The Others, Sarah Blau [hardest books to read txt] 📗

after he talked about Miriam (“the eldest sister”), Michal (“the king’s daughter”) and Leah (“the dutiful wife”), Dina leaned towards us (a faint whiff of cinnamon) and whispered, “Nothing good can come out of a man who views Miriam the prophetess as merely someone’s ‘sister.’”

The whisper echoed clearly through the auditorium, and the grey blob fell silent. His eyes cast about for the whisperer. Dina remained upright in her chair, unblinking, and I think that was the moment I realized I was sitting near to a fearless woman. Since I myself happened to be of the fear-riddled variety, I shrunk in my seat, and I think Naama did the same. The lecturer cleared his throat (I imagined it full of grey, cement-like phlegm), and said, “For your information, we will also be reviewing the character of Lilith, which our sages of blessed memory called – ” and right then Ronit burst into the classroom, billowing black hair, mouth painted a fiery red, darting towards our row and collapsing into the last chair with a thud, just when the lecturer said, “ – the unnamed woman, wicked, evil, whore.”

“Jeez, thanks a lot,” Ronit said in affront. Naama and I burst into laughter, while Dina tried to explain to her in loud whispers that he was talking about Lilith, who was actually an admirable figure. That was the straw that broke the blob’s back, and eventually we were all kicked out of the classroom.

It was a warm, sun-stricken day, and we squinted at each other with slightly bashful smiles of early acquaintance, as we walked towards the bright grass mounds by the cafeteria. At this point of the story we were all alive.

“So back in college you were all close friends?” Once again that innocent tone belying more questions, none of them pleasant.

“The closest,” I reply.

“How close?”

“I just told you, the closest.”

“Lesbians?” While not a single muscle in his face moves, I almost fall off my armchair. You don’t want that, the floor’s sticky and full of hairballs. Obviously, I shouldn’t be surprised; it always lingered in the air around Dina, a subtle but persistent aroma of whispers and rumours. At the bottom of every article about her, in the usual clump of comments, there were always some along the lines of “You disgusting lonely lesbian, you want to make everyone barren like you?” Once I almost informed one of them that most lesbians in fact do become mothers eventually, but it didn’t feel like the right place to pursue that parley.

“Tell me, why is every strong woman immediately suspected of lesbianism?”

“Maybe it’s just our way of coping.”

He lowers his eyes with feigned humility, perfectly aware that he has just spewed out one the most inane psychologisms of all times, our way of coping with it, pfff! The atmosphere in the room shifts again, I just can’t figure out in which direction.

“We were close friends in the traditional sense of the term,” I say, trying to sound as frank as possible, “what you’re talking about is mostly fantasies inspired by American college movies.”

“Ulpana isn’t that different,” he says, with surprising insight into the world of the all-girls religious high school.

He’s right. Girls are the same everywhere, the only difference being the abrupt change forced on you after years of being surrounded by only girls in the cushioning ulpana, when suddenly you’re plummeted into college life where you’re besieged with men. I remember what a struggle it was for me at first; I couldn’t concentrate in class whenever a man happened to sit down next to me. Any male who innocently enquired where the Xerox machine was immediately found himself cast in the role of potential groom. Luckily, Dina and Ronit came along and saved me from all that. I mean, that’s what I thought at the beginning.

“So why did that beautiful college friendship end?”

I wonder how much he knows exactly, reminding myself to proceed with caution, like a schoolgirl taking a test, knowing every point counts.

“I think you know,” I say.

“You’re right,” he says, “that famous intuition at work.” And he finishes his coffee, puts the mug down and asks in a rather friendly tone if I happen to have anything to eat.

Caught in the act. I have nothing to offer, neither a nosh nor a nibble. What kind of mother will you be? I open every kitchen cupboard, knowing perfectly well what I’ll find there – that pile of awful candy from the corner store, half a box of stale cookies and a chocolate bar from the Elite kosher line for the ultra-Orthodox, which is barely a step above compound chocolate. A scene from Mermaids flashes before me – when Winona Ryder wants to make sandwiches for her object of infatuation, “a real sandwich, one that a man can sink his teeth into,” and then her mother comes along (Cher, no less), and with the stroke of a cookie-cutter cuts them up into tacky little star-shaped sandwiches. Boom!

When I step back into the living room, I see he has moved a few things around the table, making room as if expecting a feast. I lower my gaze to the bowl in my hand, which contains two cookies and six squares of chocolate, suddenly noticing its lip is dirty. What kind of mother will you be?

“I understand you were a group of four,” he says, and sinks his teeth into a piece of chocolate. “And then one of you passed away, and the beautiful friendship dissolved.” He licks his lips when saying “passed away,” and I think, what a pretty expression, “passed away,” reserved, noble: “Naama passed away.”

He takes another piece of chocolate, so old and stale you can barely see the symbol imprinted on it, shoves it into his mouth and starts sucking slowly, as if he has all the time in the world. We both know what he’s waiting for.

“Naama committed suicide,” I say. “Went and hanged herself.”

“Sad story,” he says, but doesn’t sound the least bit sad; in fact,