The Remains of Love (32 page)

Chapter Nine

From a distance she recognises her sister-in-law pacing along heavily, with a child in a pram, a dark tent-style dress covering her body, and she avoids her, slipping into a cool alleyway which the sun hasn’t yet succeeded in dominating, and there she stands, leaning on a bamboo hedge and putting her shopping bags down, panting as if she’s been rescued from danger. Why does she feel so threatened by a woman she has known since they were both children, or is it for precisely this reason; it seems to her she embodies more than anything else the very scale of the change. If this is indeed the bashful and thin-limbed girl who used to caress her brother’s arm so delicately, hanging her admiring eyes on him; after all any change is possible, including the change that befell Nitzan, and her as well, if it’s possible that the transmigration of souls takes place during life and not after death. Her body is cumbersome, her face coarse and her voice grating, and for some reason she turned against Dina too, as if she were to blame for her brother’s deficiencies, and even the birth of her miracle baby did nothing to temper her wrath, and it seems she’s claiming the little boy as her exclusive property, isolating him so he won’t connect with any other person but her, as she tried to do with Avner and almost succeeded; he was indeed separated from his sister but he didn’t cleave to her, and perhaps the separation came about because they never bonded as siblings.

They were the children of the same parents, their bone and flesh, but how insignificant was this fact for them, growing up with their contemporaries and not with their family, and it was only after they left the kibbutz that they were presented for the first time with the opportunity to infuse some meaning into this blood relationship, when they found themselves living for the first time in one apartment, in two adjacent rooms. She chose the smaller one for the landscape views it afforded, and he the larger, overlooking the car park, and like a pair of migrants they were offered the chance to bond together, and she remembers suddenly how insomnia, the family curse, used to unite them in the kitchen at night, how she used to boil milk for the pair of them in a small saucepan, and how her heart was opened up to him in the middle of the night, to this handsome, slightly eccentric youth, who was awarded the love that belonged to her but also paid too high a price for it, and at times she was even happy for him, she forgave him for the theft.

Behind the backs of their sleeping parents they succeeded in becoming acquainted for a few hours, the mother’s son and the father’s daughter, and it seems to her now that those nights they tasted for the first time the relaxation of true fraternity, a welcome respite from loneliness, and she would return to her bed calm and reconciled, her heart overflowing like the milk spilling from the pan; it was spilled again and again because they were deep in conversation and they didn’t notice it, but the fragile covenant that was beginning to be sealed between them Shlomit soon shattered with her constant visits, demanding his attention with bashful insistence, and Dina would lie awake at night hearing the friction of their limbs and their whispers, convinced that she herself was doomed to eternal loneliness, and she was especially shocked by her brother’s behaviour, giving up so easily, as if he had nothing to lose, not only on her, his only sister, but on himself as well.

When to her relief she sees her sister-in-law walking away, she notices a colourful poster on the electricity pylon facing her, a new day-care nursery opening in the neighbourhood, luxurious and spacious, she glances round to be sure no one’s looking, she tears off a piece of the notice giving the phone number and alongside it the logo of a baby’s dummy, and on her way home this morning, carrying heavy bags of fruit and vegetables, she finds herself lingering by every notice she passes, and reading it intently: apartments for sale, music lessons, yoga and self-defence, and by the time she arrives at home she has stuffed away in her briefcase three advertisements offering the services of dedicated carers for babies and two advertisements presenting day-care nurseries of quality, filling her with emotional satisfaction, as if the very action of tearing off a scrap of paper establishes an incontrovertible fact, a first stimulus of the process in the practical world.

And of course she knows this is the tiniest of steps, the most marginal of activities, again and again she reads the stories of her new friends and colleagues who are unaware of her existence and yet are giving her more help than any of her relatives, and more and more she’s understanding how much is required of her if she’s to come closer to her goal, and the sheer scale of the obstacles and dangers, but now with the adverts in her pocket, giving her child some kind of validity, she dares to act, and she’s barely arrived home and she’s already on the phone checking out the location of the new crèche, how many children and how many carers, recording the details avidly and straightaway she contacts another and compares the data – one is closer and in the other there are fewer children, which should she choose? And when all the information has been assembled she drops the phone and covers her face with her hands, you’re crazy, you’re crazy, and she goes from room to room to check the house is empty and there’s no one here to witness her insanity, and so perhaps she’ll dare to contact one of the agencies recommended to her by her new friends on the net, and she hears her voice, anxious and impassioned, we want to adopt a little boy, what needs to be done?

But the clearer the picture becomes, the scores of documents needed, testimonials to health of body and mind, solvency and honesty, information regarding the prospective adopters and the stability of their relationship, places of work and ownership of property, photographs of the house and its occupants, financial checks and assurances of the patience and determination required to face the risks and complications, those before and those after, while all her papers are filling up with exhausted scribbles, to be hidden away hastily among the books on the shelf, she realises how firmly her hands are tied so long as Gideon isn’t on her side, how dependent she is on him; without his consent she can do nothing and even with his support their prospects of success would be slim. There are many abandoned children but the way to them is long and arduous, strewn with obstacles as in the fairy stories she vaguely remembers about princes and princesses kept apart by hopeless tasks, condemned to fight dragons and monsters and defy natural forces in their quest to return to their kingdoms or fulfil their destinies.

In this country their age will preclude them from obtaining an infant, and abroad there are few states willing to hand children over to their unstable part of the world, and there’s an infinite number of foreign bureaucracies piling up endless difficulties supposedly in the interests of the child, and she has to hurry, as the obstacles become ever more formidable, but how can she hurry when her hands are tied between difficulties outside and difficulties inside, and again she immerses herself in stories overflowing with sincerity, innocence, warm-heartedness, look at this woman for example, calling herself Dew Drop and telling us that her husband had reservations and was opposed to adoption, but how happy he is now with his daughter and how happy they are together; or alternatively here’s Amazona, who went through the whole process by herself and that’s the way she’s going to bring up the little boy too, and she finds herself envying her: how wonderful it would be now if she had no partner, as then she could go ahead, arrange meetings, impress and be impressed, clarify and elucidate and most important of all, she could hope, because it seems to her without this hope her life isn’t life.

You’re not normal, Dina, you’ve gone right off the rails lately, Naomi scolds her when they’re sitting after work in the café near the college. Adopting a little boy? I can’t believe this is what you want to do! You know how hard it is? My friends adopted a girl of three some years ago, and you can’t imagine what they’ve had to put up with, poor things, and you’d only get an older child anyway, because of Gideon’s age, and by the way, is Gideon backing you in this insanity?

Not really, she admits, the truth is, not at all, at the moment I’m on my own in this but I’m thinking of looking abroad, that way there’s a chance of getting a child of around two, and Naomi slams her cup down on the table in consternation, abroad? Do you know how expensive that is? Where will you get the money from? And how will you know they’re not conning you? All those agencies are corrupt, they’ll give you a chronically sick child and tell you nothing about the genetic history, you want to spend the rest of your life in and out of hospitals? You couldn’t stand that, Dina, believe me, it’s putting a healthy head in a sick bed.

I’m not sure the head is that healthy, she grins, asking the waitress for another glass of water, as once again she feels a ferocious flame rising from her gut, and her face is covered in sweat, haven’t your hot flushes started yet? I feel like a dragon breathing fire, and Naomi smiles complacently, not really, because I had my brood at a later age and it seems my clock has been turned back, and Dina sighs, what a fool I’ve been, why didn’t I realise I needed to produce another child, I can’t get a hold on this, what could I possibly have done that was better?

That’s enough, Dina, don’t get worked up about it, what has been has been, Naomi waves her hand as if to ward off an irritating fly, the question is, what do you do now? What about egg donation? It’s much simpler than adoption and cheaper too. Lots of women do this and at least you know who the father is, but Dina shakes her head, that isn’t right for me, she says, what’s right for me is to bring up a child who’s already in the world and needs a home, I prefer to adopt.

You reckon you prefer to adopt because you’re living in a fantasy, Naomi persists, you have a romantic vision of a sweet blond baby boy who’ll be glad you’ve rescued him, but in reality you’ll be bringing up a difficult and problematical child who’s going to be testing your limits all the time and making your life a misery, and he’ll always be different and never belong to you, and that’s hoping for the best and assuming he’s healthy.

How can you be so sure? That isn’t what I’m reading in the blogs, she protests in a broken voice, people tell me such lovely stories about their kids, and even if there are difficulties they tackle them with love, and Naomi bites hungrily into her sandwich that’s just arrived, obviously, what do you expect them to say? I made a bad mistake with this child, they cheated me? Of course they love their children and strive to see the best in them, but don’t forget these are people who don’t have children of their own, they have no yardstick for comparisons. In your case it’s a shot in the dark, you have no idea what surprises are liable to pop up.

And biological children don’t surprise us? Dina grumbles, anyone would think you know everything about your children. If you’d told me a year ago that Nitzan was going to change the way she has, I’d have said you were raving, and Naomi asks, what’s really going on with her? How is she reacting to this insanity? and Dina sighs, very badly, she has no empathy at all, she’s threatening to leave home if it happens.

You see, her friend utters a snort of triumph, so there’s nothing to discuss, if you have no support at home and only opposition you have to give it up, don’t be angry with them, they’re saving you from making a terrible mistake. You’ll get over it, you’ll see, it’s just menopause madness, calm down and everything will be fine. If you feel like it, volunteer for part-time work at the nursery, and that will be the end of the story. She brushes the crumbs from her hands, yet again, I’ve eaten too much and you haven’t eaten anything, she complains, I’m not sitting with you in cafés any more,
yalla
, sweetie, get out of this, you have no choice, you’ll get over it and you’ll thank God you’ve had a lucky escape.

How can you be so sure? Dina mumbles while her friend takes a crumpled note from her purse, saying leave it, I’m paying, after all I ate your share too. I’m absolutely sure, she announces as they leave the café, what is there to doubt here? Adoption is a dangerous gamble, and don’t forget your age.

But Naomi, why is it, when you get yourself pregnant for the fourth time at the age of forty-four it isn’t madness, but when I want to adopt at forty-five it is madness? Explain to me what’s so different about it, she almost pleads, and Naomi looks at her sadly and opens the car door. How come you don’t see this, Dini? You really worry me, don’t you realise adoption is Russian Roulette? Doesn’t Gideon’s opposition count for anything? He doesn’t want another child now and never has, you think he’s going to join you in bringing up a kid who isn’t his, with no end of problems?

He won’t have to do any of the bringing up, I just need his signature, I’ll do all the caring and nurturing myself, Dina says, and I don’t want to hear any more scare stories, anyone would think all biological children come healthy in mind and body, and Naomi snaps, listen, it’s impossible talking to you, you’re not balanced, you’re incapable of rational thought, you need to go to a shrink, or better still a gynaecologist, that will be a lot quicker, he’ll prescribe hormone treatment and that will be the end of it, problem solved.

I can’t believe you’re saying this, she leans on the door of the car, painfully aware that her voice is cracking up, how come you’ve taken in all that male mythology? Any unconventional aspiration on the part of a woman has to be down to hormonal imbalances? You should be ashamed of yourself!

Well, that can’t be helped, sometimes it’s the right answer, Naomi takes her seat in the car, looking up at her with her doughy face, sometimes hormones do lead us astray and this needs to be dealt with, and in my opinion that is what’s happening to you now, you’re moving into a new phase of your life and you have to cope with it, go forward and not back. Sorry to be so hard on you, but you need to understand the situation you’re in, a good friend should tell the truth and not give blind support to every idiocy,
yalla
, I have to pick up my Ro’i from the nursery, we’ll talk again soon, and already she’s revving up and driving away; like her, the car is short and dumpy but a light mover, and Dina watches her go with a look of hatred, holding on to the trunk of a desiccated cypress. It seems to her, to her alarm, the tree is tottering, but she’s the one who’s unsteady on her feet, she who has eaten nothing all day, she whose best friend hasn’t given her even a morsel of warmth and support, maybe she’s right, maybe she will thank her one day, but not today, because today she feels abandoned and betrayed, today she feels she’ll never want to speak to her again, to her best friend since the link with Orly was broken, and when she remembers her, her teeth chatter as if the temperature has suddenly plummeted; Orly would definitely have supported her, she was feisty, original, not a square-minded conservative she-bear like Naomi, but where is she now anyway, did she really leap into the abyss, to her death; even if she is still alive she might just as well be dead for her; Orly will never forgive her, that’s the kind of person she is, feisty and original but also vengeful and vindictive, how could she forgive someone who betrayed her trust, who destroyed her life? When she crosses the street, her mind elsewhere, a car pulls up just short of her with a squeal of brakes, so close she can feel the warmth of the motor on her skin like moist breath, and the driver yells at her, watch out, psycho! If you want to top yourself go ahead but leave me out of it! And she stares at him, puzzled, how does he know who she is, does he too think it’s madness to adopt a child, and it’s only then she realises she’s crossing the street on a red light and yet she carries on going, as a heavy motorbike has to swerve to avoid her and when she finally reaches the pavement she finds herself wondering about the fragility of the life force, the sudden abolition of the most basic instincts. It seems everything that’s been done over the years almost in a state of distraction, without thought or intention, has been cast into doubt, the preservation of the fruit of our lives, keeping the wick from burning out, and suddenly she wonders if there’s any justification for the mundane effort of crossing the road with care, of looking to right and left and checking the way is clear, and what’s it for, really; she personally for example, Dina Horowitz-Yarden, lecturer in medieval history at the training college, soon to be forty-six, married with a daughter, this sweltering morning when her teeth are chattering in the cold, will raise no objection if one of these monsters of urban traffic will help her to settle this dichotomy that seems insoluble, between the voice of the heart and the voice of logic, between her voice and the voices of her husband and her daughter and her friend, and she imagines herself walking in the street without a white stick or a guide dog, just she and her will to live, which is dwindling from moment to moment, entrusting herself into the hands of fate; will the hands of fate be colder than the hands of those closest to her?