Your Sad Eyes and Unforgettable Mouth

Praise for
Your Sad Eyes and Unforgettable Mouth

“A splendid novel, gorgeously written. Edeet Ravel brings deep insight and humour to this exquisitely moving story of a group of friends haunted by memories of unfathomable losses and burdened by secrets of love and death.”—Donna Morrissey, author of
Sylvanus Now
and
What They Wanted

“A very fine and moving novel … Nuanced, compassionate, insightful and gently humorous … Ravel does an excellent job of bringing all these characters to life, making us care for them, even ache for them. This is a sign of her great skill, as is the complexity and depth of her characters. There are no stereotypes here … What shines through this wonderful novel is … the incredibly impressive, one might even say heroic impetus toward life on the part of both the survivors and their children … All the characters are deeply burdened but beautiful. Wounded, but wonderful … A heartbreaking but funny, readable book—what remains with you as much as the horror and grief is the almost infinite human capacity for recovery, resilience, hope and beauty. A true testament not only to the survivors of the Holocaust and their children, but to Edeet Ravel’s talent.” —
The Globe and Mail

“A lyrical, passionate and subtle account of the emotional challenges faced by children of Holocaust survivors, whose parents are wobbly and partly dysfunctional … but still courageous and full of love.” —Lawrence Hill, author of
The Book of Negroes

“Sweetly compelling.”—
More
(Toronto)

“Edeet Ravel’s latest book,
Your Sad Eyes and Unforgettable Mouth
, is, on one level, pure entertainment—a traditional novel with all
that we expect from the form: passion, drama and life-changing secrets that span decades. At the same time, it is a thought-provoking commentary on the legacy of the Holocaust.” —
National Post

“Ravel … nails the historical underpinnings and offers a truly sensitive read.”—
Chatelaine

Praise for the Tel Aviv Trilogy

“A Wall of Light
by Edeet Ravel charmed me utterly. I was captivated.”—Elizabeth Hay, Giller juror

“Skillfully juggling the weight of the multi-layered past with the bright intensity of the present, Ravel has written a book that shimmers with suspense, mystery and wit. Tell your friends.” —
Toronto Star

“Ravel is unflinching in her exploration of the moral and emotional conflicts of her characters and of the country in which they live, but the light she shines is as compassionate as it is clear-eyed, illuminating each character’s full humanity and revealing the beating heart of the state of Israel as well as its wounded spirit … Her seemingly simple and direct sentences often resonate with myriad meanings, possibilities and ironies … [
Ten Thousand Lovers
] is a brave and beautiful book. —Nancy Richler,
The Globe and Mail

“Deeply moving … [The] narrative alternates between memoir and linguistic meditations on ancient and modern Hebrew. It is in these passages, conveyed in a quiet and almost lyrical voice, that the full tragic dimension of Israel’s character emerges.” —
The New York Times

PENGUIN CANADA

YOUR SAD EYES AND

UNFORGETTABLE MOUTH

EDEET RAVEL
is the author of a trilogy about the Israeli– Palestinian conflict—
Ten Thousand Lovers
(finalist for the Governor General’s Literary Award),
Look For Me
(winner of the Hugh MacLennan Prize), and
A Wall of Light
(finalist for the Scotiabank Giller Prize and the Regional Commonwealth Writers’ Prize and winner of the Canadian Jewish Book Award). She is also the author of the Pauline series for younger readers, and of
The Saver
, for older teens.

Edeet was born on a kibbutz in Israel and has a PhD from McGill in Jewish Studies. She currently lives in Guelph with her daughter, Larissa. Visit her website at edeet.com.

ALSO BY EDEET RAVEL

Ten Thousand Lovers

Look For Me

A Wall of Light

FOR CHILDREN AND YOUNG ADULTS

The Thrilling Life of Pauline de Lammermoor

The Mysterious Adventures of Pauline Bovary

The Secret Journey of Pauline Siddhartha

The Saver

EDEET RAVEL

Y
OUR
S
AD
E
YES

AND
U
NFORGETTABLE

M
OUTH

PENGUIN CANADA

Published by the Penguin Group

Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4P 2Y3
(a division of Pearson Canada Inc.)

Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.
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Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

First published in Viking Canada hardcover by Penguin Group (Canada),
a division of Pearson Canada Inc., 2008
Published in this edition, 2009

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 (WEB)

Copyright © Edeet Ravel, 2008

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this
publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any
form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the
prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

Publisher’s note: This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product
of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead,
events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Manufactured in Canada.

LIBRARY AND ARCHIVES CANADA CATALOGUING IN PUBLICATION

Ravel, Edeet, 1955-
Your sad eyes and unforgettable mouth / Edeet Ravel.

ISBN 978-0-14-316997-0

I. Title.

PS8585.A8715Y69 2009 C813’.54 C2009-902206-0

Except in the United States of America, this book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by
way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s
prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without
a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

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For Larissa

kindest of souls,

brilliant and wise

There is a name for us now: we can, if we wish, call ourselves the second generation. We have websites; books have been written about us. But back then we were alone with our parents, and they were alone with their survival. Limping and stunned, they returned from the Nazi camps. How does one reconcile that world and this one? No one has the answer. It seems impossible, and yet they forged new lives; but even those who had not lost their minds had lost their orientation.

One way or another, we, their children, inherited fragments of their memories. We were the children who came to reclaim the world, proxies for ghosts. Hovering always between resistance and compliance, we did what we could.

    SHIRI ARYEH

Y
es, it’s been a boozy evening. Patrick’s back in Montreal for his mother’s funeral and I suggested we meet at a downtown brasserie. He was already there when I arrived, but I didn’t notice him at first; the place was crowded and dimly lit, and he was seated at the far end, facing away from the door, his hair thinner now. I almost settled down at the bar to wait for him, but then I spotted his wife, whom I recognized from a photo his mother had shown me—glasses, delicate features—and I made my way to their table. Patrick scowled slightly when he saw me, and introduced his wife in a distracted way, as if he’d only met her a few minutes ago. Her name is Adar and she works for an academic publisher, translating Hebrew and Spanish texts into English.

Adar wasn’t very talkative, but she was watching us closely, and I felt she was trying to extract clues from what we said and how we said it. Clues about what? About Patrick, I think.

Patrick’s profession intersects with mine: his work at the university library includes curating, and he’s interested in art history—or art reception, as I prefer to call it. Instead of catching up, we clung to the present; we discussed document preservation, current trends in teaching or not teaching theory, climate change. The three of us were hemmed in on both sides by tinted mirrors that allowed us to see kinder versions of ourselves; as the evening progressed and the vodka flowed, the mirrors became increasingly co-operative.

I’m back at my Plateau triplex now. Holding on to the cold, wrought-iron railing, I negotiated the spiral staircase to my front door. The triangular steps are treacherous in winter, but we’re all attached to this architectural quirk for which our neighbourhood is famous, are quite proud of it, in fact—even though keeping the stairs clear of ice and snow is an ongoing challenge.

It’s late, but I’m not at all sleepy. I checked my email: no new messages. And then, in that post-alcoholic surrender to fate, I
opened a blank page and stared at it, as if waiting for a sign from above—or below—to appear on the screen.

Does Adar know our story, I wonder. Has Patrick broken the pact, now that his mother has died? Or did he tell Adar when they first met, in spite of his admonition that Rosie and I never tell anyone, not even our lovers?

Our story—that’s what I want to write about. A tale of love: my love for Rosie, Anthony’s fleeting love for me, Patrick’s love for no one. As I gazed at the mirrors in the brasserie, it seemed to me that the people we weren’t talking about were hovering there, behind our reflections, waiting to be acknowledged. Or was it seeing Patrick’s casual cruelty towards Adar that sent me somersaulting back in time?

I may change my mind tomorrow and abandon this project. I may not have the stamina—which is a sly way of saying I’m half-afraid. I have the time, if I need it. It’s Friday night, and since I’m only teaching two courses this semester, a four-day weekend looms ahead. The women whose ranks I swell at Sororité—our city’s last surviving lesbian bar—will manage, somehow, without me. I’m being facetious, of course—though I don’t know exactly how I feel about my dependence on that laid-back neverland, where we are indeed growing older, but in a cloistered haven of our own.
Let all who are hungry …
Even if I do not find at Sororité whatever it is I hunger for, I do find distraction from hunger.

In any case, I will stay at home this weekend and embark on this phantom-laden voyage. I will try to write out, write down, an account of our star-crossed saga. I’ve even pulled out of a back drawer the diary I kept long ago, when I was a teenager.

This diary of a young girl not in hiding, not heroic, consists of twenty-three spiral Hilroy notebooks, 8
¹
/2 by 11 inches, sixty lined pages each, though I rarely stayed in the lines. The first notebooks have cheap, mud-brown covers, rough to the touch. Then Hilroy noticed that the times they were a-changin’ and the covers were redesigned to attract flower children: three Canadian geese against
a grey and orange sky; a skier, illuminated by a flash of blinding sun, spraying snow crystals as he swerves down a hill; six hikers resting on the ground, their legs raised on backpacks.