Chapter 2 #2
In the morning, after stashing fresh rolls in the bread bin, Halimi sat down beside me on the bed.
He stroked my head, and I opened drowsy eyes, my hand searching for his.
“How was it with Liloosh?” I mumbled. Lily was still undergoing a period of adjustment at her new preschool, and I was grateful to Halimi for not stressing over her predictable morning tears when he parted from her in the preschool yard.
“Awesome, she barely cried,” Halimi answered, pleased with himself.
“There’s a kid there who cries much more than Lily,” he added.
He leaned forward and planted a gentle kiss on my nose.
He continued kissing me, traversing my mouth, then my neck, his hands gathering up all my warm flesh.
“Are you trying to take advantage of me?” I asked, tingling a little at his touch.
“Absolutely,” Halimi replied. He spread my legs with his knee.
“I’m not in the mood to fool around. Let’s just fuck, okay?”
“No problem at all,” Halimi said, and I flipped over onto my belly.
Later, he announced that his mom was arriving from France in a couple of days.
Predictably, this filled me with both happiness and anxiety.
My relationship with Simone Halimi was suffused with affection and mutual interests, but there was something else.
She’d immigrated to Israel from France alone, about forty-five years ago—a young widow, pregnant, with two small children.
She got by thanks to an extensive network of family connections and sheer willpower.
She worked for years as a secretary in one of the government offices, steadily working her way up to the most senior position.
She had returned to Paris ten and a half years ago, completed her graduate studies, and continued on to a PhD, specializing in medieval illuminated manuscripts.
She married Richard, a Frenchman who was both loaded and highly cultured.
Together, they led an exceptionally enviable life.
She would send photos of herself and Richard via WhatsApp—hanging out in an Alpine chalet or gallivanting around a millinery shop.
She was going to celebrate her seventieth birthday next year, but anyone looking at her from behind would dramatically underestimate her age.
From the front, the years of struggle were plain to see, but her face projected beauty and fortitude.
Her thick hair was white and hung over her shoulders with a vintage hair clip.
The first time I saw her, I knew that this was how I wanted to age. I also knew I didn’t stand a chance.
Halimi adored Simone. He worshipped her, and she accepted his adoration with magnanimity and love.
Whenever she came to Israel, he picked her up from the airport, whatever the weather or time of day.
He made a point of bringing a flower to present to her in the arrival hall.
Sometimes it withered a little before reaching her ladyship, but the thought was what counted, and Simone always inhaled the scent of the flower with joy.
With a mother-in-law like that, it didn’t matter how much affection or how many mutual interests we shared.
I always felt like the dirt the flower was plucked from.
“Let’s get the hell out of here,” Halimi said.
Eran and Hila had enough money to rent a spacious apartment with a massive roof on a quiet street in the city center, not to mention classy catering and expensive drinks for a thirty-second birthday party.
Halimi and I were among the last to leave, and now we were obstructing the cleaning crew that had invaded the roof—clearing tables, folding chairs, disposing of leftover food, and scrubbing down surfaces.
We took leave of our friends and went out into the quiet gloaming of Tel Aviv on a Friday evening.
Here and there, traditional Sabbath melodies wafted through the air. It always amused me to hear them in the mostly secular metropolis, but it also soothed me. A few sparrows fluttered between power lines and ficus trees. Bicycles whizzed by, pedaled by hipsters, young families, delivery boys.
The vodka was rushing through my blood, and I was afraid I was going to throw up or pass out. “Wait up a minute,” I said and sat down on a low stone wall.
“Are you okay?” Halimi asked.
“I told you I don’t drink,” I replied.
“What kind of a Russian are you?” Halimi retorted. “You should keep on drinking so you’ll feel better.” I laughed, which encouraged him to continue. “I’ll tell you what: We’ll go get something to eat. I went to an excellent Japanese place yesterday—do you like Japanese food?”
I thought about it for a moment.
“I love it, but I don’t think sushi is going to do me any good right now,” I said. “I’d rather take a nap.”
Halimi scrutinized me. “Come to my place,” he finally said. “I give you my word, I won’t take advantage of you.” I rolled my eyes at him but couldn’t suppress a smile. “Not right away, in any case,” he added.
“So, what will you do with me?” I asked. “Do you live far from here?”
“I’d be happy just to watch you nap,” Halimi said. “And I live right here, just around the corner.”
Later, he said he found me sweet. I had laughed when he tried to flatter me, while my eyes said, “Give me a break” and my hand pushed him away.
I had looked him right in the eyes with what he called “polite audacity” and answered his penetrating questions honestly (“It aroused tenderness in me,” he said, the implication being that it aroused him sexually).
It clearly turned him on that I made my living as a translator, that I spoke four languages and could read and write in another four—two of them dead.
He said he couldn’t quite figure me out and hoped I would continue to remain a mystery for a while longer.
It was difficult to explain why, but I trusted him completely.
It appeared he had no hidden agenda. He was seducing me with my consent.
I felt comfortable with him, something I hadn’t felt with any other man for a very long time.
I didn’t allow myself to be swept away by this feeling but followed him up to his apartment anyway.
The thought of my lonely little bedroom in a shared apartment was slightly depressing; I was also curious to see where he lived.
It was your typical bachelor pad, with sharp angles and lots of empty space.
Here and there were crates yet to be unpacked, even though he’d been living there for a year and a half.
Still, there were two bookshelves full of books, a massive and impressive collection of LPs, and a few posters of old movies on the walls (I only recognized Stanley Kubrick’s Lolita).
“Make yourself at home,” Halimi said, and I kicked off my shoes and deliberated rolling a joint or just collapsing onto the couch. Halimi went into the kitchen, and I heard him filling the kettle with water. I decided to roll a joint.
I heard him peeing, which made me horny.
I wondered if the length of his nose said anything about the length of his penis and idly speculated that I’d probably find out soon.
When he came back, I noticed he didn’t sit down on the couch next to me but settled into a small armchair close by.
He clearly didn’t want to put any pressure on me.
He fished out another Camel and shook his finger no when I offered him a hit of the joint.
“I don’t like how it makes me feel,” he said. I shrugged my shoulders and took a couple more hits. Suddenly, I felt lonely, a bit superfluous.
“Music!” Halimi exclaimed as if he’d just solved a riddle. He turned to his computer. “Chill or mind-blowing?” he asked.
“Chill, chill,” I said. My mind was already blown.
In the middle of the night, I awoke to the sound of Simone and Halimi entering the house and then the quiet hum of their conversation in French and Hebrew.
I heard the door to Lily’s bedroom opening, soft steps, and then the door closing.
Simone murmured superlatives, and I hoped she liked the way I’d arranged the house.
It had originally belonged to Richard’s family—he’d inherited the land from an elderly uncle some years earlier, although the family wasn’t Jewish.
At the time, I had not understood exactly what the story was, and then I forgot all about it.
When the last tenants left, Richard didn’t have time or feel compelled to rent out the place again, so it stood empty for two years.
We decided to move there after our last crisis, the one that almost finished us completely.
We left Tel Aviv and the parties, the friends, the all-night kiosks, cafés and clubs, bike paths, and construction sites, in an attempt (for the last time, I promised myself) at a fresh start.
I’d always regarded myself as a person with good taste and hated to think I was ever sucking up to Simone, but when I’d arranged a bouquet of orange peonies the day before in the blue jug she’d given me, I’d hoped she would appreciate the color combination.
Halimi was indifferent about anything to do with décor, but he was always happy to go along with my collecting schemes, whether it was an old couch I came across and wanted to reupholster or a beautiful old laboratory cabinet I found abandoned in a schoolyard.
In our house in Atlit—a spacious two-story single-family home that looked from the outside like all the other houses in the neighborhood—I finally managed to create the ambiance I’d always wanted with textiles, carpets, and seating areas.
I meticulously considered the look of each wall with appropriate pictures and light fixtures.
Now, I was consumed by the idea that Simone might find it excessive.