts from her hair, and her arms in their wrapping of thin silky skin enfold her neck, and her touch is unbearably delightful. Mummy, Mummy, she whispers in her ear, and Dina tenses up, afraid to move so much as a fingertip lest the charm fade and her dream end abruptly. A pitiable whimper rises from her throat, the whimper of a dog meeting his master after a long separation, since such a heavy weight of longing assails her that she doesn’t know what to do with it, absolute bliss and facing it its destruction, like two sides of the same coin.

High above their heads hangs their first picture, and she remembers how she loved it when Nitzan sneaked into their bed on Sabbath mornings, and sometimes she would gaze at the picture and say earnestly, I want to be a baby again, I want to be this baby who’s just been born, and Dina was alarmed; has the girl been reading her thoughts, after all that’s what she wants too – though it’s shameful to admit it, she wants to bear Nitzan again, bring her up again.

But why? she would ask her, feigning innocence, and Nitzan would reply, because it’s easier when you’re small, and she in her customary manner hurried to reassure her, my darling, it’s a lot more fun being grown-up, think how interesting your life is now, how many things you can do now that you couldn’t do before, and Nitzan used to insist, but I didn’t have the problems then that I have now, that was what she called the distress she suffered when confronted by disloyal friends, by nasty conspiracies; she used to tell her all about them in detail and Dina listened and encouraged, how she enjoyed these intimate conversations with her serious, grown-up daughter, and suddenly here in her arms is a painful reminder of what she used to have and has lost, the supreme pleasure of close proximity, skin to skin, cell to cell, as the ground is close to the tree planted in it, its roots entwining in the depths while it grows and flourishes.

Mummy, don’t cry, the girl breathes into her ear, you fell over but everything’s all right, Dad said you’d be all right, and in the meantime I wasn’t to call an ambulance, how are you feeling? And Dina shakes her head, how hard it is to distinguish between reality and fantasy when they use the same language. Surely these are words of reality: Dad, ambulance, everything all right, and at the same time how dreamy is the inner sensation, just as it is when she’s playing her imagination games, immersed in memories of a past that never was. What’s needed is a special language for fantasies, as there are parts of the body designed exclusively for love; all this mixing up always seems to her mistaken, an amalgam of secretions and pleasures, and she smiles at her daughter with closed lips. Nitzan is so sensitive to smells, the lightest puff of vaporous breath is liable to repel her.