“But itisall about sex, right? I don’t know why you deny it,” I said to him on another occasion, after we’d watched a movie full of unnecessary cruelty about a tormented foursome. “Because itisall about sex. The ‘secrecy,’ the ‘excitement,’ and the ‘danger.’ You don’t get that same rush flying model airplanes, do you?”
“Not flying model airplanes, no …” Halimi chuckled and then thought for a moment. “But I do get it with drugs and alcohol. I know I’m hurting myself when I’m going through a rough patch, but I get a kick out of it.” He looked at me seriously, pronouncing each word with precision. “And the very fact I enjoy doing something that hurts me somehow amplifies the enjoyment. It’s a cruel, vicious cycle.” He sighed theatrically and sank down into the armchair. Then, he gave me one of his catlike smiles.
“I feel like kicking you,” I said for the umpteenth time when he repeated this performance. “Okay, I know it’s about transgressing and all that, but let me ask you a straight question. What if I come home one evening smelling of aftershave and semen, and my makeup all smudged?” I said quickly, feeling juvenile.
“Smelling of aftershave and semen, and your makeup all smudged?” Halimi laughed.
“Come on, Limi, I want to know how you’d feel. Really.”
“But why would you come home smelling of aftershave and semen with your makeup all smudged?” he asked, utterly amused. He was clearly going to use that sentence in our own private lexicon from now on.
“And why would you fuck a dysfunctional hipster in the restroom of a club while I’m dancing just a few feet away?” I asked, feigning innocence. The corners of his mouth drooped, but I didn’t let up.
He squirmed, forced himself to focus, and looked me straight in the eyes. “How would I feel? I’d probably want to throw up,” he said slowly, “and at the same time, I’d want to fuck you wildly. And maybe cry a bit too,” he added, clenching his hand to his forehead.
“And wouldn’t you want to ask me who and what it was?”
“I would probably want to, yes.”
CHAPTER 7
On Monday morning, Halimi left early for Tel Aviv, long before the snarling traffic, for a staff meeting at the radio station. Lily lay awake in bed, cradling her blankie to her right ear and staring placidly at the ceiling.
I stopped by the bedroom door before entering. “Mommy …” she gurgled, her mouth full with the pacifier. I crept into her bed and under the blanket like a thief, and when I reached the warmth of her body, I gathered her into my arms. Lily squirmed, howling, and hit me over the head with her pacifier. “Okay, okay, okay,” I said and took hold of her chubby hand. I passed the back of my fingers over the smooth, tender skin of her arm and held her close.
Lily began wriggling to escape my grasp and tried to get out of bed, squashing one of my kidneys and pinching the flesh of my thigh with her foot. Finally, she escaped and went off to pee. I heard her dragging the step stool closer to the toilet so she could climb up and then the sound of her less-than-graceful attempts to place her little tush onto the toilet seat. I fixed coffee for myself and chocolate milk for Lily, and then some oatmeal. We ate it on the balcony, as usual, with cubes of butter and salt.
“There’s no rooster in the hotel,” Lily declared.
“There isn’t?” I said, scrambling to catch her drift.
“No rooster,” Lily repeated, counting on me to explain why.
“Does that make you sad?” I asked hopefully. Lily frowned.
“But there is in the little room with the pillows!” she said angrily.
“What kind of a rooster?” I ventured.
“Robinod’s rooster!” Lily’s voice cracked, and she began whimpering.
“Ah …” I sighed with relief. “You couldn’t watchRobin Hoodin Grandma’s bedroom at the hotel?”
Lily shook her head dolefully.
“No, I couldn’t,” she whispered, a tragic note in her voice.
“But he was in the little room with the pillows?” I tried.
“Yes!” Lily crowed, leaping up and bouncing on her chair. “Okay, okay,” I smiled at her. “Sit down, so you don’t fall over.” Lily, who knew all about falling over, settled back into the chair.
“He was in the little room with the pillows,” she said, fixing her eyes on me with satisfaction.
“You’re such a little Robinod,” I told her. I inhaled air into my lungs, one of those deep inhalations that finally releases trapped breath, and everything looked lovely.
Half an hour later, I was sobbing my heart out by the gate of her preschool, grappling with the question that every parent confronts:Is it possible that I’m a monster, leaving her like this?Only the stern gaze of the shop owner on the corner stopped me from charging back in and taking Lily home. I strained to hear if Lily’s weeping was still audible, but the preschool’s morning commotion was a blanket of happy, well-organized mayhem.
I gave in to the urge and texted her teacher—“Hi, it’s Idit, Lily’s mom. Is she okay?”—and sent it before I had time to rebuke myself. Once home, I made myself another coffee and found a note from Simone on the fridge door, saying that she and Richard had gone for a stroll by the sea. I went out onto the balcony with my laptop, tobacco, and coffee. I tried callingDina, but she didn’t answer, and after a cigarette and a half, I texted her, “Call me on Zoom, urgent,” and went back inside.
