The Remains of Love Read Online Free PDF Page A

relics of the Lag Ba’omer bonfires which burned out before morning. And for that reason she must not release the torrent raging inside her, she has to keep it trapped in her lungs, so it burns only her. She gave them so much, the two of them, over the years, and now it seems this is the last favour they will ever ask of her, and even if this is bound up with the total cessation of breathing she will take it on, prove to them her devotion, by the kitchen window I shall burn like a torch of memory, by the kitchen window I shall weep, and when they return they will find here on the floor a broken shell, repulsive gunge, the remains of life.
    Only this morning before he left she tried to delay him by the door, I have a pain, Gideon, and he asked coldly, with a minimal glance in her direction, where does it hurt? In the heart, she said resentfully, aware that this pain was inferior by comparison with pains of the body that merit instant recognition. And he, predictably, snorted with impatience, what’s been the matter with you lately? Get a grip on yourself, be glad that you’re healthy, that we’re doing OK, look around you for a moment and say thank you.
    Thank you, she says now, thanks to you for the support, really, but what did she expect? For years he’s been remote, immersed in his own concerns. Was there ever any basis for the belief that now, when she needs him, this will change? Is he the one she really needs? Again that pain in the innermost kernel of her being, crumbling from within like a diseased tooth. I’m sick, she says to the silent telephone receiver, I need help, I’ve lost something and I don’t know if I’ll ever find it.
    What will she call this thing, that has bound her to the tumult of life like an embryo attached to the feeding tube, years upon years, although recently it seems that a hard-hearted midwife has cut the cord with sharp scissors, as if to say, Mazaltov, you’re born, but she knows this isn’t birth, it’s extinction, sudden excision of the purpose of life. Her thumbs whiten on the telephone receiver which is making its voice heard again, but she doesn’t reply, putting it to her breast, her lips are clenched and she isn’t breathing, only she knows how dangerous her respiration is. And her brother Avner counts ten rings and cuts the connection and then leaves her a message on her still inactive mobile. Mum’s had a fall and she’s unconscious, he tells her angrily as if it’s her fault. She’s in casualty. Come as soon as you hear this message.
     
    Avner never liked being left alone with his mother. Even now, with her mouth sealed, albeit by an oxygen mask, and her arms lying motionless alongside her body, her eyes closed and consciousness flickering, he’s afraid of her, perhaps she’ll stretch out her wrinkled arms to embrace him, perhaps she’ll try to kiss him with her parched lips, perhaps she’ll embarrass him by bursting into tears, Avni, my boy, I’ve missed you. Almost every visit she greets him with a complaint, where have you been, I’ve missed you. And when he tries to reassure her, I’m here, Mum, she asks anxiously, but when will you come again?
    I’m here, be happy that I’m here now, he reminds her again, but she isn’t letting go. I see so little of you, and I miss you. Even when he’s sitting facing her she’s missing him, even when she sees him she perceives only the empty space of his absence. Milksop, mummy’s boy, the children in the kibbutz used to tease him when she lingered at his bedside, reluctant to leave him, or when she came looking for him in the garden, calling his name in her high, somewhat strident voice, Avni! Where are you? His face was flushed with shame when her cry was treated as an alarm signal, danger, time to hide, go to the shelters, and already the children were imitating her before his crimson features. How embarrassing to be loved so much.
    What a topsy-turvy world, he sighs, and what a perverse invention is the