The Same Sea (5 page)

In a hanged mans house one must not mention that the rope follows
the pail. It is not in vain that a woman is bewitched by a nocturnal shade,
and gives her body to a wandering minstrel in Adullam, or here on the plains
of Bhutan. At your age David of the beautiful eyes did not play the harp,
only with his reed pipe did he make the hinds to dance. And this was the
instrument that drew Michal and Ahinoam and the woman of Carmel to him
like a rope. Such a plain, homely instrument, but maidens were beguiled by
its strange, mournful sound, the ruddy-faced rascal who leaped and danced
and grazed his flocks among the lilies, chasing the wind and deflowering
women whose storm-racked flesh bristled under his hand that was soaked in
the fat of the mighty and their blood, skilled with the sling. So he roamed,
slew, loved, smote his tens of thousands, and so he became king. After many
years, on that great oak tree, the rope followed the pail.
Then came mourning. The house of a hanged man. Then came the harp
of the psalms. Finally came the dagger. How the day has faded. Passed.
Now all is dust.

How the day has faded. When were we talking about King David,
how did we get to talking about him? Do you remember, Dita? One Friday
night at Giggy Ben-Gal's in Melchett Street. You dragged me out of the party
onto the balcony and at the window opposite a beefy man wearing nothing
but an undershirt and his loneliness was polishing his glasses
against the light, he put them on, saw us watching and shut
his shutters. And then because of him you told me what it is
about a man that attracts you: the Charles Aznavour type, or Yevgeny
Yevtushenko. From them you went on to King David. It attracts
you when there is a needy side, a rascally side and a side
that plays the fool. And you also showed me from the balcony that night
what a ragged sexy city this Tel Aviv is.
You don't see a sunset or a star, you see how the plaster
peels from an excess of adrenaline smells of sweat and diesel fuel a tired
city that doesn't want to sleep at the end of the day it wants to go out wants it
to happen wants it to end and then wants more. But David, you said,
reigned for thirty years in Jerusalem the ultra-Orthodox City of David
which he could not stand and which could not stand him
with his leaping and dancing and his one-night stands.
It would have been more fitting for him to reign in Tel Aviv,
to roam the city like a General (Retd.) who is both a grieving parent
and a well-known philanderer, a loaded high-liver and a king
who composes music and writes poetry and sometimes gives a recital,
"The Sweet Psalmist," in a trendy venue then goes
off to the pub to drink with young fans and groupies.

She has made him some tea and brought him some crackers and olives
and goat cheese on a tray and now here she is barefoot in the doorway
of his room, feeling partly like a daughter and partly like a waitress,
waiting for him to turn his tired head. But he has not noticed. He
is hunched over a document, absorbed in checking the details
of the rotten agreement she has so incautiously signed. She has been
taken for a ride. She had such high hopes. He finds that all she gets
in return for the money is not a commitment but, at best, only
a conditional intent. It is a contemptible contract, yet so full of holes
that even without lawyers there is a fair chance of rescuing her
and putting pressure on him to pay back the money.

Barefoot with her tray she waits for him to notice her. If she calls him
he will start and his voice will tremble. Yesterday evening she said Albert
and he jumped, almost shuddered. What will happen if she touches
his hand, not like a woman but like a child asking
When are you going to stop being busy?

He glances at his watch: ten to five. Ten to nine out in Nepal. He'll
pay it back, and how: we'll scare him. At the meeting
tomorrow we'll point out, here and here, how we'll nail him if he tries
to get clever. On the other hand, if he admits his errors and makes amends,
our side may consider taking no further action on this occasion.

While he is still making notes, the tray arrives with the touch of her hand,
not like a daughter but like a bold schoolgirl, deliberately
teasing a middle-aged teacher who is shy but endearing.

Crystalline silence, transparent and blue.
The wind has died. Over deserted plains
a veil of glassy frost descends.

Cold and empty. Vast. Just over the horizon
according to the map there is a little village.
There is no sign of the village. Perhaps he is lost.

He will press on a little further. If he is lost
never mind: he will give up and go back
silently. The way he came.

The road is level. The frost is fine and bright
Beside the sea his father is waiting
and beyond, in the depths, his mother.

His father is waiting and so is his mother and Dita is with them
in a strange shack and the woman Maria and the mountain shadows
and the roar of the sea and David and Michal and Jonathan too,
and there is no limit to their passionate longing many waters cannot quench
and mighty rivers cannot drown. See, he is returning to them filled.

But what is the Narrator trying to say? Is he resentful? Is his blood pounding
or his heart aching or his flesh bristling on the threshold? Here he has made
a list of words: in the word woods there is a vague dread. In the word hills is
a world of lust. If you say shack, or meadow, or wayfarer, rain, compassion,
at once he lights up like a miser who has sniffed a rumor of gold. Or if,
for instance, the evening paper prints the phrase "new horizons," at once
I am on my way to bathe twice in the same river.

A miser who has sniffed a rumor of gold should wrap himself in dark robes.
Mr. Danon is working as usual compiling balance sheets on his computer
screen. Next screen previous screen. Checking every entry. His heart is not
in it. In vain he clears his mind, he has no refuge from her smell. Her smell
on her towel her smell on her sheets whom did she call whom did she talk to.
Her smell in the kitchen where has she gone where has she gone when
will she be back in the hall her smell in the living room her smell who
has she gone out with what is there between them. Her smell in the bathroom
where has she gone and what if she is taken for a ride again. The smell
of her shampoo. Her smell in the laundry basket. Where has she gone. When
will she be back. She'll be back late. In the Himalayas it's already tomorrow.
Where can I hide from her smell.

He lies in the dark with his life in his hands. Her breasts are so soft, her juice
running over the down of her thighs but he is alone. With half of his pleasure
still warm in his hand he shuffles to the washbasin, shattered. A man
of his age. His son's girlfriend. He should wrap himself in dark robes
but where can he take his disgrace. Tomorrow night he should get out of here
and seek sleep in some hotel. Perhaps Bettine would take him in?

It would be interesting to know what she is thinking about now, what is the source of that secret smile, like a drowsy, satisfied cat She is remembering a morning of love in a hotel in Eilat in the springtime. She didn't feel like a swim and she didn't feel like getting up. They stayed in bed with the air-conditioning on, sated with night games, she in half a bikini and he stark naked, their skin still pink and hot from the beach yesterday. Breakfast in bed and a game of rummy, laughing at nothing at all, looking for a rhyme for stowaway. Throwaway. Go away. I stow away, you stowed away, he has stown away. Then, with pencil and paper, listing palindromes. Collapsing with laughter at this too. Noon. Boob. Poop. Toot (As in, toot if you've pooped.) Whoever found a new word could demand a forfeit In the course of this game Dita discovered something she had never noticed before, that Rico could write with either hand. I've never seen anything like that before; let's see now if you can write with your toes. He tried and scribbled and made her laugh. He explained that he was not born ambidextrous, he was actually born left-handed, but his parents made him write with his right hand and even punished him if he didn't Especially his mother, because where she came from left-handedness was considered a handicap, a sign of poor upbringing, the mark of a bad family background. They forced me to be right-handed, and the result is that now I can write with either.

She took them both and placed them here and here, let's see which of them is more left-handed. They ended up playing at deflowering the virgin and seducing the monk, until they fell asleep. Later they showered and went down, famished, to look for a fish restaurant. In the evening they went for a swim. Now, remembering, she wanted him. She went to a film with Giggy Ben-Gal and they ate in a pub, and then went back to his place. When she got back it was nearly one o'clock, but she found the old man waiting up for her. Was he worried? Was he jealous? He made her a snack which she didn't eat because she wasn't hungry. But she sat in the kitchen with him for half an hour and he told her something about how drab life was in those days and even a little, in passing, about Rico's mother. Finally, filled with nocturnal courage, he revealed to her that he had a girlfriend, not exactly a girlfriend, a lady friend, who worked in the Property Tax Board, not a lady friend either really but an undefined sort of relationship. Dita was curious to know whether he had touched his "undefined relationship" yet, but she didn't feel she could ask. Interesting, why did he tell me? It came out as though he was writing a word, rubbing it out, and writing another one on top of it, and that reminded her of his son. And his way of putting his hand between his collar and his neck sometimes for no reason at all, or explaining things as though he were threading beads. Is he left-handed too, but still in the closet? Such a sensitive man. So sweet. I wonder when he ever sleeps.

One who has come through fire and water, his early promise
has come to nothing. It has not come easily to him. He has come to blows.
He has not come up in the world nor has he come into money.
He has come to grief, has come down to his last crust Now
he has come to judgment, and at last he
has come to terms.

Dear Dad and Dita. We were cut off yesterday while we were talking. I didn't
manage to tell you how pleased I am the two of you are together at home.
It's good that you're not alone either of you. It's a good solution for you both.
You look after her and you look after him, etc. Cooking and eating
and washing up and taking turns emptying the rubbish. I like this
father-daughter couple thing, this two-track relationship, as if you've gained
a daughter Dad and Mother and I have gained a double. Dad, I expect
you're the one who puts both your laundry in the machine, not sorting it
into his and hers but only into cotton and synthetics. And Dita, I imagine
you're the one who does the shopping for both of you and Dad you make
one of your salads, no mortal hand can chop vegetables finer than you. So
you've ended up with no money and no flat Dita, well Dad, you'll sort
that out for her. And as Mother used to say, every cloud has a silver lining,
and in this case the lining is also fun. Dita I can almost see you sleeping in
my bed, where Dad you come in every night as usual to cover her up, but
Dita you push and kick the covers off again. An anarchist in your sleep.
The opposite of Mother, who even on summer nights wrapped herself up
like a mummy. She wore a blue nightie trimmed with lace. You ought to
ask him if you can wear it one night. You won't refuse her, will you?
It's on the top shelf of the wardrobe, on the left. The little that Mother needs
now she can find with me: she, who could never stand long journeys, who
could never sleep in a strange bed, comes all the way here sometimes,
and naturally I don't tell her to go away.

A repulsive fellow with sweaty armpits, he is forty minutes late, he apologizes, Bat Yam is like Bombay to him, his brains dehydrated before he found it, and on top of everything else he's parked illegally. He is oozing good will and wants to settle the whole business in good faith, and even, lets say, make a fresh start. When all is said and done, its nothing more than a little misunderstanding: he will only use her money if and when there is a production, otherwise he'll return every last shekel (after deduction of expenses, etc.). What a pity she's not in: he was hoping to explain to her personally that bygones are bygones, his intentions were definitely honorable. Mr. Danon spoke sternly: the contract was crooked, and not entirely aboveboard from the tax point of view either. As he spoke the producer sat before him, worn-out, sweat-soaked and unkempt, a shamefaced, heavily panting dog, in his forties, his thinning red hair offset by Hapsburg sideburns going down to the angle of his jaw, a woebegone creature whom no woman except his mother had ever touched without an ulterior motive. Mr. Danon fetched a bottle of mineral water and poured a glass and then refilled it While the producer was drinking as though he was dying of thirst Mr. Danon pondered the expression benefit in kind, which contains a hint of corruption but also a touch of desperation. Likewise the word crafty.

Mr. Danon spoke in a tone of polite reprimand, like a pedantic father. The producer listened with his head to one side and his mouth wide open, as though his sense of hearing were located in his throat rather than his ears. At least three times he insisted that he was really an honest man and that Dombrov was a respectable company and that he was sorry to have given the impression. There and then he signed an agreement to return the money in full in two equal installments. Let's say there's a distinct possibility that the film will materialize; she's truly gifted and she's come up with a peach of a script, though not exactly what the market goes for these days. After signing he stayed on for half an hour or so and polished off another bottle of mineral water, talking about the state of the media, which is being ruined by commercialization, which in fact, lets be clear, is destroying everything here. Mr. Danon fetched another bottle, because Dombrov—call me Dubi—displayed a bottomless thirst He insisted on being pleasant and inspiring confidence, prepared to debase himself so long as he made a good impression. He began to expand on an idea he had conceived about the eternal conflict between genuine art and popular taste. So he gained some more time in the company of his paternal host, who appeared to be sensible, attentive, just the way he himself would be happy to appear on the stage of life but had never managed to. And besides, on another matter, tax, for some years now I've had an accountant, Mr. So-and-So, from whom I have never had an ounce of human warmth. Is it out of the question, lets say, for me to put myself in your hands? Be looked after by you personally? That is to say as a client who needs an occasional guiding hand? Actually "guiding hand" might seem to be a religious expression, whereas I am, lets be clear, an ardent secularist, even though there are moments—but that's nothing at all to do with what we were talking about I'm sorry, I've wandered off the point again. I need a guiding hand. Actually I've been like that ever since my wife left me for a well-known singer. And by the way my parents, both of them, were killed in the El Al disaster when I was a child. So that now, let's say at the present juncture in my life, I'm coming to terms the hard way with the fact that I'll probably never be the Israeli Steven Spielberg. A pig in a poke is an expression that generally denotes an unconsidered purchase, but in my case it describes my actual condition, both commercially and personally, or, let's say, existentially. But how did we get on to that? After all, we were only talking about the occasional tax advice and making up my annual accounts.