World Cup Wishes

6

IN YA’ARA’S ROOM in her parents’ house, there was a huge picture of her as a child. And when I say huge, I mean an actual poster that hung above her bed in a red frame. I remember that the first time we slept together in that room, I could feel Ya’ara the child watching us, which added a certain element of perversion to everything that happened between us that night. The Ya’ara in the poster was a beautiful girl with caramel-coloured hair and a ribbon in it, mischievous, not entirely innocent eyes, and light-skinned calves that emerged from her short, dark jeans. But not even all that beauty explained the enormous size of the poster and the fact that it continued to hang in her room long after her childhood had ended.

Don’t look for explanations, Yuval. I left that picture on the wall just because it makes me feel good, that’s all, she answered when I asked.

Those visits to her parents’ home in Rehovot also made her feel good. She didn’t understand why my trips to Haifa were steeped in a sense of disappointment even before I set out. And why every time we left to go back to Tel Aviv, I would heave a sigh of relief. OK, they really did treat her like a princess in her house. She had three older brothers who were a bit in love with her, and were thrilled to see her whenever she made her entrance. So tell me, brother, can you still see your feet? she’d tease the eldest brother as she rubbed his architect’s swelling pot belly. Then she would sniff her second brother’s cheeks and say that his aftershave made her dizzy, simply made her dizzy. And finally, she and the third brother would give each other the special ‘swan’s hug’ they’d invented when they were kids, where one of them thrust their neck into the hollow of the other’s neck.

The three brothers competed to see who could compliment her more, make her laugh more and pamper her more. But none of them had a chance against her father, who was both her strict boss at work and her chief admirer at home. And something in all that inspired Ya’ara with confidence in her femininity, and gave her some very practical knowledge about how men worked. Yet there was something about it that diminished her. That trapped her in the geisha role and drew her to it with silk threads again and again, even when something inside her wanted very much to escape.

At home, they called her little Ya’ara. She took gender courses and talked about independence and feminism and self-realisation, and she had a clearly defined opinion on almost every subject, but they continued to call her little Ya’ara and treat her with admiration that bordered on patronising.

She didn’t feel that. She loved it when they called her little Ya’ara and loved going there for Friday night dinners, and I loved her and wasn’t sure that my entire diagnosis of her family wasn’t just a cover for the jealousy I felt because she had such a happy family and I didn’t. And in any case, I knew that she’d soon put together her ninety-one thousand dollars, stand on the moving walkway at the airport waving goodbye to her father and all her brothers and take off for London to fulfil her dreams. And at some point, I would join her in the white, warm apartment she’d have in Golders Green because it’s always good to have someone with you who speaks English fluently. And because we’d still be a couple, of course.

*

I have only five or six pictures of the grown-up Ya’ara. And just one of us together, taken on the outing in Haifa that I planned for us.

It was a few weeks after we’d started going out and I wanted to show her that Haifa wasn’t what she thought, so I convinced her to take a day off and we drove north, and at Atlit we turned right so that our first entrance into the city would be on the winding, forested Beit Oren road, and she said, wow, this is like being in another country, and I said, wait, you ain’t seen nothin’ yet, and I stopped for a few minutes at that spot, at the crest of the mountain where you can see both sides of the sea, and then we drove down along the route of my childhood, the Moriah road, to the Bahai Temple, whose opening hours I’d checked in advance, and we parked there, in the large observation garden, and caught our breaths at the sight of the glittering white marble steps that had been carved with such mathematical precision, and at the beautifully tended, brightly coloured gardens that surrounded us with their symmetrical forms, and then we surreptitiously joined a group of tourists to hear the Bahai guide explain that ‘the beauty of the gardens is meant to act on their beholder like background music and create an unconscious harmony that will enable him to listen to himself’. I wonder what they’re hiding under these gardens, Ya’ara whispered, and when the group had moved away a bit, she put her head on my shoulder and said, but you know, that whole business about unconscious harmony really works, ever since we came here, I’m a lot calmer, and I said, shame there’s no Bahai branch in Tel Aviv, and she kissed me on the mouth and said, thanks, thanks for showing me all this beauty, and later, when we left, she smiled and said, maybe you’ll become a Bahai? You’re organised too, an aesthetics freak, and I said, not a bad idea, there’s just one small problem, I think the Bahais are only allowed to be with other Bahais, and she laughed, for you I’m ready to be a Bahai too, and then we walked hand in hand to the panoramic promenade I’d already strolled along with other girls, promising myself that one day I’d come back here with one that I truly loved, and here I was, and here was Ya’ara. Look down, I told her, that’s the port, I said, and on the other side, you can see the old city of Acre, and there in the distance are the Galilee mountains, and even further away is Syria.

It’s getting a bit chilly — I remember her saying — and I gave her my jacket even though I was cold too, and she put it on and hugged me from behind with her slender arms, and we leaned on the railings and watched together as evening fell on the bay and small lights were turned on in the houses, and rivers of light began to flow on the roads, and she said, what a perfect day you planned for us. And I thought how amazing it was that nothing had gone wrong so far, that usually, when I over-plan and have high expectations, something happens to ruin everything, but this time — this time, no. From the minute we left the house, everything had gone smoothly, and the weather was good, contrary to the forecast for rain, and we didn’t even meet people who knew me from high school, the thing I was most afraid of, for some reason. Later though, on the way to the car park, a car passed and someone inside wearing a white T-shirt yelled: hey, you two don’t go together! But that was so bizarre, so out of the blue that we decided we must have heard wrong and he had actually shouted, ‘Hey, how’s the weather?’ or ‘Hey, Green Monkeys for ever!’ which is the nickname for Maccabi Haifa’s most ardent fans. And in any case, there’s no sign of that strange shout in the picture, or of the fact that two weeks later she would leave me.

In the picture, we look like a pair of European tourists on their honeymoon in Haifa: Ya’ara has that half-mischievous half-serious look in her eyes, the one that makes everyone want her, and I look taller than in reality, and in the bottom corner of the frame, the photographer — a security guard in the Panorama Shopping Centre who Ya’ara enticed into leaving his post — managed to capture a large white ship that was making its way back into the port, or perhaps sailing out of it. At that point, it was hard to tell the difference.

*

Ya’ara didn’t come to the last day of the shiva. On the whole, there were fewer people. And most of the black chairs remained black. There were mostly family members at Amichai’s side, and perhaps it was the absence of witnesses that allowed the money issue to come to the surface.

It had popped up a few times even before then.

One day, a tall man had asked in a low voice whether they intended to file suit.

Someone from Givat HaMacam talked about a woman from their kibbutz who was left with an ugly scar on her knee after undergoing hair removal by laser, and she was awarded one hundred thousand shekels compensation. But that was before privatisation, so she was screwed because it was actually the kibbutz that got the money. She looked over at Amichai when she finished the story, but Amichai kept silent on that subject too, just as he’d kept silent on other subjects. As the days passed, his silence had turned from being a threatening and deeply meaningful one that sucked all the air out of the room, into the kind that everyone there had grown used to: they still had a certain respect for it, but allowed themselves, more and more, to ignore it.

Till the last day –

Speaking into the space of the room, Ilana’s aunt said that she had consulted with the attorney for the company where she worked and he told her that they could expect at least one million in compensation. At least!

And a distant cousin of Amichai’s — she too addressing no one in particular — said that a lot depended on the attorney. And that they should invest in a good one because, in the end, it would pay off.

And a widowered accountant, who every day of the shiva had described in detail — whether it was appropriate or not — the difficult time he’d had after his wife’s death, took a fountain pen out of his shirt pocket, unscrewed the cap and said that they should also take into account the deceased’s life insurance, so the final amount could grow to two million shekels and even more.

And Ilana’s brother mumbled, a million, two million, what does it matter. Nothing will bring her back.

And Ilana’s mother said, at least the children will be taken care of.

And Amichai’s mother sighed — a sigh of both sadness and surprise — two million is money. Maybe you’ll finally be able to move into a more spacious house.

And Ilana’s brother, no longer mumbling, said what do you mean, a house? What do they need a new house for now? They’d be better off putting the money into a savings account.

Then the widower removed the cap from his fountain pen again and said, excuse me for butting in, but a house is an investment that can pay an excellent dividend. Especially the way the market is now, with such low prices because of this new Intifada.

And Ilana’s mother raised her voice, I don’t understand all this talk! Aren’t you ashamed? Obviously the money should go straight into a trust fund!!

And Amichai’s mother — who had been trying to hide her reservations about Ilana’s mother throughout the entire shiva, and it was that exaggerated attempt that gave her away over and over again — said: it’s obvious to you.

And Ilana’s mother narrowed her eyes and said, what does that mean?

And Amichai’s mother said, exactly what you think it means.

And Amichai rose from his chair, slowly, and for the first time that week, opened his mouth and said: enough.

Since I’d had nothing to contribute to the financial conversation, I’d been watching his facial expressions while it was taking place.

At first, his eyes were sunken, dark. His chin drooped. Defeated. The words seemed not to be reaching his ears. Then — perhaps he caught a snatch of something, a sliver of a word — his eyebrows were stirred into action and began to follow the exchange. Then his lower lip started to tremble and he tried to bite it, control it. But the trembling spread to his upper lip.

Then he stood up.

I looked into his eyes. I was sure I’d see a terrible fury in them, but no. To my surprise, the old, familiar spark was there, the one that always heralded a brilliant idea.

Enough, he said. I don’t want to hear this kind of talk. I earn enough money at Telemed to take care of my children’s future. And if there’s any compensation money … or insurance … I plan to use it for something else … something Ilana would have wanted …

What, for instance? Ilana’s brother asked, a touch of puzzlement in his voice.

I don’t know yet, Amichai replied, a bit embarrassed. Maybe I’ll establish some kind of non-profit organisation. An NPO. Maybe something else. I don’t know.

An NPO? For what? her brother persisted.

I just told you, I don’t know, Amichai replied reluctantly. And sat down. And wrapped himself in silence once again.

*

Yeah, right, Churchill said sceptically when I called to tell him what Amichai had said at the shiva.

He’s confused now, Ofir said. I’ve treated people in his condition and you shouldn’t take anything they say seriously.

*

But a month after Ilana’s death, the three of us received calls from Amichai. We’ll meet at my place, he told us. I want to ask your advice about the organisation.

I don’t know, Churchill said to me dubiously. It sounds like another one of those Amichai Tanuri far-fetched ideas. He doesn’t even know what this charitable organisation of his will be for. Mark my words: it’ll end with him wanting us to sing ‘Shimon My Man’ together.

He’s counting on the fact that I was a copywriter, Ofir complained to me, but I’m all rusty now when it comes to that whole business of … you know, words.

What does it matter, I said, trying to persuade them. Your friend wants help, so you help him. Then ask questions.

*

A few hours before we were supposed to meet, Amichai called to cancel. There was a tape of children’s songs playing too loudly in the background.

We had a rough night, he told me. I think they’re only just starting to comprehend it now. Noam called out to her in his sleep. And Nimrod got up this morning and said he wasn’t going to school till Mummy came back.

What did you tell him?

That it was OK not to go to school today. And then Noam decided that he didn’t want to go either.

Of course.

To cut a long story short, I promised them both I’d take them to the amusement park. And I don’t know when we’ll get home. And in what … condition. So I think we’ll postpone the meeting for a week. Will you let everyone know?

*

Maybe it’s better this way, Ofir said when I told him. So he doesn’t waste his … chi.

You see, I told you nothing ever comes of Amichai’s ideas, Churchill asserted, and didn’t show up at the first, historical meeting of the NPO, which took place — despite all our scepticism — a week later.

*

Where’s Churchill? Amichai asked when Ofir and I sat down. Maria and her daughter went to the twins’ room and Ofir watched them worriedly. Her big smile had shrunk during that time. She stopped hugging us. And she almost completely stopped working in the clinic. One night, Ofir got up to go to the toilet and saw her sitting and crying in the living room, so he sat down next to her and captured her tears with his tongue as they ran down her cheeks, and when she calmed down a bit, he suggested that they go to Denmark, maybe that would make her feel better, but that only made her angry and she started crying again and said that he doesn’t understand, he doesn’t understand anything, there are only seven hours of light in Denmark now, and darkness is dangerous for her, she’s afraid that the darkness will creep inside her and fill her from within, and besides, there are the twins, she can’t just get up and leave them.

She went to Amichai’s three times a week to be with them, and they were very happy to see her. Perhaps because they felt, with the sensitivity of children who’d just lost their mother, that while all the other grown-ups only pitied them, she also needed them. Or perhaps because her daughter, the object of their great love, came with her, and now that they were motherless, their love for her had become desperate.

*

Where’s Churchill? Amichai asked again.

He … he wanted to come, I said evasively. But he’s busy with that case of his, you know.

A look of bitter hurt flared in Amichai’s eyes. Too bad, he said, I especially wanted to hear what he had to say.

We were silent. We let his disappointment fade. Across from us, on the living room wall, hung a picture of Ilana. The serious expression. The pale freckles. The decisive nose. The vague sense of disappointment (with life? with herself?) around the lips. Of all the pictures of her, this was the one Amichai had chosen to enlarge — a picture that didn’t flatter her at all, but captured her as she truly was. I suddenly missed her, missed the good, simple, close conversations we could have had and never would. I missed her home-baked burekas. Her astute, psychological analyses. Her quiet, inexplicable liking for me.

It’s like this, Amichai said, bending towards us. It turns out that the compensation money from the insurance company isn’t as much as I thought. The clinic admits that they hid from her the fact that the operation could have complications, but they found some clause in the agreement form she signed that protects it. To cut a long story short, in the end, together with the insurance, we’re talking about a few hundred thousand shekels. But that has no bearing on our plan. I want to establish an NPO in Ilana’s name that will represent the patient’s side.

The patient? we asked. What do you mean?

You know, he said, looking at us both. When you go to the hospital … when the ambulance … with Ilana inside … reached the hospital … the paramedics ran into A & E with the trolley … and I ran in after them … I ran as fast as I could … but the guard stopped me. He wanted identification. I yelled that my wife was there, inside. So he said, ‘Please don’t shout, sir’, and checked me slowly … on purpose … that’s why I got inside about a minute after them. And no one could tell me where Ilana was. The nurses sent me to admissions. At admissions, they sent me back to the nurses. No one knew where she was. Finally, some patient who was sitting in the corridor — a patient, get it? — said that maybe they didn’t have time to admit her and I should check intensive care. I ran to intensive care and it turned out that she really was there. I asked to go inside … to see her … they said I couldn’t. I wasn’t allowed. I asked … so what am I supposed to do now? They told me to sit on the bench and wait for them to come to me. So I sat and waited for hours. I don’t know if it was hours, but it felt like hours. Let’s say that I sat there like a dog for at least an hour and no one came to talk to me. Then all of a sudden, some doctor yelled from inside, ‘Where’s Tanuri? Is Ta-nuri here?’ and the way he said my name … I can’t explain it … as if he thought it was funny … that already gave me a bad feeling about him … then he came over to me, and without introducing himself, he started asking me about Ilana … what illnesses she’d had … allergies to drugs … hereditary diseases … I answered him, and all the time, I was waiting for him to tell me what was happening … and he didn’t … so I finally asked him … what’s happening with her? And he didn’t answer … he didn’t give me an evasive answer, you understand … or a partial answer … it’s like … like I’m not there … and he turns around to go … so I saw red and I grabbed his shirt from behind and said, I want you to answer me, doctor, and he shoved my hand away … hard, you know … and said, don’t you raise your hand to me, Mr Tanuri … and I said … I didn’t raise my hand to you … I just asked … and he interrupted me and said it wasn’t his fault that we went to a private clinic instead of doing the cosmetic surgery in the hospital … was it?! That really made me mad … I didn’t understand what he was getting at … so I asked him straight out what his credentials were and if he was even qualified to treat cases like this … and again he didn’t answer me … so I said that I demanded a second opinion … and he shut up for a minute, then gave me a kind of crooked, disgusting smile and said, you want a second opinion? So take your wife and go to another hospital.

That’s what he said to you?! Ofir and I said.

Yes.

Unbelievable.

After he went, a nurse came over to me and said that Dr Gabrinsky is an excellent doctor. Don’t worry, you’re in good hands, she told me. And that … that just pissed me off even more, because the last thing I felt was that I was in good hands. So I sat in the corridor and thought I was going mad … that I was dying. There was no one to talk to. No one came over to me. Till morning. And all the time there was this strong smell of drugs and cottage cheese. Once every few minutes, there’d be a wave of the drug smell. And then a wave of the cottage cheese smell. I haven’t been able to eat cottage cheese since. I just hear the words cottage cheese and I remember that corridor. I sat there like some kind of homeless guy, like a soldier they forgot to relieve from guard duty, and at five in the morning, a different doctor, not Gabrinsky, came over to me. And from his face, I already knew it was over …

Amichai was choked up. The picture he was seeing in his mind must have been painfully sharp.

We poured him a glass of water. But he didn’t touch it.

He coughed and went on, the second doctor was actually OK. But that Gabrinsky. Where had he disappeared to at five in the morning? He didn’t have the guts to come and talk to me even … no … the fact that he didn’t even bother to come out to me … that’s what …

Maybe he had emergency surgery, Ofir tried to come up with a reason.

There’s nothing … nothing that should have kept him from coming out to talk to me … he couldn’t find someone to take over for him for a minute?

We didn’t say anything. A cold wind came in from the open balcony door, but no one got up to close it. The wind chimes that Maria had made for Ilana for her last birthday tinkled lightly.

But you know what? That’s how it is, Amichai said after a long moment, and his tone was more measured now. That’s how it is with public health. The patient is a nuisance. And the people who come with him are a disaster. You should have seen it. There was an Ethiopian family sitting in the corridor with me. They didn’t know Hebrew, so even when someone finally came to talk to them, they didn’t understand. How can it be that not even one person in the entire hospital speaks Amharic? Isn’t that outrageous?

We nodded. We didn’t dare take the chance of giving any other response.

You know, he went on, his eyes blazing, everything depends on the doctors’ good will. And it’s not that doctors are necessarily bad people. But the conditions they work under, the long shifts, the fatigue. A doctor goes to school for twelve years to get his licence, and in all those years, he doesn’t get any training in how to deal with patients on an emotional level. So for some, it comes naturally, and for others, it doesn’t. That’s how it is. Instead of being, well, a basic principle, it becomes a game of roulette. Which doctor just happens to be on duty when you come in, and whether he had a good night’s sleep.

Wait a minute, I don’t understand, I said, trying to clarify things. This is an NPO that will be against the medical establishment or for it? And what does it have to do with cosmetic surgery? It’s a whole different story, isn’t it?

You’re right, Amichai said, but his voice had lost none of its confidence. The whole thing isn’t fully formed yet. But you’re my friends, and I wanted to hear your opinion. I mean, how does it sound to you, you know, as a preliminary idea?

I didn’t say anything. On the one hand, I remembered all my severe asthma attacks and the helplessness I felt when I had to explain my condition (in as few words as possible — every word wasted valuable air) to impatient doctors. And once, they gave me the gown with the opening in the back and didn’t bother to tell me about it and I walked with it like that, open, to the nurses’ station. And there was the time when they asked me to take my medical file from one department to another, and I looked inside and saw that a doctor who had no authority to make that kind of diagnosis had written that I had ‘a slight tendency to melancholy’.

On the other hand, none of the doctors who treated me had abused me. Condescending, yes. But not abusive.

Then on still another hand, there was Amichai.

But an NPO? What do I know about such things?

I think it’s a great idea, Ofir said. It’s just what alternative medicine says, you have to treat a person holistically, not like just a collection of symptoms.

They both looked at me, waiting to hear my opinion. Even Ilana stared at me from the wall.

I think she would really like it, I said, pointing at her (and thought to myself that maybe she would be happier about an organisation to help the Palestinians at the checkpoints, but I knew there was no use bringing that up, because there was no way that Amichai, whose father had been killed by Palestinians in Lebanon, would be willing to establish that kind of organisation).

Yes, I also think she’d be for it, Amichai said and glanced quickly at Ilana’s picture, as if he was afraid that if he looked at for too long he might sink into it. And drown.

So what’s next? Ofir asked.

We meet here again in two weeks, Amichai said. Meanwhile, I’ll start a round of meetings to find out what forming an NPO entails. After all, we don’t have the slightest idea.

What about us, what’s our job?

Don’t let me give up, Amichai said. That’s all for now.

*

You think anything will come of all this? Ofir asked me when all four of us — Maria, her daughter, he and I — were on the street.

Honestly? No, I said. But what difference does it make? The main thing is that it’ll keep Amichai busy. So he won’t have time to think.

It’s a good thing he has the twins, Ofir said. It keeps his head above water. For the time being. If he didn’t have to get up in the morning for them — I don’t know what would happen to him.

Those children … Maria sighed, they’re … I don’t know.

How are they? I asked.

Nimrod’s OK, she said. He cries. He says he misses Lana. The way he should. The one who worries me is Noam. He’s too quiet. He leaves everything inside. That’s very bad for a child.

It’s very bad for an adult, too, Ofir said. Did you see how thin Amichai is? Did you notice that he didn’t touch any of the refreshments for the three hours we were there? And the blotch on his neck, did you see that the whole Galilee is suddenly gone? How can that be? And the balcony, did you notice that he opened the balcony? Only two years ago, they spent forty thousand shekels to close it off! Not to mention the puzzle, did you see the puzzle he has there? Two thousand pieces of the Titanic. The Titanic, get it? They’re all warning signs, I’m telling you. I’ve been there, in that state. He’s going through the motions, but we have to watch him all the time. Because if, God forbid, he does something to himself, we’ll never forgive ourselves.