The Remains of Love (29 page)

The heat hangs heavy in her watchtower, but her fingers hesitate before the sliding windows, if they are opened wide as the gates of the sky how will she resist the temptation, a wild and powerful impulse, to disappear completely, not to be any more, not to feel any more, not the sorrow nor the missed opportunities, nor the anger at them and especially at herself, for daring to be miserable when all is well, no disaster has happened, besides ludicrous pampering, extravagant expectations, no disaster has happened besides the one that will happen when she climbs on the low stone balustrade and from there steps out through the sliding windows, wrapped in her blue cape, flapping like a pair of primordial wings. How long will the fall last from the fourth floor? A few seconds before the sound of the impact is heard, and Nitzan won’t even notice, the canned laughter will cover the thud of her body hitting the pavement.

The temptation is so strong it sets her whole body shaking in the sweltering void, like the compulsive eating, like the vomiting that follows it, she will vomit herself through the window, that’s the most fitting end for her. She puts her forehead to the glass, the echoes of the raucous laughter reaching her ears distant and dim, the hated sounds of a world in which there’s no place or comfort for her, and she knows this was precisely the way Orly felt before she did what she did, she always was braver than her, a step ahead of her. He was right, their professor, absolutely right when he decided to give her the post; she really was better qualified for it, quicker than her and more desperate and the wick of her life burned out first, the fact is, she won the race and now all that is left for her is to follow in her footsteps, and she breathes heavily, her hands stretched out to the glass and leaving moist fingerprints like a farewell salutation. A shudder spreads through her body, a twitch of temptation and provocation, and she clings to the glass, if weights were attached to her feet it would be harder for her to climb on the balustrade and from there to the window opening before her, when from the depths of her briefcase lying on the table her mobile rings, a forgotten sound from another world, and she pulls it out and peers at it with the last vestiges of curiosity. Perhaps Gideon has finally noticed her depression and he’s trying without knowing it to keep her here, with them, but it isn’t him, the number looks familiar but she can’t place it, and she presses the button, just to hear the voice and not answer, and when the words come to her ears it seems to her she’s already dead; this is the voice of her father calling her from the world beyond. There was always love in his voice when he spoke to her, but in this too she struggled to find consolation, since this was a conspiratorial love, contrived primarily to frustrate her mother and her brother, and even now she recoils, moving the phone away from her ear and bringing it back again at once. Hey, Dini, how are you? he asks, Shlomit told me you spent last night at Mum’s place, are you all right? She never noticed before how similar her brother’s voice was to her father’s, and she shakes her head at the blind machine, her lips moving silently, no, I’m not all right.

When he arrives there deliberately late, to allow no room for banal conversations, enquiries, what are you really doing here, what’s your connection with the deceased, the event has already started, from the stage far away a monotonous female voice is heard and he sits down in one of the back rows in the hall, which is filled to capacity, thoroughly scrutinising the audience. Shoulder to shoulder they sit in silence to pay their respects to Professor Rafael Allon, a mixture of lecturers and students, blond heads and dark, hairy and bald. He spots from a distance the golden head of the neighbour and bobbing beside her the golden head of the widow; apparently they went to the same salon and there was only one shade of dye available, an unnatural and provocative pumpkin colour, but the smooth black hair that he remembers so well he doesn’t see anywhere, although his gaze wanders from woman to woman, and of course he knows that a woman’s hair is a volatile creature, unreliable evidence, and colour and style are liable to change at a moment’s notice, and for that reason he’s also looking out for any pale profiles that may present themselves, registering some candidates and waiting for them to turn their faces in his direction, but one after another they are eliminated: it isn’t her, not her either, and that one’s a man . . . He bows his head and closes his tired eyes, the voice of the lecturer coming through to him, sounding muffled: when you look at the sky you always see what used to be, the stars of the past, she declares sadly, light years separate us.

She isn’t here, he sighs, she didn’t dare show her face here and he’s never going to find her, this was his last hope, cherished these past weeks, after he gave up the idea of trying to meet her by the freshly dug grave, again and again he sneaked into the cemetery and lay in wait for her from a distance, standing like a mourner beside the grave of a young woman, with a pink headstone designed to resemble a party dress, and the inscription on it, rest in peace, beautiful bride.

Rest in peace, beautiful bride, he used to stand there repeating, but she never appeared, wiping her eyes with the paper tissue he offered her, and she isn’t here either; it’s clear to him now that it’s all been in vain, all the cunning and resourcefulness and pretence and crossing boundaries. And he opens his eyes to the toecaps of his shoes, his hands massaging his nape, what is this grief that’s rising in you for a man who’s a total stranger to you, what’s this compulsion to locate a woman who’s a stranger too, what do you want to hear from her, what do you want to say, he’s been so preoccupied with the project he hasn’t given enough thought to what it’s really about.

Does the universe remember its creation? the lecturer asks in her faint voice, at odds with the magnitude of the question, the fingerprints of creation are what we’re looking for, primeval radiation that’s steadily cooling, but if indeed it existed, some trace of it must be left, and when he sits up and looks for the first time at the small figure on the stage, a clumsy lectern hiding her body and only her head and neck visible above it, a gasp of astonishment escapes from his throat when he realises it’s her, she in person, in clear view on the illuminated stage, exposed to all those present; how typical this is of him, searching in the dark, in secret, while the object of his quest is standing before him without mystery or evasion. She stands alone on the stage, a big portrait of the man hanging behind her and she’s almost swallowed up by his big smile, and before her in the front row sit the wife of the deceased and his children, and in the back row sits the one who wants to console her, and she’s so far away it’s hard for him to discern her beauty; her face has become slightly leaner, and it isn’t as pale as he remembers it, and her voice which he never really heard is sad and weary, but it remains steady when she declares, background radiation proves there was a point of beginning, before space and before time, and this, this is the memory of the universe, it is testimony to creation, even if it has continued to cool down. It is possible to calculate its energy on the basis of what we observe today, on the basis of the fundamental frequencies of the universe.

Despite the turmoil of his feelings, he forces himself to listen; it seems she’s already approaching her closing remarks, and in a moment she’ll dismount from the stage and someone else will stand behind the lectern and speak, since he has the impression it’s him she’s addressing when she says with a brief smile, I’m sure you all know the words of Saint Augustine, what did God do before He created heaven and earth? He created hell, to accommodate those who ask too many questions, and he’s quick to nod and even to laugh aloud, so she’ll know someone at least is listening to her and her words aren’t lost in space, and he also claps appreciatively when she steps down from the stage, with a noisy enthusiasm at odds with the nature of the occasion, attracting astonished glances from those sitting close by and he smiles apologetically, a fascinating lecture, he whispers, who is the lecturer? The young woman sitting next to him hands him the programme, which reminds him in its design of the invitation to Anati’s wedding and there he reads, Memories of the universe and of creation, lectures in memory of Professor Rafael Allon, with the first lecture to be given by Dr Talia Franco, and already the next lecturer is mounting the stage, as scheduled in the programme, while Talia Franco descends the side stairs and sits down at the end of the front row, after warmly shaking the hands of the widow Elisheva and the children Ya’ara and Avshalom.

It’s easier to remember images than ideas or words, the voice of the next speaker booms out, a balding, tall and thickset man, and that’s why we create palaces of memory in our minds, and then we go out to stroll in the spaces we have created, and Avner finds himself listening with interest, although his gaze is fixed on the second seat in the front row. Most of the time she’s hidden from his view, depending on the movements and the limbs and the sitting postures of those in between, but occasionally she’s revealed to him in full, and when he sees her bending down and wiping her eyes with the edge of her blouse, a movement seared into his memory, he knows, knows why he has been searching for her these days and weeks, as if his life depended on it, since this delicate feminine movement sets the roots of his soul shaking with the shudder of the universe remembering its creation and arouses in him a yearning for the primeval radiation that has been almost entirely eliminated from the face of the earth, and he stands up and manoeuvres his way through the seats, hurrying to claim the vacant place he’s spotted a few rows ahead, determined to establish himself in her vicinity before it’s too late, so she won’t slip away from him at the end of the evening. First she’ll be surrounded by well-wishers congratulating her on the lecture, and suddenly she’ll disappear without knowing she has a comforter here, and he’s sitting in his new place, and despite the disruption that he’s caused so many people with his moving around, it seems that he’s accepted there with good grace; after all, at an event like this people tend not towards impatience but rather towards brotherhood. They all come to pay their last respects to the dead, and they’re all clinging to their lives and in a more complicated sense to one another, like passengers on a plane that has hit turbulence drawing reassurance from the presence of strangers around them, the surprising thought occurs to him, for some reason it seems to us that strangers are protected while we and our loved ones are exposed to all kinds of danger, and their very presence protects us too.

In his new and improved position he succeeds for the first time in studying the portrait of the dead man, looking straight into his narrow grey eyes, surrounded by lively laughter-lines. His face fuller than it was the morning of their meeting, but the expression is just as boyish and pleasant as he remembers, and his smile is generous and he finds himself smiling back at him with longing, at the friend he never had, because he never got to have a real friend. A barrier always stood between him and members of his own sex, the kibbutz children who loved bullying him, the smart kids in the new town who shunned him, a timid and dreamy vagrant from the north, and even during his few weeks of combat training he didn’t enjoy much of the legendary comradeship; it was only in the course of his legal studies that he succeeded in finding colleagues in whose company he felt at ease, especially when facing a shared objective, applying for jobs or sitting exams, but at the end of the day there was none of the warmth created there that goes beyond circumstances, and now when he replies with a smile to the smile of the dead man he wants to say to him, don’t worry, friend, you weren’t mistaken when you entrusted your secret to me the last morning of your life, I’ll take care of her, I know that’s what you would ask of me if you could. Tears prick his eyes as he swears a silent vow, but when he shifts his gaze to her, to share with her the covenant that’s being sealed in her interests, he’s alarmed when he sees her leaning for a moment over the person sitting next to her and whispering in his ear, realising to his chagrin that the miracle of their coming together in one time and one place doesn’t yet promise anything, very soon he is liable to discover that Dr Talia Franco came here accompanied by a partner, perhaps she simply doesn’t need him and his condolences and the absurd covenants that he’s stitching up behind her back with strangers and with the dead, and worse still, with strangers who have already died.

And for this reason he remains seated when all the others get up at the end of the third and final lecture, and even when he stands up finally he remains rooted to the spot, undecided and watching her. Around the family of mourners a dense crowd has gathered and she is a part of it too, also the one who was sitting beside her, a rotund and fair-haired man, and although he strains his eyes he can’t tell the difference between the gestures typical of a couple and gestures of friendship, and he waits for the crowd to disperse into smaller groups which are easier to analyse, threesomes, pairs, individuals, who is giving whom a lift home, who is going home to the family, who is shaking off the grief and the remembrance of the deceased and the oppression of death itself and who is still carrying the heavy burden, and when he’s left alone in the line he proceeds slowly, striving not to draw attention to himself and at the same time not letting her out of his sight for a moment, not risking losing her again. She’s wearing a dark blue sleeveless buttoned blouse, and when he comes closer he notices white dots on the fabric, tailored blue slacks and a little leather attaché case under her arm, but he doesn’t dare get in too close, and only when she detaches herself from the circle does he allow himself to move towards her. To his relief, the man who sat beside her is accompanied by another woman, as rotund and fair-haired as he is, and for the moment he’s entitled to hope that if there’s a couple here within this threesome she isn’t part of it, and he follows in their wake towards the car park, where his car is parked too, but he bypasses them and keeps going, trying without success to eavesdrop on their conversation, until in a rare moment of wish-fulfilment he sees farewell gestures beside one of the cars and its doors open and the man and his wife are swallowed up in there, while she is left alone in the car park, as she stood alone on the stage, simply walking towards her car, her back erect, her heels clicking with an intensely lonely sound, and his heart goes out to her until without thinking he starts running towards her, ignoring the absurdity of his bouncing paunch and reddening face, as if he were a child in a green stripy shirt running across the lawn to his mother’s arms, who will get to me first, but she won’t open her arms to welcome him, won’t even notice the commotion he’s causing, and only when he catches up with her and stops running and the sounds of his heavy panting reach her ears, does she stop and turn to face him, with such a forbidding question that he can’t even twist his lips into a smile when he pants out the syllables inflated with hot air: Talia, he says, pronouncing this name for the first time, not that it’s particularly unusual but it seems he’s never spoken it before, I loved your lecture, although there was a lot I didn’t understand, and she replies politely, thank you very much, and already she’s moving on but he has to stop her and he tries again, I wanted to say something to you, he hesitates, I wanted to ask if you remember me. How typical this is of you, waiting a whole month for this meeting and making no plans for it, not knowing exactly how you should behave and what you’re going to say.