A Wall of Light (4 page)

S
ONYA

I
finished my toast, brushed the crumbs from my skirt, and looked out at the garden. We no longer had a vegetable patch which required daily weeding, a task we all shared when we lived in the house on Yahud Street—that is, apart from Noah, who found it tedious. When Kostya decided to revive the destroyed garden of Yahud, he and I were in our reckless post-Yahud phase, and we focused on comfort and pleasure. A winding trail led from the patio to a miniature fountain of Venus and next to it a white cedar garden swing dangled from its sturdy frame, waiting for customers. Sweet, healthy-looking flowers alternated with large stones or waved hi from handmade clay tubs.

The garden was slightly overgrown at the moment, and soft blue petals touched my knees as I sat on the steps. I was waiting for one of the neighborhood cats to come by for a treat. Until last year we’d always had a dog; King Kong lived to be very old, and so had King Kong II, but our most recent dog—a fragile, shaggy thing whom we called Zulu—had died unexpectedly in the winter. I’d suggested to Kostya that we take in a cat, but my brother said he preferred pets who could be trained not to scratch furniture or jump on tables. The minute your back was turned, he said, a cat did what it wanted to do. All the same, the cats on our street knew me. I liked giving them treats, and when I sat outside they generally found their way to me. But today they were either busy or asleep.

I was suddenly filled with desire. I longed to have a lover, for example, or to find an ancient coin buried in the earth, or watch a turtle moseying along. These waves of desire came over me regularly, in varying degrees of intensity. When they were at their most persistent, I felt that nothing short of a miracle would satisfy me: a goose laying golden eggs or angels hovering amid the yellow roses, which swelled against the blue sky like expensive gifts. I touched the silky petals brushing my knees and contemplated my virginity, a subject that was never far from my thoughts—especially in recent years, as I was getting ridiculously old for a virgin.

Technically I was not a virgin, of course. I was one of the few people in this country who, without being famous or dead, had made the front pages twice, and my sexual status was known to anyone who cared to remember the story. Stories never die here because people keep them alive. No one seems to have any secret tragedies and sorrows, except maybe my brother.

But since I’d never had a lover, I considered myself as chaste as a lily in May. I’d say as chaste as the driven snow, but we don’t get much snow here and I’ve seen snow only twice in my life. My brother was constantly urging me to travel, visit other countries, broaden my horizons. He wanted me to see Venice and Paris and Buckingham Palace. But I didn’t want to go alone, and if I had to travel with Kostya I’d end up strangling him within two days. My brother is fine when his life proceeds according to a fixed routine, but when he’s away from his routine his obsession with order becomes extremely trying. How a person like my mother, who was vague and easygoing, managed to give birth to my brother was always a bit of a mystery. He most likely takes after his father, a married man whom my mother left behind in Russia when Kostya was eleven. Impossible to imagine, but my mother had once wanted to be a physicist; the married man, Kostya’s father, was her teacher. She was forced to abandon her studies after only one year because she’d slept through two exams, and she ended up on the stage instead. It was mostly for Kostya’s sake that my mother decided to tear herself away from her lover and attempt an escape from the Soviet Union. She was a well-known actress by then, and she managed to get away while performing in Vienna. She decided to try her luck in Israel, where there were subsidies for immigrants and which she pictured as a land filled with palm trees and quaint sunny villages.

I contemplated my virginity as usual, came to no conclusion as usual, and then noticed that I was running late. If I wanted to walk to the university I would have to leave right away.

I took a bottle of ice water out of the fridge, strapped my briefcase to my back, put on a Lydia Bennett hat decorated with blue ribbon and silk flowers, and set out. I may be the only person in this country who willingly walks anywhere in the August heat. But I like the heat because of its solid physical presence. It surrounds you and presses against you; this makes me feel safe, as if I were in a womb. And I like the blinding white light that turns the world into a vast child’s room, filled with sunlit toys: very bright light, like intense cold, shrinks objects. Another reason I don’t mind walking is that I don’t sweat much, and if I do it’s only between my breasts, where drops of sweat form and begin to trickle down slowly to my stomach. When that happens, I pour water inside my shirt; it cools me off and dries instantly.

It generally took me between forty-five minutes and an hour to reach Gate Seven: I walked west on Keren Kayemet Street and then south on Ha’im Lebanon Street. Sometimes people who knew me stopped their cars and offered me a lift, and I always accepted, to be friendly, but I was perfectly happy walking. Keren Kayemet was never the same, Ha’im Lebanon was never the same. The scene changed, and of course the atmosphere varied wildly from day to day, because it’s always a matter of chance configurations, of who shows up and what sort of mood they’re in. Like a kaleidoscope. That’s my field, by the way. Probability.

As I walked I tried to guess what sort of day it was going to be. Some days were peaceful and quiet, others were hectic and noisy. On the street, for example, if the cars were zooming happily along like tubby vehicles in a Dr. Seuss book, I felt like zooming, too, but if drivers were nervous and careless I found myself slowing down.

This morning I predicted a day of small unexpected events. I might see a land snail slithering along the sidewalk, and I’d have to move it to the grass to prevent it from getting squished. (If more people knew how complex and sensitive snails are, and how long they live, maybe they would hesitate to squish them.) Or else I might come across a photo I’d lost years ago and had been searching for ever since.

If it was going to be a particularly lucky day, I might even pick up a clue that would help me solve the mystery of my student Matar’s eyes.

N
OAH’S DIARY
, M
ARCH
16, 1981.

In the news: defective man shot at Berlin Wall.

I
’ve been thinking a lot about bodies. What are bodies? Nothing. Just things we use, like a car. So why is there so much emotion attached to bodies? That’s the question. Take for example Oren: why is the fact that he’s taller than me important? Yet it is. Important to him and important to me and important to everyone around us. People notice it. He’s tall, I’m not that tall yet. Everyone tells him he should play basketball. People like it that he’s tall and they think we’re a funny pair. Take Sonya: why does she like to snuggle up against me with that stupid smile on her face? And how come if I saw any girl in my class (especially Ariella) naked it would be a huge event, but I’ve seen Sonya naked a million times and so what. Actually lately I don’t like it anymore. I really, really don’t like it and I can’t say why.

That’s exactly what I mean. Why? That was my question: why are bodies a big deal? At the moment I have no answer.

Our teachers want more money so they’re doing sanctions. As a result school started at 10:30. What bliss! I slept in and dreamed I was advising Ruthie on types of garter belts and she thanked me. I hope the teachers don’t get what they want for a long time.

L
ETTER TO
A
NDREI
, F
EBRUARY
16, 1957

D
earest, our theater is on its feet! A grant arrived from Brooklyn Friends of the Arts in Israel—a charity run by an old woman, nearly ninety, but apparently very active and determined. We had champagne (or something like it) to celebrate, and rehearsals will begin immediately. Feingold gave us all a lecture on the play. Oh, dearest, he said such clever things, but I’m afraid hardly anyone was listening. Orlando had to leave to pick up his daughter, Oliver/William kept chatting nonstop with Audrey (Carmela) about cures for piles (!), Celia (poor Tanya) stared at Feingold with glazed eyes, and Touchstone was munching a raw onion in a very distracting way. Feingold himself will be Jacques, whom he calls a “protoparody of the existentialist.” Only the Duke and Rosalind—a wonderful young actress who miraculously turned up from Haifa—were listening. I’m afraid he may be disappointed in us all!

Kostya is doing very well. An essay he wrote was published in the newspaper! Not in a children’s paper, but in a major daily called
Ha’aretz.
Everyone was astonished that a child wrote it. It was about steps that must be taken if we are to have peace—he’s become quite interested in politics. I wish you could see him now: he has grown so tall in the past year, and he’s very independent. But then he was always such a capable child. Do you know, he has quite forgotten about the time he helped the girl whose coat was caught in the wheel! I’ve told him the story a few times, but he says he doesn’t remember it at all. I think he likes hearing about it, though—he especially likes that he was the only one who noticed.

Today we had a little guest. A girl in Kostya’s class had been away for a year in the United States and she came back last week with many treasures—a dozen colored markers and pens, such as you can’t find here, and a special lunchbox with pictures of a handsome singer and actor (Elvis Pretzley), a wristwatch with a funny cartoon face, and other foreign toys. She brought them to school to show everyone, but their teacher is a devout socialist and he apparently gave the class a long tedious lecture during which he reprimanded her and her toys. The girl was in tears. Kostya brought her home with her bag of interesting items: she’s a very nice girl with long braids and good manners. I told her about the time I came to school with a new blue coat and how I was tormented by the other children. She cheered up and gave Kostya one of her special pens before she left.

Lately Kostya no longer wants to be cuddled. I must say it’s a little hard getting used to his new, older self. At bedtime he kisses me on the cheek, but I can see he’s only being polite. When I try to hold him these days he squirms away and tells me he has to run. It’s only natural—he’s growing up. But I do miss hugging him and covering him with kisses, the way I used to do. At night, when he’s fast asleep, I often peek into his little cubicle. Sometimes I kneel by the bed and stroke his hair, and my heart fills with such longing for the days when the three of us were together. Remember how you spun with him on your shoulders in our little room, and he reached up and tried to touch the ceiling? And he would tell you to go faster and faster—what a small, sweet thing he was! I will ask Carmela to take a photograph of our dear son to send you, so you can see how big he is now.

Dearest, take good care of yourself and follow doctor’s orders. I worry so much. You are my heart and soul.