My wife says that unless I change I’ll never find a lover. I’m too lazy. I don’t even take the trouble to empty an ashtray. I’m too immersed in myself to be able to invest in a lover. “You’ve got to invest,” she says, but I don’t know what that means. And she explains, “It means to invest emotionally, but you’re not capable of that. As far as you’re concerned, anything goes. Ahalan wa-sahalan. I wish you had a lover. She’d suffer like hell. At least there’d be one more person who knew what you’re like. Maybe she would help me with the baby and the house.”
Sometimes my wife says I have a good heart. I’m the kindest person in the world, she says. And sometimes she says I’m as mean as they come, so mean I have no idea what love is all about, and the best thing I could do would be to stay drunk. Now she remembers how I seemed to her back at the beginning. How she liked me then. How I used to go to the supermarket on Fridays to buy tomatoes, lettuce, and cucumbers, to make salad and fry cutlets for her. Now she laughs at herself, for ever believing I really was different.
Not Made for Love
My father always says I have no love in my heart, that I’m not made for love. My wife agrees with him. She’s never met anyone as indifferent and inconsiderate as I am. She says I don’t even see the other person. As far as I’m concerned, I’m in the center, and the whole universe revolves around me. She says she hates me, that I have no idea how much she hates me. She’d love for them to find I had cancer, so I’d die as soon as possible. She can’t stand the sight of me anymore. I’m the most repulsive thing in her life. She wishes I’d die — amen! She won’t wait long after I die. She’ll remarry quickly. I was the one who made her forget the joy of living. I destroyed her, I shattered her, I turned her into a depressive old lady in her twenties. If only I’d have a traffic accident and get killed. She doesn’t want me to wind up disabled. She wants it to be final, wants me to die on the spot. Actually she wouldn’t mind if it took me two days to die. Quite the contrary, she’d be pleased if I suffered. Or I could be unconscious, and she’d stand at my hospital bedside, cry, and hold my hand as all the people came to see me for the last time, but when we were alone she’d be happy. She’d be sure I knew how happy she was. She would give a voiceless chuckle and whisper in my ear, “It’s what you deserve, you sonofabitch.”
How Samia cried when we slept together the first time. The sheet in the dorm room was covered in blood, and she didn’t stop crying the rest of the night. She sat on the bed, her knees pulled up, leaning her head on them between her arms, and cried. I was sure she’d cry herself to death. I could tell that something horrifying was about to happen, and there was nothing I could do. I just sat there facing her, helpless, frightened, and kept promising I’d marry her if she wanted. I was prepared to marry her then and there. So what if I was nineteen years old?
She can’t leave now. After losing her virginity. They’ll kill her, they’ll kill me. Nobody will ever marry her. If it isn’t me, there’ll never be anyone else. Women without their hymen intact are kicked out. What a disgrace. Damaged goods, they have to be discarded. I wouldn’t do that to anyone. I’d never let her suffer on my account. I was the one who did it to her, and I’ll take responsibility.
“It was a black day,” my wife says. “God, what an idiot I was. Damn the circumstances that made me stick it out with you. You animal. Did I say animal? Even an animal has more feelings than you do. I hope you die. I hope I finally get rid of you. There’s no point making an effort to love you anymore.” And again she curses her parents and her family. They’re the reason she can’t just dump me. If she had the strength, she’d kill me. She’d grab me by the neck and never let go. She lashes out and slaps the air by way of showing me what she means. She’d like to bang my head against the wall again and again till it broke. She says I have no idea how much she hates me. Even just looking at me makes her sick. “I hate you, I hate you! You dog. You animal.”
Sometimes I think I ought to just throw my clothes in the car and take a few books I read long ago, books I know I used to love, though I can’t remember why. I’d fix the car radio and drive off. For a few days in Eilat maybe. I’ve never been to Eilat. If I had the courage to cross the border, I’d go to the Sinai. And if it weren’t for the baby, I’d never come back.
When I grew older, I realized I’d been duped. An Arab girl’s hymen wasn’t as holy and pure as people said it was. Samia had been doing a number on me. She’d been taking advantage of my naïveté. She’d been exploiting the fact that I didn’t know much and filling my head with honor-or-death ideas. Those were years of being afraid, of hiding out. Sometimes I went through an entire night in Nahlaot without sleeping a wink, even though nobody in that neighborhood knew me anyhow. I was sure they’d find me, and once they did it would be the end of me. I never left the door unlocked and never slept with the window open. Not that it would have saved me. If anyone had wanted to get to me, nothing would have stopped them. But I had to try to stop anyone who was likely to arrive on the scene. I had to be there to shout it out: “I’m willing to marry her right away!”
I would never tell my wife “I hope you die,” even though I’ve pictured her dead often enough. I know I wouldn’t be able to handle the loss; suddenly, when she disappeared, I’d start loving her, missing her, and understanding how right she was. What a sonofabitch I was. If anything happened to her, I’d blame myself, nobody else. Because I’d wished for it to happen. And I believe wishes do come true in the end.
If Samia dies, I’ll visit her grave as often as I can. Not only on holidays, like the other people in the village. At the beginning, I’ll go there at least once a week. I’ll weep, I’ll speak to her, I’ll ask her to forgive me, I’ll speak words of love. I’ll mourn her with all my heart. I’ll suffer. I can picture myself sitting there, all by myself in the cemetery on rainy days, in the cold, cocooned in the long black overcoat I don’t own. I won’t be afraid of going there at night. I’ll have a beard, and it will give me an air of suffering, a special aura. I’ll cry out at the grave, and people will hear my pain. And every now and then I’ll give out a long moan that will echo through every home in Tira.
Hitting Rock Bottom
I think I’ve hit rock bottom. I’ve broken almost every rule I can think of in the moral code. I’m going home now, to sleep it off. I’d like the radio to be on in the background as I doze off but I don’t have a radio. It broke long ago, and I can’t face the idea of having to take it to be fixed or of having to fork out the money for a new one. I’d like to go to sleep now and not have any bad thoughts.
Sometimes I think I know what mental relaxation means. I can outline it in my brain. I know where I’m heading. I’d like to be able to crawl into bed with a book, any book. A book of jokes, maybe, or light stories about Jucha. I’d like to settle into it, to enjoy it, to doze off with a smile on my lips. I’d like the book to slip out of my hands ever so slowly, to fall off the bed without my noticing. I’d like to be tucked in tight with my body at just the right temperature, not too cold and not too hot. I’d like to fall asleep in just the right position. I’d like the pillows to be propped at just the right height. My neck won’t hurt and I won’t have to move. I won’t have any noise in my ears, and my head won’t ache either. I’d like to find sublime serenity.
I’d like my wife to be there with me too, to blend with me as we relax and fall asleep. Our bodies will be in sync. She can place her head on my chest. She won’t have to twist her neck, and her hair won’t get in my eyes or in my mouth. I’ll hug her. I’ll place a hand under her head, and my arm won’t hurt or fall asleep. I’ll place one leg on her waist, and it won’t be too heavy. It will even make her feel good, give her a warm sensation, round off her own body. Her waist will be a comfortable resting place. It’ll be thin and youthful. She’ll smile at me and say a heartfelt “I love you” and kiss me. I’ll feel the kiss draw me into a delightful childhood dream. I’ll smile in my sleep, and my wife will smile back and fall asleep.