A Tale of Love and Darkness - Amos Oz [233]
As for Father, he suddenly showed signs of cheerfulness at this time, for no apparent reason, which he made every effort to disguise. He hummed to himself, chuckled for no reason, and once, when he didn't notice me, I caught sight of him leaping and jumping in the yard as though he had been stung. He often went out in the evening and came back only after I was asleep. He had to go out, he said, because my light went out at nine and in their room Mother couldn't stand the electric light. Every evening she would sit in the dark in her chair by the window. He tried sitting with her, next to her, in silence, as though he were sharing her suffering, but his cheery, impatient nature didn't let him sit motionless like that for more than three or four minutes.
49
AT FIRST Father withdrew to the kitchen in the evenings. He tried to read, or to spread out his books and note cards on the worn oilcloth and work a little. But the kitchen was too small and cramped, and he felt confined there. He was a man who thrived on company, he loved arguing and joking, he loved light, and if he was made to sit on his own night after night in that depressing kitchen, with no clever wordplay, no historical or political debate, his eyes misted over with a sort of childish sulkiness.
Mother suddenly laughed and said to him:
"Go and play outside for a bit."
She added:
"Only take care. There are all sorts of people out there. They're not all as kindhearted and straightforward as you are."
"Shto ty ponimayesh?" Father exploded. "Ty ne normalnaya? Vidish malchik!"
Mother said:
"Sorry."
He always asked her permission before he went out. He never went out before he had finished all the chores: putting the shopping away, washing up, hanging out the wash, bringing in the wash. Then he would polish his shoes, take a shower, splash on some of the new aftershave he had bought for himself, put on a clean shirt, carefully choose a suitable tie, and, still holding his jacket, he would bend over my mother and say:
"Are you really sure you don't mind if I go out to see some friends? Have a chat about the political situation? Talk about work? Tell me the truth."
Mother never objected. But she adamantly refused to listen when he tried to tell her where he was going.
"Just try not to make too much noise when you come in, Arieh."
"I will."
"Good night. Off you go."
"You really don't mind if I go out? I won't stay out late."
"I really don't mind. And you can come home when you like."
"Do you need anything else?"
"Thank you. No, I don't need anything. Amos is here to look after me."
"I won't be late."
And after another little hesitant silence:
"All right then. So is that OK? I'm off? See you soon. Hope you feel better. Try to get into bed, don't fall asleep in the chair."
"I'll try."
"Good night then? See you? I promise I won't make a noise when I come in, it won't be late."
"Go."
He straightened his jacket, adjusted his tie, and left, humming as he walked past my window in a warm voice but hair-raisingly out of tune: "So long is the road and so winding the way, you're farther away than the moon..." Or "What are they saying, your eyes, your eyes, without ever saying a word..."
Her insomnia came from her migraine. The doctor prescribed all kinds of sleeping pills and tranquilizers, but none of them helped. She was afraid of going to bed, and spent every night in her chair, draped in a blanket, with a cushion under her head and another one hiding her face; perhaps she tried to sleep like that. The slightest disturbance made her start: the wailing of lovesick cats, distant gunfire in Sheikh Jarrah or Isawiya, the muezzin's call at dawn from a minaret in Arab Jerusalem, across the border. If Father turned out all the lights, she was afraid of the dark; if he left a light on in the corridor,