A Tale of Love and Darkness - Amos Oz [129]
Time and again Auntie Greta would plunge into the little cubicle, from which she emerged after what seemed like years. Time and again this broad-beamed Aphrodite was reborn from the foam, bursting from behind the curtain in a new and ever more glamorous incarnation. For my benefit and for that of the salesperson and the other shoppers she would turn on her heel a couple of times in front of the mirror. Despite her heavy thighs she enjoyed executing a coquettish pirouette, and inquired of us each in turn whether it suited her, whether it flattered her, whether it clashed with the color of her eyes, whether it hung well, didn't it make her look fat, wasn't it rather common, a bit brash? As she did so, her face reddened, and because she was embarrassed at blushing, she blushed again, that blood red verging on purple. Finally she promised the salesperson earnestly that she would almost certainly be back the same day, in fact very shortly, after lunch, by the end of the afternoon, when she'd had time just to look around some other shops, tomorrow at the very latest.
So far as I can recall, she never went back. On the contrary, she was always very careful not to visit the same shop twice until several months had elapsed.
And she never bought anything. At any rate, from all the excursions on which I accompanied her in the role of escort, arbiter elegantiarum, and confidant she returned empty-handed. Perhaps she did not have enough money. Perhaps the curtained changing cubicles in all the women's clothes shops in Jerusalem were for Auntie Greta what the wizard's castle I built from bricks at the edge of the mat was for the shabby princess doll.
Until one day, one windy winter's day when throngs of rustling leaves eddied in the gray light, Auntie Greta and I, hand in hand, arrived at a splendid large clothes store, perhaps in one of the Christian Arab streets. As usual, Auntie Greta, laden with dressing gowns, nightgowns, and colorful dresses, disappeared into the fitting rooms, though not before giving me a sticky kiss and sitting me down to wait for her on a wooden stool in front of her solitary confinement cell, which was protected by a thick curtain. Promise me now you won't go anywhere, on any account, heaven forbid, just sit here and wait for me, and above all don't talk to any stranger until Auntie Greta comes out again even prettier than ever, and if you're a good boy, you'll get a little surprise from Auntie Greta, guess what it is!
While I was sitting waiting for her, sadly but obediently, all of a sudden a little girl tripped by, dressed up as though for a carnival, or else just dolled up. She was very young but older than me. For an instant I had the impression she was wearing lipstick, but how could she be? And they'd made her a sort of chest like a woman's with a cleft down the middle. The shape of her waist and hips was not like a child's, but violinlike. On her little legs I managed to see nylons with a seam at the back, ending in a pair of pointy red high-heeled shoes. I had never seen such a child-woman: too little to be a woman and too dressed up to be a child. So I stood up, fascinated and bewildered, and started to follow her to see what I had seen, or rather what I had almost not seen, because the girl had darted out from the rail of skirts behind me and walked past very fast. I wanted to see her close up. I wanted her to see me. I wanted to do or say something that would make her notice me: I already had a little repertoire that could draw cries of admiration from grown-ups, and one or two that worked quite well with children too, especially little girls.
The dressed-up little girl floated lightly between rows of shelves weighed down with bales of cloth and disappeared down a tunnel-like passage lined on either side with tall tree trunks festooned with dresses, branches almost broken under the weight of their colorful cloth foliage. Despite their weight, these trunks could be turned around with a light push.
It was a women's world,