Scenes From Village Life - Amos Oz [58]
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A YEAR OR TWO after the boy's death, Dalia Levin became interested in Far Eastern spirituality. She was head of the village library council, and it was on her initiative that a meditation group was started there. Every six weeks she had a community singing evening in her home. I used to attend these evenings occasionally, and because they accepted that I was a confirmed bachelor, whenever I brought a girlfriend along with me they greeted her warmly. This evening I had come on my own, with a bottle of Merlot for my hosts and the intention of sitting in my usual place, between the bookcase and the aquarium.
Dalia threw herself into those evenings in her home: she organized, phoned around, invited, greeted, seated, directed the singing from the songbooks that she had photocopied herself. Ever since the tragedy, she had given herself over to frenetic activity. Besides the library council and the meditation and the musical evenings, she had all kinds of committees and councils, yoga classes, study days, conferences, workshops, meetings, lectures, courses and excursions.
As for Avraham Levin, he became quite reclusive. Every morning at six-thirty precisely he started his car and drove to work at the Aerospace Research Center, where he specialized in the development of various systems. After work, at five-thirty or six, he came straight home. In summer he changed into an undershirt and shorts and worked in the garden for an hour or so. Then he showered, had a light supper on his own, fed the cat and the goldfish, and settled down to read while listening to music and waiting for his wife to come home. He generally preferred baroque music, but sometimes he listened to Fauré or Debussy, or to jazz of the introspective variety.
In winter, when it was dark by the time he got home, he would lie down fully dressed on the rug next to the sofa in the living room, listening to music and waiting for Dalia to come home from her meeting or class. At ten o'clock he went up to his room. They had abandoned their shared bedroom after the tragedy, and now slept in separate rooms at opposite ends of the house. No one went into the old bedroom: its shutters were permanently closed.
On Saturdays, summer and winter alike, Avraham went for a long walk shortly before sunset. He skirted the village from the south, crossing fields and orchards, and reentered it from the north. He would go briskly past the water tower on its three concrete legs, walk the whole length of Founders Street, turn left into Synagogue Street, cross the Pioneers' Garden, cross Tribes of Israel Street and return home along Pumphouse Rise. If he passed anyone he knew, he would nod a greeting without stopping or slowing down. Sometimes he did not even acknowledge the passerby, but kept on walking in a straight line, too deep in thought to notice.
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AS I WAS SITTING down in my usual corner, between the aquarium and the bookcase, somebody called my name. I looked around but could not see who it was. On my right sat a woman in her fifties with her hair tied back in a little bun. I didn't know her. Opposite me, just the window, with the darkness and rain beyond. To my left the tropical fish swam behind the glass of the aquarium. Who could have called me? Maybe I had imagined it. Meanwhile, the sounds of conversation had died down and Dalia Levin was making announcements about the evening's program. There would be a break at ten o'clock, when a buffet supper would be served. Wine and cheese would be served at midnight precisely. She also announced the dates of the next meetings of the group.
I turned to the woman sitting next to me and introduced myself in a whisper, asking if she played an instrument. She whispered that her name was Dafna Katz and that she used to play the recorder but had given it up long ago. She said no more. She was tall and very thin, with glasses, and her hands seemed long and