To Know a Woman (Harvest in Translation)

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Table of Contents

  Copyright

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  About the Author

  Copyright 1989 by Amos Oz and

  Keter Publishing House, Jerusalem, Ltd.

  English translation copyright © 1991 by Nicholas de Lange

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company, 215 Park Avenue South, New York, New York 10003.

  www.hmhco.com

  Translation of La-da'at ishah.

  The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:

  Oz, Amos.

  [La-da'at ishah. English]

  To know a woman / Amos Oz; translated from the

  Hebrew by Nicholas de Lange.—1st ed.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 0-15-190499-5

  ISBN 0-15-690680-5 (pbk.)

  Translation of La-da'at ishah.

  "A Helen and Kurt Wolff book."

  I. Title

  PJ5054.09L2913 1991

  892.4'36—dc20 90-5196

  eISBN 978-0-547-54583-7

  v2.1213

  1

  Yoel picked the object up from the shelf and inspected it closely. His eyes ached. The real-estate agent, thinking he had not heard the question, repeated it: "Shall we go and take a look around the back?" Even though he had already made up his mind, Yoel was in no hurry to reply. He was in the habit of pausing before answering, even simple questions such as "How are you?" or "What did it say on the news?" As though words were personal possessions that should not be parted with lightly.

  The agent waited. In the meantime there was a silence in the room, which was stylishly furnished: a wide, deep-pile, dark-blue rug, armchairs, a sofa, a mahogany coffee table, an imported television set, a huge philodendron in the appropriate corner, a red-brick fireplace with half a dozen logs arranged in crisscross fashion, for show rather than use. Next to the passthrough to the kitchen, a dark dining table with six matching high-backed dining chairs. Only pictures were missing, where pale rectangles were visible on the walls. The kitchen, seen through the open door, was Scandinavian and full of the latest electrical gadgets. The four bedrooms, which he had already seen, had also met with his approval.

  With his eyes and fingers Yoel explored the thing he had taken off the shelf. It was a carving, a figurine, the work of an amateur: a feline predator, carved in brown olivewood and coated with several layers of lacquer. Its jaws were gaping wide and the teeth were pointed. The two front legs were extended in the air in a spectacular leap; the right hind leg was also in the air, still contracted and bulging with muscles from the effort of jumping, only the left hind leg preventing the takeoff and grounding the beast on a stainless-steel stand. The body rose at an angle of forty-five degrees, and the tension was so powerful that Yoel could almost feel in his own flesh the pain of the confined paw and the desperation of the interrupted leap. He found the statuette unnatural and unconvincing, even though the artist had succeeded in imposing on the wood an excellent feline litheness. This was not the work of an amateur, after all. The detail of the jaws and the paws, the twist of the springlike spine, the tension of the muscles, the arching of the belly, the fullness of the diaphragm inside the strong rib cage, and even the angle of the beast's ears—swept back, almost flattened toward the back of the head—all the detailed work was excellent and evinced a mastery of the secret of defying the limitations of matter. This was evidently an accomplished piece of carving, liberated from its woodenness and achieving a cruel, fierce, almost sexual vitality.

  Yet, even so, something had not come out right. Something or other was awry, obtrusive: either too finished, as it were, or not finished enough. What it was, Yoel could not discover. His eyes ached. Again he nursed a suspicion that this was the work of an amateur. But where was the defect? A faint, physical anger stirred inside him, with a certain momentary urge to stretch up on the tips of his toes.

  Perhaps it was also because the figurine with its hidden flaw seemed to be flouting the laws of gravity. The weight of the predator in his hand seemed to be greater than that of the steel base that the creature was straining to break away from, and to which it remained attached by only a tiny point of contact between the hind paw and the base. It was on this very point that Yoel now focused his attention. He discovered that the paw was sunk in an infinitesimal depression in the surface of the steel. But how?

  His vague anger intensified when he turned the object over and to his astonishment found no sign of the screw that he had supposed would have to be there, to attach the paw to the base. He turned the figurine over again: there was no sign of any screw in the beast's flesh either, between the claws of that hind paw. Then what was it that was restraining the animal's murderous leap? Certainly not glue. The weight of the figurine would not allow any adhesive known to Yoel to attach the beast to the ground by such a minute point of contact for any length of time with the body of the animal projecting forward from the base at such an acute angle. Perhaps it was time to admit defeat and start wearing glasses. Here he was, a widower, forty-seven years old, already enjoying early retirement, a free man in almost every sense of the word: what point was there in his stubbornly denying the plain truth: that he was tired. He had earned a rest and he needed one. His eyes burned sometimes, and occasionally print became blurred, particularly by the light of his bedside lamp at night. And yet the main questions were still unresolved. If the predator was heavier than the base and projected almost entirely beyond it, the thing ought to overbalance. If the joint was secured with glue, it should have come apart ages ago. If the beast was complete, what was the invisible defect? What was the source of his feeling that there was some flaw? If there was a hidden trick, what was it?

  Finally, in a vague rage—Yoel was angry even at the fury that was stirring within him, because he liked to see himself as a calm, self-contained man—he took hold of the animal by the neck and endeavored, not by force, to break the spell and release the magnificent beast from the torment of the mysterious grip. Perhaps then the invisible flaw would also vanish.

  "Come on," said the agent. "It would be a pity to break it. Shall we go and look at the garden shed? The garden may look a bit neglected but a morning's work would get it right as rain."

  Delicately, with a slow caress, Yoel ran a cautious finger around the secret join between the living and the inanimate. The s
tatuette was not the work of an amateur, after all, but of an artist gifted with cunning and power. There flickered for an instant in his mind the faint recollection of a Byzantine crucifixion scene: that too had had something implausible about it and yet filled with pain. He nodded twice as though agreeing with himself at last at the end of an inner debate. He blew on the figurine to remove an invisible speck of dust, or perhaps his own fingerprints, then sadly replaced it on the shelf of ornaments between a blue glass vase and a brass censer.

  "Fine," he said, "I'll take it."

  "Pardon?"

  "I've decided to take it."

  "Take what?" asked the agent, confused, peering somewhat suspiciously at his client. The man appeared compact, tough, deeply entrenched in the inner recesses of his being, insistent yet also abstracted. He stood immobile, with his face toward the shelf and his back to the agent.

  "The house," he answered quietly.

  "Just like that? Don't you want to see the garden? Or the shed?"

  "I said I'll take it."

  "And do you agree to a rent of nine hundred dollars per month, payable half-yearly in advance? Repairs and all taxes to be your responsibility?"

  "Done."

  "If only all my clients were like you." The agent chuckled. "I'd be able to spend all day at sea. My hobby happens to be sailing. Want to check the washing machine and the stove first?"

  "I'll take your word for it. If there are any problems, we can always find each other. Take me to your office and let's get the paperwork out of the way."

  2

  In the car on the way back from the suburb, which was named Ramat Lotan, to the office in the center, on Ibn Gabirol Street, the agent delivered himself of a monologue. He spoke of the housing market, the collapse of the stock market, the new economic policy, which seemed to him to be completely screwed up, and this government that deserved to be you-know-whatted. He explained to Yoel that the owner of the property, a personal acquaintance of his, Yosi Kramer, was a section manager for El Al, who had been suddenly sent off to New York for three years at barely a fortnight's notice, just time to grab the wife and kids and rush off to snatch the apartment of another Israeli, who was moving from Queens to Miami.

  The man sitting on his right did not look to him like someone who was likely to change his mind at the last minute: a client who looks at two properties in the space of an hour and a half and then takes the third twenty minutes after setting foot in it, without haggling over the price, wouldn't slip off the hook now. Nevertheless the agent felt a professional duty to continue to convince the silent man sitting beside him that he had got a good bargain. He was also curious to know something about the stranger with the slow movements and the little wrinkles at the corners of his eyes that suggested a faintly derisive smile, even though the thin lips did not express so much as the ghost of a smile. And so the agent sang the praises of the property, the advantages of this semidetached house in an exclusive suburb that had been built the way it should be, "state of the art," as they say. The nextdoor neighbors are a couple of Americans, brother and sister, good solid people who apparently were sent over to represent some charitable foundation in Detroit. So, peace and quiet are guaranteed. The whole street consists of well-cared-for homes; there is a carport to park the car in; there is a shopping center and a school just a couple of hundred yards from the front door, the sea is a mere twenty minutes away, and the whole city is at your fingertips. The house, as you saw for yourself, is fully furnished and equipped, because the Kramers, the owners, are people who know what quality is, and anyway, with a manager for El Al you can be certain that everything was bought abroad and that it's all a hundred percent, including all the fittings and the gadgets. Anyone can see that you're a man of discernment and also that you know how to make your mind up quickly. If only all my clients were like you—but I've already said that. And what's your line of business, if you don't mind my asking?

  Yoel thought about it, as though selecting his words with tweezers. Then he replied:

  "I work for the government."

  And he went on with what he was doing: placing his fingers over and over again on the glove compartment in front of him, letting them rest for a moment on the dark-blue plastic surface, and removing them, now abruptly, now gently, now steathily. Then starting all over again. But the motion of the car prevented him from reaching any conclusion. And in fact he did not know what the question was. The crucified figure in the Byzantine icon, despite the beard, had had a girl's face.

  "And your wife? Is she working?"

  "She's dead."

  "I'm sorry," the agent replied politely. And in his embarrassment he saw fit to add: "My wife also has problems. Splitting headaches, and the doctors can't get to the bottom of it. So what ages are the children?"

  Once again Yoel seemed to be checking in his mind the accuracy of the facts and choosing a carefully planned reply:

  "Just one daughter. Sixteen and a half."

  The agent let out a chuckle and said in a tone of intimacy, eager to forge a bond of male camaraderie with the stranger:

  "Not an easy age, eh? Boyfriends, crises, money for clothes, and so on?" And he went on to ask, if it wasn't rude of him, why in that case they needed four bedrooms. Yoel did not answer. The agent apologized; of course he knew it was none of his business, it was just, how should he say, idle curiosity. He himself had two boys, aged nineteen and twenty, barely a year and a half between them. Quite a problem. Both in the army, both in combat units. Just as well that screwed-up business in Lebanon's over, assuming it is, only a pity it ended in such a mess, and he says this although he personally is a long way from being a leftist or anything like that. And where do you stand on that business?

  "We also have two old ladies." Yoel answered the previous question in his low, even voice. "The grandmothers will be living with us." As though that concluded the conversation, he closed his eyes. Which was where his tiredness had concentrated itself. In his mind for some reason he repeated words the agent had spoken. Boyfriends. Crises. The sea. And the whole city at your fingertips.

  The agent said:

  "Why don't we introduce your daughter to my boys? Maybe one of them would hit it off with her. I always come this way into town and not the way everyone goes. It's a bit of a detour, but we miss four or five god-awful traffic lights. By the way, I live in Ramat Lotan too. Not far from you. I mean, from the house you've chosen. I'll give you my home phone number, then you can give me a ring if you have any problems. Not that there will be. Just give me a ring anyway anytime you feel like it. It'll be a pleasure to show you around the neighborhood and explain where everything is. The main thing to remember is when you go into town during the rush hour, always go in this way. I had a regimental commander when I was in the army, in the artillery, Jimmy Gal, he had an ear missing; you must have heard of him; he always used to say that between any two points there is only one straight line, and that that line is always full of imbeciles. Have you heard that one before?"

  Yoel said:

  "Thank you."

  The agent muttered something more about the army then and the army now, then gave up and switched on the radio in the middle of an idiotic commercial on the pop station. All of a sudden, as though at last a whiff of sadness from the man sitting next to him had forced its way through to him, he reached out and switched the dial to the classical-music station.

  They drove without speaking. Tel Aviv at 4:30 on a humid summer afternoon seemed angry and sweaty to Yoel. Jerusalem by comparison sketched itself in his mind in a wintry light, swathed in rain clouds, glimmering in a grayish twilight.

  The program was baroque music. Yoel too gave up, and withdrew his fingers, resting his hands between his knees as though seeking warmth. He felt suddenly relieved, because at last, so it seemed to him, he had found what he was looking for: the predator had no eyes. The artist—an amateur after all—had forgotten to give it eyes. Or perhaps it had eyes but in the wrong place. Or of unequal size. He'd
have to take another look. In any case, it was too soon to despair.

  3

  Ivria died on the sixteenth of February, on a day of driving rain in Jerusalem. At 8:30 in the morning, while she was sitting with her coffee cup at the desk facing the window, in her little cell, the electricity suddenly failed. Yoel had purchased this room for her some two years previously from the next-door neighbor and annexed it to their apartment in Talbiyeh. An opening had been cut in the back wall of the kitchen and a heavy brown door had been fitted in it. This door Ivria had been in the habit of locking when she was working, and also when she was sleeping. The old door that had formerly joined this cubbyhole to the neighbor's living room had been bricked up, plastered, and whitewashed twice, but its outline could still be made out on the wall behind Ivria's bed. She had chosen to furnish her new room with monastic austerity. She called it her study. Besides the narrow iron bedstead, it contained her wardrobe and the deep, heavy armchair that had belonged to her late father, who was born, lived, and died in the northern town of Metullah. Ivria too had been born and raised in Metullah.

  Between the armchair and the bed she had a wrought-iron standard lamp. On the wall that separated her from the kitchen she had hung a map of Yorkshire. The floor was bare. There was also an office desk made of metal, two metal chairs, and some metal bookshelves. Above the desk she had hung some small black-and-white photographs of ruined Romanesque abbeys of the ninth or tenth century. On the desk stood a framed photograph of her father, Shealtiel Lublin, a thickset man with a walrus mustache, in the uniform of a British policeman. It was here that she had decided to dig herself in against the household chores and finally complete her thesis for an MA in English Literature. The topic she had selected was "The Shame in the Attic: Sex, Love, and Money in the Work of the Brontë Sisters." Every morning, when Netta had gone off to school, Ivria used to put a quiet jazz or ragtime record on the record player, put on her square frameless eyeglasses, which made her look like a stern family doctor of an earlier generation, switch on the desk lamp, and, with a coffee cup in front of her, burrow among her books and notes. Since her childhood she had been used to writing with a pen that had to be dipped in the inkwell every ten words or so. She was a slim, gentle woman, with paper-thin skin and clear eyes with long lashes. Her fair hair cascaded over her shoulders, though half of it had turned gray by then. She almost always wore a plain white blouse and white long pants. She wore no makeup and no jewelry apart from her wedding ring, which for some reason she wore on the little finger of her right hand. Her childlike fingers were always cold, summer and winter alike, and Yoel loved their cold touch on his naked back. He also loved enfolding them within his broad, ugly hands as though he were warming frozen chicks. Even from three rooms away and through three closed doors he sometimes imagined his ears could pick up the rustle of her papers. At times she would get up and stand for a while at her window, which overlooked only a neglected back garden and a high wall of Jerusalem stone. In the evenings she would sit at her desk with the door locked, crossing out and rewriting what she had written in the morning, scrabbling in various dictionaries to establish the meaning of an English word of a century or more ago. Most of the time Yoel was away from home. On the nights when he was not, they used to meet in the kitchen and drink tea with ice cubes in it in the summer or a mug of cocoa in the winter before separating to sleep in their respective bedrooms. She had a tacit agreement with him and with Netta: there was no entry to her room unless it was strictly necessary. Here, beyond the kitchen, in the eastern extension of their home, was her territory. Always defended by its heavy brown door.