Between Friends (15 page)

“Maftsir. Wolff Maftsir. From the law firm Lotem and Pruzhinin. Pleased to meet you, Mr. Zelnik. I have come, sir, on a matter, how should we put it, or perhaps instead of trying to describe it, we should come straight to the point. Do you mind if I sit down? It’s a rather personal affair. Not my own personal affair, heaven forbid—if it were, I would never dream of bursting in on you like this without prior notice. Although, in fact, we did try, we certainly did, we tried several times, but your telephone number is unlisted and our letters went unanswered. Which is why we decided to try our luck with an unannounced visit, and we are very sorry for the intrusion. This is definitely not our usual practice, to intrude on the privacy of others, especially when they happen to reside in the most beautiful spot in the whole country. One way or another, as we have already remarked, this is on no account just our own personal business. No, no. By no means. In fact, quite the opposite: it concerns, how can we put it tactfully, it concerns your own personal affairs, sir. Your own personal affairs, not just ours. To be more precise, it relates to your family. Or perhaps rather to your family in a general sense, and more specifically to one particular member of your family. Would you object to us sitting and chatting for a few minutes? I promise you I’ll do my best to ensure that the whole matter does not take up more than ten minutes of your time. Although, in fact, it’s entirely up to you, Mr. Zelkin.”

“Zelnik,” Arieh said.

And then he said, “Sit down.”

“Not here, over there,” he added.

Because the fat man, or the formerly fat man, had first settled himself on the double swing seat, right next to his host, thigh to thigh. A cloud of thick smells clung to his body, smells of digestion, socks, talcum powder and armpits. A faint odor of pungent after-shave overlay the blend. Arieh Zelnik was suddenly reminded of his father, who had also covered his body odor with the pungent aroma of after-shave.

As soon as he was told to move, the visitor rose, swaying slightly, his simian arms holding his knees, apologized and deposited his posterior, garbed in trousers that were too big for him, at the indicated spot, on a wooden bench across the garden table. It was a rustic bench, made of roughly planed planks rather like railway ties. It was important to Arieh that his sick mother should not catch sight of this visitor, not even of his back, not even of his silhouette outlined against the arbor, which was why he had seated him in a place that was not visible from the window. As for his unctuous, cantorial voice, her deafness would protect her from that.

2

IT WAS THREE YEARS
since Arieh Zelnik’s wife, Na’ama, had gone off to visit her best friend Thelma Grant in San Diego and not come back. She had not written to say explicitly that she was leaving him, but had begun by hinting obliquely that she was not returning for a while. Six months later she had written: “I’m still staying with Thelma.” And subsequently: “No need to go on waiting for me. I’m working with Thelma in a rejuvenation studio.” And in another letter: “Thelma and I get on well together, we have the same karma.” And another time: “Our spiritual guide thinks that we shouldn’t give each other up. You’ll be fine. You’re not angry, are you?”

Their married daughter, Hilla, wrote from Boston: “Daddy, please, don’t put pressure on Mummy. That’s my advice. Get yourself a new life.”

And because he had long since lost contact with their elder child, their son Eldad, and he had no close friends outside the family, he had decided a year ago to get rid of his flat on Mount Carmel and move in with his mother in the old house in Tel Ilan, to live on the rent from two flats he owned in Haifa and devote himself to his hobby.

So he had taken his daughter’s advice and got himself a new life.

As a young man, Arieh Zelnik had served with the naval commandos. From his early childhood, he had feared no danger, no foe, no heights. But with the passage of the years he had come to dread the darkness of an empty house. That was why he had finally chosen to come back to live with his mother in the old house where he had been born and raised, on the edge of this village, Tel Ilan. His mother, Rosalia, an old lady of ninety, was deaf, very bent, and taciturn. Most of the time she let him take care of the household chores without making any demands or suggestions. Occasionally, the thought occurred to Arieh Zelnik that his mother might fall ill, or become so infirm that she could not manage without constant care, and that he would be forced to feed her, to wash her and to change her diapers. He might have to employ a nurse, and then the calm of the household would be shattered and his life would be exposed to the gaze of outsiders. And sometimes he even, or almost, looked forward to his mother’s imminent decline, so that he would be rationally and emotionally justified in transferring her to a suitable institution and he would be left in sole occupancy of the house. He would be free to get a beautiful new wife. Or, instead of finding a wife, he could play host to a string of young girls. He could even knock down some internal walls and renovate the house. A new life would begin for him.

But in the meantime the two of them, mother and son, went on living together calmly and silently in the gloomy old house. A cleaner came every morning, bringing the shopping from a list he had given her. She tidied, cleaned and cooked, and after serving mother and son their midday meal she silently went on her way. The mother spent most of the day sitting in her room reading old books, while Arieh Zelnik listened to the radio in his own room or built model aircraft out of balsa wood.

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Born in Jerusalem in 1939, A
MOS
O
Z
is the author of numerous works of fiction and essays. His international awards include the Prix Femina, the Israel Prize, and the Frankfurt Peace Prize, and his books have been translated into more than thirty languages. He lives in Israel.