The Same Sea (3 page)

Before excuse me is this seat taken,
before the color of your eyes, before can I get you a drink,
before I'm Rico I'm Dita, before the fleeting touch
of a hand on a shoulder, it passed through us both
like a door opening a crack in your sleep.

On the roof her shadow, a slow shadow,
a shadow that is gradually leaving me.
Indoors it is bad. Outside
it is dark. The bedroom at night
feels lower.

At sixteen and a half, in a country town, she was married to a well-off relative.
A widower aged thirty. It was the custom
to marry daughters within the family. Her father
was a gold and silver smith. One of the brothers was sent to Sofia,
to study to be a pharmacist and bring back a diploma. Nadia herself
learned from her mother how to cook and embroider,
make sweetmeats and write neatly. The widowed bridegroom, a draper,
came to visit on Sabbaths and holidays. If asked, he sang wonderfully
in a rich, resonant tenor voice. He was a tall, elegant, well-mannered man,
who always knew what to say
and what to pass over in silence. Nadia's heart
was not in the marriage, because her best friend whispered to her
what love was really like: it must not be stirred until it pleases.

But her parents, patiently, understanding, brought her to another point
of view. Surely to do her duty was also in her own best interest. And they set
a date, not too soon; they wanted to give her enough time
to become accustomed gradually to the widower, who never failed
to bring her a present Sabbath by Sabbath
she learned to like the sound of his voice. Which was pleasant.

After the wedding her husband turned out to be a considerate man
who inclined to a measure of regularity in intimate matters. Every evening,
scrubbed, scented and cheerful, he would come and sit on the edge
of the bed. He started with a gentle word of affection, turned out the light
to spare her blushes, drew aside the sheet, caressed her sparingly,
and eventually rested his hand on her breast. She was always
on her back, her nightdress rolled up, he was always on top of her,
while outside the door the pendulum wall-clock with gilt fittings
slowly beat time. He rammed. He groaned. Had she wished, every night
she could have counted about twenty moderate thrusts, the final one
reinforced with a tenor note. Then he wrapped himself up and slept.
In the thick darkness she lay empty and bewildered
for another hour at least. Sometimes solacing her body herself. In a whisper
she told her closest friend, who would say, When there is love
it feels different, but how can you explain butterflies to a tortoise.

Several times she woke at five, put on a housecoat and went up on the roof
to fetch in the washing. She could see empty rooftops, a patch of forest,
a deserted plain. Then her father and her husband, setting off together
to early-morning prayers. Day after day she shopped and cleaned
and cooked. On Sabbath eves guests came, imbibed and dined
and nibbled and argued. On her back in bed when it was all over
she sometimes had thoughts about a baby.

After about three years it became clear that she could not give him children either. The widower, sadly, divorced her and married her cousin instead. Because of the shame and grief she was suffering her parents gave her permission to join her brother and sister-in-law who had settled in Israel, and live there under their supervision. Her brother rented a room for her on the roof of a building in Bat Yam and arranged for her to work in a sewing shop. The money she had received from the divorce he deposited in a savings account for her. And so, at the age of twenty, she was a single girl again. She enjoyed being on her own for much of the time. Her brother and his wife kept an eye on her, but in fact it was unnecessary. Sometimes she baby-sat for them in the evening and sometimes she went out with somebody or other to a cafe or the cinema, without getting involved. She was not attracted by the thought of being put on her back again with her nightdress rolled up; and she could easily keep her own body quiet At work she was considered a serious, responsible worker and in general a lovely girl. One night she happened to go to the cinema with a quiet, sensible young man, an accountant who was distantly related to her sister-in-law. When he escorted her home he apologized for not flirting with her; it wasn't because he didn't find her attractive, heaven forbid, but, on the contrary, because he didn't know how to go about it In the past some girls had made fun of him for this, he explained, and he even laughed at himself a little, but it was the plain truth. When he said this, she suddenly felt a sort of pleasant inner roughness at the nape of her neck in the roots of her hair that radiated warmth towards her shoulders and armpits, which is why she suggested, Lets meet again on Tuesday at eight o'clock. Almost joyfully Albert said: I'd like that.

There was also sex for money. It happened in a low-roofed
backpackers' hostel in Kathmandu. She had a dark voice like a muffled bell,
not unlike a fado-singer's bitter wistfulness. She was a tall,
well-rounded woman from Portugal who had been thrown out of a convent
on account of temptation (which she had both committed and succumbed to).
The Saviour had forgiven her. Her trespasses were themselves
her penance and her penitence. Now she took in wayfarers for a modest
charge. Her name was Maria. She spoke some English. She was not young,
her makeup was thick, but her knees were shapely and her breasts
unrestrained. In the tender furrow that crossed the neckline of her dress
a pendant hung, two fine silver lines running down till they met at a cross
that appeared and disappeared and reappeared
at the opening of her dress whenever she moved or laughed or bent over.
The L-shaped room contained only some mattresses, a low cupboard,
a washbasin, an earthenware jug, some tin mugs. The four Dutchmen,
Thomas, Johan, Wim and Paul, drank a strange, sluggish beer
brewed locally from a mountain shrub known as monkey marrow. Rico
sipped it curiously, it was tepid, thick and rather bitter.

For a modest fee she would grant them "grace and favor" in her room. One
at a time, twenty minutes each. Or else all five of them at once,
at a discount. She had a weakness for really young, woman-hungry men
coming down off the mountains: they always gave her such a soft,
maternal feeling. For all she cared they could see her at work. Let them
watch, it would be more exciting. For them and for her. She guessed
at the pent-up rivers of desire accumulated by mountain climbers
up there, in the empty snowfields and stark valleys. There were five of them
and she was a woman, and their desperation
made her feel compassionate too. Now you, come close and just touch me
here, then back off. Now you. Now wait Watch.

She took off her dress slowly, swaying her hips, her eyes lowered, as though
to some sacred chant inaudible to them. The little green cross
hanging on her chest quivered on its silver thread, caressed by her breasts.
Paul snickered. At once she covered up with both hands: no.
This would not do. She insisted: no laughing. Anyone who had come here
to mock could have his money back and go elsewhere. Here
everything was decent and unsullied; there was room for aching bodies
but not for filthy minds. This evening she had a yen for a wedding night:
she would bestow her favors on every groom, then lull them to sleep
on her belly, a she-wolf with her cubs. Just as the Christ
gave His body and His blood—
so she went on, until Thomas and Johan, on either side, sealed her lips.

Rico was last, feeling for her warm soft conch and missing. Her hands
slid down and guided him. He lingered inside for an eternity,
holding back, not thrusting, mastering the surge lest it end
like a fleeting dream. Wherefore the woman Maria was filled with tenderness
as waters cover the sea. As though seized with labor pains,
she clenched him lightly, with descending and ascending contractions:
suckling him and being suckled to the very last.

Rebellious son. Stubborn son. I am asleep
but my heart is awake. My heart is awake
and makes lament,
the smell of my son is like the smell of a harlot.
There is no peace for my bones
on account of your wanderings.
How long?

His mother says:
My view is different
Wandering is fitting
for those who have lost their way.
Kiss the feet my son
of the woman Maria
whose womb, for an instant,
returned you to mine.

—But what more is going to happen between you and me, Albert? Here
we are again on your balcony in the evening. Under the neon light It's not
you and another woman, it's not me and another man,
and it's not two other people either.
Herbal tea. Watermelon. Cheese. It's very nice of you
to buy me a present A silk square. Can you really see me wearing
a thing like this? Round my neck? On my head? I've bought you a present too,
it's a scarf Look: it's pure, soft Welsh wool. Good for the winter. Blue.
Checks. You sit facing me with your legs crossed, talking good sense
about Rabin and Peres. But you never mention her. Heaven forbid. So no one
gets upset.

But who will get upset if you do speak for once, Albert?
Are you worried you'll upset me? Or her? Or yourself? After all, we are
what we are, we're not partners and we're not family. We're not playing
the male-female game. You're sixty and I'm sixty. We're not a couple,
we're just two people. Acquaintances? Friends? Colleagues even? In a way?
An alliance for a rainy day? Twilight affection? Our legs crossed. Mine crossed
over mine, yours crossed over yours. You facing me and me facing you.
I read once that a man and a woman cant be just friends:
either they are lovers, or there is nothing between them. The fact is
I am just as bad as you. I don't say a word about Avram. I'm scared
that if I do talk about him you'll be so embarrassed
you'll run away again.

What is left? Herbal tea. Watermelon. Cheese. Investments.
Indexation. Savings accounts. Funds. Legs crossed, you
and I. Your leg over yours, mine over mine. Careful
with words in case we touch. I'm relaxed
and you are calm. The neon light casts a brightness
on all this. Below the veranda the gravel is dusty.
Forgive me Albert, don't be upset, I suddenly feel
like breaking a glass. There, that's done. I'm
sorry. You will forgive me. I'll sweep it up.
You needn't bother.

A letter from Rico to Dita Inbar. Dear Dita, Kathmandu here, and this
is the scene. Going from one temple to another. Mainly out in the country.
I sometimes remember that thing we have, where I'm a nun
and you're a monk. If you can't remember, try. Though there's something
in Tel Aviv that rubs out memories. It's not the heat or the humidity.
Something else. Something more fundamental. Tel Aviv is a place
that rubs things out Writing, rubbing out, while all the time we're breathing
chalk dust Don't wait for me. Have some fun. Find yourself someone
who understands you, someone who's tough on the outside and soft
on the inside, sly in back and refined in front,
who advances on the left while forging ahead on the right, and go
if you can for a building contractor who'll let me live
in the gamekeepers cottage. Don't get mad I'm only trying to say
that here in Tibet you really do remember things. Yesterday, for instance,
in the Temple of the Echo (so called because of an acoustic distortion
that turns a word into a wail, a shout into a laugh), I said your name twice
and you answered me from an underground cistern. Not you actually,
but a voice that was partly yours and partly my mother's. Don't worry.
I'm not mixing you up. She is herself and you are yourself. Take care
of yourself and don't go jumping into any empty swimming pools.
PS If you get a chance, look in on my dad and see how he's getting on.
I don't suppose he's complaining and I'm not either. The light here
is quite pleasant on the eyes, when it doesn't dazzle you.

The light is sweet on the eyes. The darkness sees into the heart. The rope
follows the pail. The pitcher was broken at the fountain. The humble settler
who has never settled himself in the seat of the scornful will die in August
of cancer of the pancreas. The policeman who cried wolf will die
in September of heart failure. His eyes were sweet and the light is sweet
but his eyes are no more and the light is still here. The seat of the scornful
has been closed down, and in its place they've opened a shopping mall.
The scornful have passed away. Diabetes. Kidney disease. Blessed
is the fountain. Blessed is the pail. Blessed are the poor in spirit for
they shall inherit the wolf.

At 7 p.m. in Café Limor with one Dubi Dombrov, a divorced lad
in his forties. He has a habit of panting like a thirsty dog, fast and hard,
through his mouth. His ginger hair is thinning but his bushy sideburns go
exactly halfway down his cheeks. Like a pair of brackets, she thinks, eyeing
his legs as he comes in and sits down, not facing her but by her side,
his thigh almost touching hers. The purpose of the meeting is to talk about
the film. This Dombrov is the number one man in a production company
that does some work with Channel 2, or hopefully soon will. He definitely
doesn't rule out the idea of doing something different, for a change.
Something experimental, like the screenplay Dita has written
and shown him. The only condition is that Dita should find
shall we say four thousand, give or take, and of course Dita herself must take
the part of Nirit. The fact is that while he was reading the script this Nirit
teased the pants off him. In bed at night it's her, only her, that he undresses.
Wet dreams, that's what you've given me, you or Nirit. Cross your heart:
is Nirit you?
And let's be quite clear that I'm serious and I and you and I and I.
He leers lecherously at her breasts—into her mouth he forces
a spoonful of ice-cream and pushes her hand between his legs, so she can
feel for herself what a hard-on she's given him. As big as a donkeys.
Dita pulls her hand away and leaves.