I don’t want to go to my Granny Dora on the kibbutz.”
“Noichka, Noichka … yes …”
I buried my head in his shirt, and with my head under his chin I felt the smile suddenly spreading over his face. A slow Alek smile with closed lips. “You don’t want to be in army?”
I shook my head.
“Okay, then you won’t,” and he raised my face to his. “Your mother and father … those are rules of the genre, you know,” he said holding my cheeks and pulling them into a smile, “that’s the way it is, Noichka, everything conforms to the rules of the genre.” And when he took his hands away the smile remained on my face. When he wanted to he could always effect this change in me, from total identification with my feelings, to a kind of light-hearted, mischievous observation of myself.
“You don’t want to be drafted?” he asked again.
“No,” I answered, this time out loud.
“And you want me to marry you?” My face was completely exposed. I knew what he could see in it, I knew what he was asking, I could deceive the whole world, but not him, and I didn’t want to deceive him anyway.
“Yes, I want you to do it.”
“Good, if that’s what you want, then that’s what I’ll do. I gave you a key, have you got the key? I want you to use it always. Will you use it? I’m leaving the country in July, and then too … you can stay here as long as you need to.”
How easily female tears turn into sexual arousal, not only of the male comforter but also of the weeping woman. The woman’s panties were already pulled down, one melting was turning into another, and Ravel’s
Bolero
was beginning to swell in the background when the man said: “And you’ll manage, and you’ll be all right, because that’s how it is in your story. Everything according to rules of the genre, right?”
ON THE MORNING OF MY WEDDING
On the morning of my wedding I went to the Old City and bought a white dress. I didn’t think that I was buying a wedding dress, but suddenly, as if for no reason, I just coveted a white
galabiyeh
flapping on a hanger in an alleyway, and it was only afterwards that it occurred to me to wear it to the Rabbinate.
“They expect a white dress,” I said meekly to Alek who examined me in silence before we left the house. “If they don’t like the way we’re dressed they might throw us out, and we’ll have wasted our time for nothing.”
With the dress in my hand I strolled in the direction of the church of the Holy Sepulchre, simply because this was one of the places I went with Alek.
I’ve already mentioned that he loved churches, they acted on his soul, and when I stood in the church at his side, I understood that his admiration wasn’t only aesthetic. “That’s a nice picture,” I let slip once in one of the alcoves opposite the sooty face of the Virgin Mary. “I like it.”
“It’s horrible icon,” he replied impatiently from the side, “most of the paintings here are horrible.”
“You think so?”
“It’s not a question of what I think. They’re simply horrible, but it really doesn’t matter. Church isn’t a museum. And from religious point of view maybe bad art is preferable.”
Sometimes he would hurry through the halls—in Gethsemane, in the Dormition, in the Holy Sepulchre, there were two Saturdays when we walked as far as the Church of the Nativity in Bethlehem—and then, “That’s it, let’s go get some coffee.” Other times he would lingerin one of the corners, standing erect and somehow obedient, his hands folded in front of him on the zipper of his jeans, not focused on any of the objects around him, and nevertheless somehow very focused indeed. It seemed as if he were capable of standing there for hours without moving a muscle, as if he had been trained to wait in silence, and the sight made my heart contract. I tried to impose a similar stillness on my own body, I tried not to shift my weight from foot to foot, to relax my shoulders, to relax my
“Noichka, Noichka … yes …”
I buried my head in his shirt, and with my head under his chin I felt the smile suddenly spreading over his face. A slow Alek smile with closed lips. “You don’t want to be in army?”
I shook my head.
“Okay, then you won’t,” and he raised my face to his. “Your mother and father … those are rules of the genre, you know,” he said holding my cheeks and pulling them into a smile, “that’s the way it is, Noichka, everything conforms to the rules of the genre.” And when he took his hands away the smile remained on my face. When he wanted to he could always effect this change in me, from total identification with my feelings, to a kind of light-hearted, mischievous observation of myself.
“You don’t want to be drafted?” he asked again.
“No,” I answered, this time out loud.
“And you want me to marry you?” My face was completely exposed. I knew what he could see in it, I knew what he was asking, I could deceive the whole world, but not him, and I didn’t want to deceive him anyway.
“Yes, I want you to do it.”
“Good, if that’s what you want, then that’s what I’ll do. I gave you a key, have you got the key? I want you to use it always. Will you use it? I’m leaving the country in July, and then too … you can stay here as long as you need to.”
How easily female tears turn into sexual arousal, not only of the male comforter but also of the weeping woman. The woman’s panties were already pulled down, one melting was turning into another, and Ravel’s
Bolero
was beginning to swell in the background when the man said: “And you’ll manage, and you’ll be all right, because that’s how it is in your story. Everything according to rules of the genre, right?”
ON THE MORNING OF MY WEDDING
On the morning of my wedding I went to the Old City and bought a white dress. I didn’t think that I was buying a wedding dress, but suddenly, as if for no reason, I just coveted a white
galabiyeh
flapping on a hanger in an alleyway, and it was only afterwards that it occurred to me to wear it to the Rabbinate.
“They expect a white dress,” I said meekly to Alek who examined me in silence before we left the house. “If they don’t like the way we’re dressed they might throw us out, and we’ll have wasted our time for nothing.”
With the dress in my hand I strolled in the direction of the church of the Holy Sepulchre, simply because this was one of the places I went with Alek.
I’ve already mentioned that he loved churches, they acted on his soul, and when I stood in the church at his side, I understood that his admiration wasn’t only aesthetic. “That’s a nice picture,” I let slip once in one of the alcoves opposite the sooty face of the Virgin Mary. “I like it.”
“It’s horrible icon,” he replied impatiently from the side, “most of the paintings here are horrible.”
“You think so?”
“It’s not a question of what I think. They’re simply horrible, but it really doesn’t matter. Church isn’t a museum. And from religious point of view maybe bad art is preferable.”
Sometimes he would hurry through the halls—in Gethsemane, in the Dormition, in the Holy Sepulchre, there were two Saturdays when we walked as far as the Church of the Nativity in Bethlehem—and then, “That’s it, let’s go get some coffee.” Other times he would lingerin one of the corners, standing erect and somehow obedient, his hands folded in front of him on the zipper of his jeans, not focused on any of the objects around him, and nevertheless somehow very focused indeed. It seemed as if he were capable of standing there for hours without moving a muscle, as if he had been trained to wait in silence, and the sight made my heart contract. I tried to impose a similar stillness on my own body, I tried not to shift my weight from foot to foot, to relax my shoulders, to relax my
Similar Books
