Fima - Amos Oz [47]
he would look at me over the top of his glasses, with his chin dropped on his chest, with a slightly surprised expression, as though I was new to him, as though I had changed completely, and he would let out a low whistle. If I hadn't known him so many years, I might have imagined he had taken up wolf-whistling. Today I think I didn't begin to understand that look of his. Then our daughter is called up to the army, and a year ago our son is called up too; he was accepted for the army orchestra. The house seems empty. We generally go to bed at ten-thirty. We leave a light on so the garden won't be pitch-black at night. The two cars stand outside, silent under the carport. Except twice a week, when he docs a night shift at the hospital and I sit in front of the TV until sign-off. Recently I've taken up painting. Just for myself. Without any pretensions. Even though Yeri suggested showing my pictures to an expert in case they're worth anything. I said, whether they're worth anything or not, that's not what interests me. Yeri said, Azoy. And then it hit me. One day, it was a Saturday morning six weeks ago—if only I'd bitten my tongue and said nothing—I said to him: Yeri, if growing old is like this, then why should we worry about it? What's wrong with it? He suddenly stands up, facing Yossel Bregner's "Butterfly Eaters" on the wall—do you know it?—he gave me the print once as a birthday present. Anyway, he stands there all tense and strained, lets out a low whistle between his teeth, as if he's just noticed a line in the picture that wasn't there before, or that he's never spotted, and he says: Speak for yourself. I'm not even thinking about growing old just yet. And there's something in his voice, in the angle of his back, which seems to have stiffened and hunched, like a hyena's, and the redness of the back of his neck—I'd never noticed before how red it is—which makes me shrink into my armchair with fear. Has something happened, Yen? It's like this, he says, I'm very sorry, but I've got to get out. I can't take any more. I've just got to. You must understand. Twenty-six years now I've been dancing to your tune like a tame bear; now I feel like dancing to my own tune for a change. I've already rented a small flat. It's all fixed up. Apart from my clothes and books, and the dog, I won't take anything with me. You must understand: I have no choice. I've had it up to here with lying. Then he turns and goes into his study, and he comes back carrying two suitcases—he must have packed them in the night—and he heads for the front door. But what have I done, Yen? You must understand, he says, it's not you, it's her. She can't stand the lies anymore. She can't stand seeing me being used as your doormat. And I can't live without her. I would suggest, he says from the doorway, that you try not to be difficult, Annette. Don't make any scenes. It'll be easier for the children that way. Just imagine I've been killed. You must understand, I'm suffocating. With that, he taps lightly on the doorjamb, whistles to the dog, starts the Peugeot, and disappears. The whole thing has taken maybe a quarter of an hour. Next day when he called, I hung up. Two days after that he called again; I wanted to hang up again but I didn't have the strength. Instead I pleaded with him, Come back and I promise to be better. Just tell me what I did wrong, and I won't do it again. And he kept repeating, in his doctor's voice, as though I were a hysterical woman patient, You must understand, it's all over. I'm not crying because I'm angry, Efraim. I'm crying because I fed insulted, humiliated. Two weeks ago he sends me this little lawyer, incredibly polite; apparently he's of Persian origin. He sits bolt upright in Yeri's chair, and I'm almost surprised he doesn't tap on the arm or whistle at me through his teeth, and he starts to explain: Look here, madam, you will get at least twice as much from him as any rabbinic or civil court would dream of giving you. If I were you, I'd jump at our offer, because the plain truth, madam, is that in my whole professional life