Motti (4 page)

How great is the need to believe, even to know with certainty, that there is someone above us who oversees, who determines, who keeps a watchful eye on every deed. To know that there is a father, an evil father even, just so long as he's there. Just so we'll have a director and navigator, someone keeping tabs on our thoughts, and to whom we must eventually answer, be it willingly or not. Because the world hurries by so quickly, hurries downhill, help, and everything is irreversible, understand? Irreversible. And how can it be that all the way to the top of the pyramid there are only more people just like us, who tinker hopelessly through days and nights, stitching together the plots of their lives patch after patch; only one fear in us is greater than the fear of being caught, and that's the fear of not being caught, of falling down without a rescuer, all the way down, and there's no bottom.

So we invent limits. So we push at them and hope for a firm hand to hold the leash, even if we choke a little here and there, even if we don't know how to interpret each instruction and order, and even if we're punished for this, still the leash is firmly held, so we won't run into the street, where massive trucks are swarming, ten thousand wheels racing blindly ahead.

So every intelligent man must sleep with a map under the pillow. A folder full of maps, even. And every night, before going to sleep, you kiss your map. You say, thanks, thank you, dear map. Thank you, not for the roads but for the ends of roads. For it's impossible to keep going endlessly. In the end comes the sea. Then, there will be dragons. But it's not a map of the universe. That doesn't end. On and on it goes, and there will always be more to go, and then where will we rest our heads at night?

At times he said to himself, I'm a small, frightened animal that lives in a dark forest, with soft fur and sharp teeth (so he said, though actually he was an elementary school teacher). I'm a small, frightened animal in a dense forest, and she, Ariella, is my gentle princess. Soon she will come and save me, will embrace me with her big arms.

Say what you like, but even while fantasizing he's never entirely anchored to the shore of dreams-come-true. He won't allow this under any circumstances. His imaginary life, like his actual life (I won't say his “active” life), is not a bed of roses, or lilies, or violets. Though he strives to keep his actual life trimmed and strong, more than once his imaginary life has grown wild, and this he allows. For example, it's very possible that they'll break up, he and Ariella, after the day comes when they're finally together.

After the first months of joy, when they hardly leave the bed, and when, if she'd go take a bath, he would come in after her and soap up her back, and they would giggle like children, after these months she will decide, let's say, that she's unsatisfied professionally, and she'll go study at the university. He'll encourage her like he always does, will make her coffee when she sits studying for exams at night, they'll talk about Kant (let's say), or maybe optics or the anatomy of the human hand (if she wants to become a doctor or something of that sort), and he'll be embarrassed when she wants to go to student parties. Come on, he'll tell her, everyone's going to say, here's Ariella again with her older boyfriend, what on earth does she see in him, and she'll say, oh, silly, everyone will see how wonderful you are and be jealous, and he'll laugh, and she'll say, no, really, and then they'll go to the party, and when he goes out to the bathroom he'll come back and she'll jump suddenly when she notices him, she'll be sitting and talking with someone her age, and then she'll say, ah, here's Mordechai, he's my boyfriend, and Motti will say, no need for Mordechai, Motti is just fine. And the one she'll be speaking to will say, nice to meet you, and will smile uncomfortably. This one will be a friend of hers from school, he'll start coming over to their place to study, and Motti will see Ariella being swept beyond his reach, and he'll know where to, and even though there's no chance, he'll try to fix it, they'll go on vacation, they'll go to the same place as before even, the place they once were, where they did it for the first time, and she'll sit next to him in the car, they'll be silent sometimes, and sometimes they'll speak like everything's fine, she'll sit next to him (he'll drive) with a blank expression. If she gets a text message, what of it. It's something about work, she'll say (he won't ask). And she'll write a message in reply. Another message comes, another message sent. That blank expression the whole time, and if he tilts the mirror he'll be able to see her blush, blush just a bit, but he won't be able to see the wetness inside her spreading below. He'll see her being swept farther and farther away, and he won't know what to do, perhaps he'll even get angry, but he'll only want her to be happy, he'll struggle for awhile, in the end weaken, and she'll take her things and leave. Again he'll be lost, time will close in around him, stifling and vicious, and he'll wait at night for her to return, she won't, and so another night and then another, and then—it's unavoidable—he'll sit down again in his old place.

And then it's all over, the plots in his head coinciding with the plot of his actual life, where he also sits down next to the wall, cheek cold, and everything comes apart. He gets up restless and wanders around the apartment, starts the kettle going and then turns it off and forgets about it, letting it get cold again, opens and shuts the door of the refrigerator, and so on, until he gets tired enough to fall asleep, or, if not that, then at least to return to his chair so that something else, not a fact, simple and decisive, like all that, will blossom.

But look at him, sitting next to the wall again and apparently crying out to be saved, that is, for something to remove him from his life, but it appears he isn't doing a thing to make this happen, so perhaps he simply deserves this and that's that, no? Perhaps he simply deserves this and that's that.

Overall, in life, the possibilities for action are quite numerous. If we are among those people who tend to go out into the street for a walk, and then a man comes toward us on that street, it doesn't matter if we know him or not, if we like him or are revolted by him or even fear him, there is nothing physically preventing him, for instance, from extending a hand in greeting. There is nothing physically preventing us from saying to him, go away you shit, you ugly asshole you. There is nothing that prevents one from being nasty, from insulting, scratching, spitting in his eye. One must, however (that is, one can—there's no obligation to do a thing like this), be kind, it's better for all of us this way, but there's no real obstacle to doing otherwise. There's nothing preventing a man from coming along and saying to us, “Hello, Yechiel!” and we, in turn (even if our name is, for instance, Yechiel), can definitely say to him, sir, you clearly have me confused with someone else. Me, my name is actually Mr. Noam Etzion (though that's not what we're called—maybe someone among us is, that's certain, but certainly not all of us; how confusing it would be if that's what we were all called, and on the other hand, how economical). Afterward, once he's convinced, and we've already turned to walk away, we'll turn our head to him, we'll lock our eyes on his, on the look he's sent us from behind, and we'll do this for only a moment, just enough to sow a doubt in him that will never settle again.

Therefore, simply out of spite for this abundance of possibilities, we intentionally restrict ourselves again and again. Close down the potentialities so they don't get in the way, so we don't get our nose stuck deep in life's permissiveness, deep inside the need to decide, time after time, again. Therefore, even in moments of great indecision, one must keep this in mind: all roads, even the ones that seem widest, spreading out before our eyes, are just a fraction of all the unseen paths we could take. When we complain about the seeming closure, about the lives we'll never have under any circumstances, it's important to remember that freedom lurks around every corner. That liberty, like a giant wave, threatens to sweep us away at any moment. If we only let up, if we lose control, we'd be lost in a sea of action and capitulation with no land in sight.

At difficult moments, therefore, I only want to remind us all not to complain. Our lives are really not so complicated. They're closed up rather well, we put so many limits and barriers in them to narrow the path for ourselves so that we don't get lost (so that we have a character as well).

One need not think about this with contempt. But with gratitude. Even joy. We close life up again and again, and it's possible to break out all at once. Paths have already been blazed for us in thought, and we stroll down them out of habit. But it must be possible to do otherwise. It must be. Otherwise like Motti we'll wander around our lives like a boy around a cat's corpse, poking it with a stick to make it wake up, to make it not wake up, it's not clear what this poking's about, that is, who's keeping him there and who he's punishing, the cat itself or death (certainly not the stick), and who he imagines is lying there with its tongue sticking out and gums withdrawing after death—his father, his mother, the dog waiting for him, still alive, at home? Not himself yet. Himself he hasn't yet imagined dead (or only very obliquely). Maybe no one at all, only this: the cat, death, the death of the cat.

Hey man, said Menachem on the telephone, because it was Wednesday, and the time was a little after six.

Hey Menachem, Motti said. How's it going?

Awesome, Menachem said. You feel like maybe catching a movie?

A movie? Motti was surprised, an unjustifiable lump stuck in his throat, because it was Wednesday, and for years now they've gone out in the evening to drink in exactly the same pub, each ordering a half liter for starters (afterward Menachem would continue with other drinks, and joke around with the waitress). What movie? Where? I don't know if that really makes sense for me today.

What are you getting stressed about, you? Menachem laughed. Drop it, just drop it. I thought we'd catch a movie, but we don't have to. Be downstairs in an hour, we'll get a drink.

Yeah, sure. Motti was embarrassed. In an hour downstairs, man.

And an hour later he was indeed downstairs, as usual. Menachem, who was a little early, was already there, having trouble with the baby's car seat, which was securely fastened in front. The son of a bitch won't come off, said Menachem. Wait a bit, I'll be with you in a sec.

Pulled, pushed, and in the end it came loose, the son of a bitch, and Motti got in the car, picking up two pacifiers and a bottle with a colorful nipple from the floor before putting on his seatbelt. They went downtown, drove around for a few minutes and looked for a place to park close by, in the end Menachem squeezed real tight between two cars, dismissed with a scornful snort a little bump that also set off the alarm of the car in front of him, and a moment or two later they were already sitting down in their place and ordering.

So what's with Edna? Motti asked. And how are the kids?

What sweeties! Menachem said enthusiastically. They're my life, they are. I'm fucking crazy about them. Beautiful like their mother, and smarter than their father (a thousand times you could ask him the same questions, a thousand times you'd get the same answers; from Motti's perspective it was definitely reassuring). And what's with you, eh? Let me tell you, until you get yourself one of these kids, you won't understand what this whole stinking life is worth at all. This whole fucking life.

Sat quietly and drank. I almost forgot! (Menachem suddenly announced and sent his hand into his bag.) I got you that movie you wanted.

Man (Motti was happy), where'd you find it? Do you know how long I've been looking for this?

I know, of course I know, Menachem said. Otherwise I wouldn't have tried so hard in the first place.

This is so great (Motti said and caressed the cassette absentmindedly). What, was it hard to find?

Nonsense, Menachem said dismissively. What are friends for, eh?

This is so great (Motti repeated, still caressing). Listen, I owe you.

Nonsense, Menachem said, and hello hello, he said to the waitress passing by their table, be a sweetheart and bring two more like this to me and my brother here, will you? What an ass on that one (he said to Motti when the waitress moved away from their table, sending a long look after her). Why won't you talk to her, maybe get something out of it, eh?

I don't think so, Motti said.

Why overthink it? Menachem wondered (and justly, to a not-insignificant extent). I'm telling you, looks to me that since I got married there's only more pussy in the world. A man could wander around all day with sore balls just from looking, and you, it's not like you already have someone to unwind with, right? Or do you have someone you're not telling your brother about? Don't get me wrong, okay? You're a stand-up guy, you know I'm fucking crazy about you, but sometimes I look at you and say, I swear on my mother, once again the Holy-One-Blessed-is-He gave nuts to someone without teeth (and again he laughed; at his own wit). Just say the word and I'll get that waitress's telephone number. (She now returned to the table with two glasses. Thanks, sweetie, Menachem said to her, and she smiled.) So, lucky for you that you teach elementary, huh? Menachem laughed. Think if you were teaching high school, what sore balls, huh? All day those young girls around, I swear on my mother, if back then you would have told me that someday I'd want them even more than I did then, I would have laughed in your face.

Motti shifted in place uncomfortably.

My God, Menachem said, just don't go getting all offended, huh? Listen, my man, Menachem continues and pats his shoulder, you're so sensitive, you know I'm crazy about you.