Husband And Wife , livre ebook

Canongate Books - Shalev Zeruya

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155 pages

English

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Na'ama Newman wakes up one morning to a new reality. Her husband Udi, formerly a healthy, active tour guide, announces that he can no longer move his legs. The paralysis is diagnosed as psychosomatic - Udi has gone on strike and Na'ama must cope with the crisis, while balancing the demands of work and motherhood. The plot moves swiftly from this starting point, and Shalev depicts the complexities of intimate relationships with daring perceptiveness. It is a unique and intense novel, compulsively readable and extraordinarily insightful. Husband and Wife brilliantly captures the vulnerability and deceptive comforts of lives intertwined, as well as the near impossibility of setting out to disentangle them without any casualties. With this novel, Zeruya Shalev is sure to gain the renown in the UK that she already enjoys around the world.

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Publié par	Canongate Books
Date de parution	15 août 2013
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781782112983
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0400€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

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By the same author

Love Life

First published in the UK in English in 2002 by Canongate Books Ltd, 14 High Street, Edinburgh EH1 1TE. First published in Israel in 2000 by Keshet.
This digital edition first published by Canongate in 2013
Copyright © 2000 by Zeruya Shalev
Published by arrangement with the Institute for the Translation of Hebrew Literature. English Translation copyright © 2001, Grove Atlantic Inc., New York.
The right of Zeruya Shalev to be identified as the author of the work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
The publishers gratefully acknowledge general subsidy from the Scottish Arts Council towards the Canongate International series.
British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available on request from the British Library
ISBN 978 1 78211 298 3
Typeset by Palimpsest Book Production Limited, Falkirk, Stirlingshire
www.canongate.tv
Contents
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1
O n the first minute of the day, even before I knew whether it was hot or cold, good or bad, I saw the desert plain of the Arava, flat and desolate, growing pale bushes of dust, melancholy as abandoned tents. I hadn’t been there lately, but he had, he only returned from there last night, and now he opens a narrow, sandy eye and says, even in a sleeping-bag in the Arava I slept better than here with you.
A smell of old shoes escapes from his mouth, and I turn my face to the other side, to the flat face of the alarm clock that chooses this precise minute to start ringing, and he grumbles, how many times have I told you to put the alarm clock in Noga’s room, and I sit up abruptly, sun spots dancing in front of my eyes, what are you talking about, Udi, she’s still a child, we’re supposed to wake her up, not her us. How come you always know the way things are supposed to be, he retorts angrily, when will you understand that there’s no such thing, and then we hear her voice approaching hesitantly, skipping over the exercise books thrown onto the floor, stumbling on the stacks of closed books, trying her luck, Daddy?
He leans over me, savagely silences the alarm clock, and I whisper to his shoulder, she’s calling you, Udi, go to her, she hasn’t seen you for nearly a week. You can’t even sleep like a human being in this house, he rubs his eyes resentfully, a child of ten who’s treated like a baby, it’s a good thing you don’t keep her in diapers, and here she is, her face peeking into the room, her neck stretched sideways, her body still hidden behind the wall. I have no idea how much she’s heard, her hungry eyes swallow the movements of our lips without taking anything in, and now they turn to him, hurt in advance, Daddy, we missed you, and he sends her a crumpled smile, really? And she says, of course, nearly a week.
What do you need me for at all, he tightens his lips, you’d both be better off without me, and she recoils, her eyes shrink, and I get out of bed, sweetheart, he’s just joking, go and get dressed. With angry fingers I pull the strap of the blind, the bright light suddenly turning the room yellow, as if a powerful heavenly spotlight is being directed at us, surveying our actions. Na’ama, I’m dying of thirst, he says, bring me a glass of water, and I complain, I haven’t got time to take care of you too now, Noga’s going to be late and so am I, and he tries to sit up, I see him making tired rowing movements in the bed, his tanned arms trembling, his face reddening with effort and insult as he whispers, Na’ama, I can’t get up.
She heard this immediately, again she’s next to the bed, the hairbrush in her hand, holding out her other hand to him, come, Daddy, I’ll help you, trying to pull him toward her, her back bent and her lips pursed, her sensitive nostrils flaring, until she collapses on top of him, flushed, helpless, Mommy he really can’t get up. What are you talking about, I say in alarm, does something hurt, Udi? And he mutters, nothing hurts, but I can’t feel my legs, I can’t move them, and his voice dissolves into a puppyish whimper, I can’t move.
I pull down the blanket, his long legs are lying motionless on the bed, covered with down, under which his muscles are frozen, stretched out side by side like the strings of a musical instrument. I always envied these legs that never tire, guiding hikers in the Arava and the Judean desert and the lower Galilee and the upper Galilee, while I stayed at home, because walking any distance is difficult for me. You’re just making excuses, he would complain, the haversack grinning on his back like a happy baby, you just feel like being alone in the house without me, while I would stand there in embarrassment, pointing sorrowfully at my flat, always painful feet, separating us from each other.
Where don’t you feel, I ask, my fingers trembling on his thigh, pinching the tough flesh, do you feel that? And Noga, going too far as usual, slides her hairbrush to and fro, digging red paths on his legs, do you feel that, Daddy?
Stop it, leave me alone, he explodes, the pair of you can drive a person crazy with your nagging! And she sticks the bristles of the brush into her palm, we only wanted to see if you could feel, and now he’s sorry, I feel something dull, but I can’t move, as if my legs have gone to sleep and I can’t wake them up. With his eyes closed he gropes for the blanket, and I spread it over his body with slow movements, flapping it opposite his face, like my mother used to do when I was sick, cooling my forehead with the gusts of her love. His thin hair rises and lands back on his head, together with the blanket, but he moans beneath it, what is this blanket, it’s so heavy, and I say, Udi, it’s your usual blanket, and he groans, it’s suffocating me, I can’t breathe.
Mommy, it’s half past seven already, Noga whines at me from the kitchen, I haven’t had anything to eat yet, and I lose my temper, what do you want from me, take something yourself, you’re not a baby, and immediately I’m filled with remorse and I run to her, spilling cornflakes into a bowl and taking the milk out of the fridge, but she stands up with an insulted pout, I’m not hungry, hoists her satchel onto her shoulders and advances to the door, and I stare at her back, something strange peeps at me through the straps, bright childish pictures, teddy-bears and rabbits bouncing gaily as she goes down the stairs, Noga you’re still in your pyjamas, I suddenly realize, you forgot to get dressed!
She climbs the stairs with her eyes downcast, almost closed, and I hear the satchel slamming onto the floor, and the bedsprings creaking, and I hurry to her room and find her sprawled on the bed covered with teddy-bears and bunny rabbits, what are you doing, I scold her, it’s already quarter to eight, and she sobs, I don’t want to go to school, I don’t feel well. Her eyes trap me in an accusing look, watching my heart hardening towards her, contracting like a stone, as a fist of revulsion presses me against the wall. Aggressive crying takes hold of every curl on her head, and I scream, why are you making things even harder for me, I can’t cope with you, and she yells back, and I can’t cope with you! She gets up ferociously and it seems to me that she is about to open her mouth wide and devour me, but she pushes me out and slams the door in my face.
I take a few stunned steps backwards, staring at her closed, thunderous door, and his silent door, and go on walking backwards until my back encounters the front door, and I open it and go out and sit down on the cold steps in my nightgown, and look at the beautiful day, wrapped in a golden light, with a gentle breeze shaking tender little leaves and gathering up bright remains of flowers in its train, and honeyed clouds caressing each other yearningly. I have always hated days like this, walking through them like an uninvited guest, on a day like this sadness stands out more than ever, there is nowhere for it to hide in the great glory, like a frightened rabbit caught in a sudden light on the road it scurries this way and that, slamming again and again into the shining wheels of happiness.
Behind me the door opens, heavy sneakers descend the steps and above them Noga, dressed and combed, and I raise my face to her in surprise, suddenly she seems so mature, bending down and kissing me on the forehead without saying a word, and I too say nothing, watching the receding satchel with burning eyes. A huge, over-ripe navel orange suddenly drops onto the pavement below, almost hitting her head, and lies squashed in an orange puddle. Who gave it the last push, surely not this barely perceptible late spring breeze, soon children will step into the puddle and their footprints will rot on the pavement until they come home in the afternoon, and Noga too will come home, tired, her pale curls drooping, one sentence on her tongue, a sentence that will begin on the stairs, and I will hear only its end, Daddy, Daddy, Daddy.
I get up heavily, it seems to me that the day is already over, I am so tired, but there are still too many hours separating me from the night. On tiptoe I return to the bedroom, stand silently next to the bed, inspecting the beautiful body lying on it in perfect openness, a body that has nothing to hide. From our youth I remember this body, when it was still smaller than mine, narrow as a bud, and I would walk on the road while he walked on the pavement so we
wouldn’t have to be ashamed of our common shadow, stooping out of consideration, my eyes fixed on the grey meeting place of the street and the curb, before my eyes I saw him stretch and mature, until one evening he pulled me up to the pavement next to him and put his hand on my shoulder, and our shadow reflected a perfect picture, and I was filled with pride, as if I had succeeded, with stubbornness and faith, in prevailing over the facts of life. Wit