The Same Sea Read online

  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.

  Back in Bat Yam his father upbraids him

  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?

  But his mother defends him

  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.

  Bettine breaks

  —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.

  In the Temple of the Echo

  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.

  Blessed

  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.

  Missing Rico

  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.

  Back in her bedroom alone she unzips her skirt, in front of the mirror

  she strips. She looks at her body: its wild, it's new, it turns men on

  and it turns her on too. This body wants sex and it wants it

  now, this body wants Rico, it does, but how: Rico's not here.

  She's got the itch, her body's in charge and she can't resist. Naked

  she throws herself down on her bed, into her pillow she buries

  her head then rolls herself over as quick as she can and hugs that pillow

  as though its her man. She wants to stop but her body says no, it's started

  now and it's got to go. She ruffles and tickles his body fur so he'll have

  gooseflesh just like her. She buries her face between his thighs and her tongue

  plies wildly as her body sighs and she drips with juices like rare perfume

  as her body is pierced by a tender tune. Their hands intertwine and she stifles

  a groan. He is inside her but she's alone. When it's done, she plants six

  little kisses in the soft of her arm for the man she misses, and then as she falls

  asleep on her bed she counts to herself inside her head how much cash she has

  stashed away and how can she raise the 4k to make a movie out of the script

  that she wrote about the love of Nirit. Cross your heart: is Nirit you?

  That's a question Dita's not got an answer to.

  No butterflies and no tortoise

  The forecast, that had promised a chance of snow on high ground,

  had not kept its promise. But Nadia, who had promised nothing, appeared

  at his door one Saturday morning, in a light-colored frock

  with a red scarf round her neck, somewhere between a girl and a woman. Did I

  surprise you? Are you free? (Am I free? Oh, painfully free. His heart dissolved

  in bashful glee. Nadia. Has come. To visit. Me.)

  Albert was renting a room from a childless couple in old Bat Yam. They were

  away for the weekend. The flat was all his. He sat Nadia down on his bed

  and went to the kitchen to slice some black bread, and came back bearing

  a tray with a choice of feta or honey. He paced round the room,

  then returned to the kitchen, and chopped some tomatoes to make

  a salad so fine and well-seasoned, as though this would convince her

  that he was right. He would not let her lift a finger to help him. He made

  an omelette. Put the kettle on. Like a man in his element This surprised her,

  because previously whenever they went out together to a café or the cinema

  Albert had seemed so hesitant and unassertive. And now it emerged

  that at home he did precisely what he wanted, and what he wanted was to do

  everything himself. She touched his hand with her fingertip:

  thank you. Its nice here.

  Coffee. Biscuits. But how do you start on love on a rainy Saturday morning

  like this, in a shabby room in old Bat Yam in the mid-Sixties?

  (In the headlines in the paper on the kitchen table Nasser threatened

  and Eshkol warned of the risk of escalation.) The light flickered. The room

  was small. Nadia sat Albert faced her. Neither of them knew how to begin.

  The would-be lover was a shy young man, who had only ever dreamed

  of sleeping with a woman. He dreaded yet wanted it; he wanted it

  but was deterred by a faint fear of bodily embarrassments.

  His would-be partner, a reserved divorcee, lived in a room on a roof,

  sewed for a living, her past was somewhat conventional. She

  was no hind and he was no young hart. How and with what

  do you begin to love? Nadia sat. Albert stood.

  Outside it was raining again, the rain getting heavier, teeming down on rows

  of dull grey shutters along the empty wet street; hammering on overturned

  dustbins, polishing the panes in the tight-shut windows, pouring down

  on rooftops, on forests of antennae trembling in the freezing wind that beat on zinc tubs hanging on grilles of kitchen balconies. And the gutters

  grunted and choked like an old man sleeping fitfully. How do you start

  love now? Nadia stood. Albert sat.

  Through the wall from the next-door flat came the Saturday morning

  program on the radio. A musical quiz. Nadia is here but where am I?

  He tried to tell her some news from the office, not to break the thread

  of the conversation. But the thread was no thread. She was waiting

  and he was waiting for whatever would come at the end of the thread.

  What would come? And who would make it come? She was embarrassed.

  So was he. He kept on and on trying to explain something in economics.

  Instead of words like credit side, debit side, Nadia heard, My sister,

  my bride. And when he spoke of bulls and bears she translated, You have

  doves' eyes. While he was talking she reached for a cushion, and Albert

  trembled because on the way the warmth of her breast touched his back.

  It's up to me to overcome his fear. What would a really experienced woman

  do now in my place? She cut in: apparently, all of a sudden, she had a speck of dust in her eye. Or a fly. He bent over to get a good look. Now his face was close to her brow, she could clasp his temples with her hands, and at last lower his lips for a pleasing, teasing first kiss.

  Two weeks later, in her room on the roof between two rainshowers, he asked

  for her hand. He did not say, Be my wife, but instead: If you'll marry me

  then I'll marry you. Because it was Nadia's second marriage they had a small,

  intimate party, at her brother and sister-in-law's home, with a handful

  of relativ
es and a few friends, and the elderly couple in whose flat

  Albert lodged. After the ceremony and the party they took a taxi

  to the Sharon Hotel. Albert undid the straining hooks one by one

  down the back of her wedding dress. Then the bride turned out the light

  and they both undressed modestly, in total darkness, on opposite sides

  of the bed. They groped their way toward each other. She sensed

  she would have to teach him: after all I presumably know

  better than he does. It turned out however that shy Albert could teach her

  something she neither knew nor imagined: the broad, flowing surge of joy

  of one who was shy as long as the light was on but in the pitch dark

  was insatiable. In the dark he entered into his own element.

  No butterflies now and no tortoise at all, but like a hart panting for water

  or a swallow for its nest. His chest to her back, and belly to belly, horse

  and his rider and into every breach.

  And what is hiding behind the story?

  The fictional Narrator puts the cap back on his pen and pushes away the writing pad. He is tired. And his back aches. He asks himself how on earth he came to write such a story. Bulgarian, Bat Yam, written in verse and even, here and there, in rhyme. Now that his children have grown up and he has known the joy of grandchildren, and he has produced several books and traveled and lectured and been photographed, why should he suddenly return to versification? As in the bad old days of his youth when he used to run away at night to be all alone in the reading room on the edge of the kibbutz where he would cover page after page with jackals' howls. An acne-scarred, yellow-haired, angular boy forever swallowing insults, with his high-falutin talk arousing some ridicule and some pity, hanging around the girls' quarters, hoping that Gila or Tsila might want him to read them a poem he had just written. Naively imagining that a woman is acquired by a sermon or a verse. And indeed he sometimes managed to stir something inside those girls that later, in the night, accompanied them when they went to the woods to give and receive love, not with him but with burly haymakers who reaped with joy what he had sown with his words almost in tears. He is almost sixty, this Narrator, and he might sum it up roughly as follows: there is love and there is love. In the end everyone is left alone: those hairy haymakers, and Tsila, and Gila, and Bettine, and Albert, and even the Narrator in question. And he who is climbing mountains in Tibet and she who embroidered in the quiet of her bedroom. We go and we come, we see and we want until it is time to shut up and leave. And then silence. Born in Jerusalem lives in Arad looked around him and wanted this and that. Since he was a child he has heard, impatiently, time and again from Auntie Sonya, a woman who suffers, that we should be happy with what we have. We should always count our blessings. Now he finds himself at last quite close to this way of thinking. Whatever is here, the moon and the breeze, the glass of wine, the pen, words, a fan, the desk lamp, Schubert in the background, and the desk itself: a carpenter who died nine years ago worked hard to make you this desk so that you would remember that you didn't start from nothing. From starlight down to olives, or soap, from a thread to a shoelace, from a sheet to the autumn. It wouldn't be a bad thing to leave behind in return a few lines worthy of the name. All this is diminishing. Disintegrating. Fading. What has been is being gradually wrapped in pallor. Nadia and Rico, Dita, Albert, Stavros Evangelides the Greek who brought up the dead and then died himself. The Tibetan mountains will last for a while, as will the nights, and the sea. All the rivers flow into the sea, and the sea is silence silence silence. It's ten o'clock. Dogs are barking. Take up your pen and return to Bat Yam.