For years, I imagined Dikla. I would picture myself reading the manuscript to her in bed. Reading a page and dropping it to the floor. Reading another page and dropping it to the floor. And she would listen and look at me with the same warm, supportive expression tinged with amusement she’d had before we kissed the first time in the apartment on HaRamban Street.
Recently, it hasn’t been working for me. Imagining Dikla as I write. I think the problem stems from the way she’s been looking at me since Shira left for boarding school. Her expression is no longer warm and supportive, and it’s tinged with criticism.
Do you remember that I’m flying to Colombia on Sunday? I asked her last week.
Yes, she said.
Once, that “yes” held the anticipation of yearning for me. Once her “yes” said: I’ll miss you.
This time, her “yes” said: It’s actually a good thing you’re going away for a while. To tell the truth, I’ve become tired of you.
I’m not a child. I know that, ultimately, the energy between two people is destined to change its shape. It’s a law of physics. I’ve seen it happen with other couples, and in fact, I knew that it would happen to us sometime.
I just never thought it would happen to her first.
—
A few days later, I sorrowfully packed a bag. Underwear, socks. Copies of my books and students’ manuscripts.
Usually, I look forward to traveling.
Usually, when the plane begins to soar, so does my spirit. How do you live with the way people interpret and analyze your books?
I take it in stride. Really. That’s the beauty of literature, with every reading, the book is somehow rewritten, right? And that’s fine with me. Besides, what can I do? Follow everyone who buys my book from the bookstore to his home, then get into bed with him and make sure he understands?
Simply speaking: Everyone is invited to read my books however they want to.
Except for a certain academic type.
Usually from the literature faculty.
Sometimes you can find them in the cultural criticism or gender studies departments. They’re people who have been indoctrinated by the twisted promotion and tenure mechanisms of the university to focus on a very specific niche. Again and again, they publish articles that examine the same research question. And they compel their students to feed on the same square meter of pasture. They’ve been doing it for so many years that they can read a book only through the narrow prism of their research.
I was once invited to one of those academics-with-theories conferences.
I was happy about the invitation, I must admit. Artists need recognition the way scientists need proof. I even snapped a picture of the poster with my name on it at the entrance to the liberal arts building and sent it to my parents, to make them proud.
But later, at the conference itself, people with advanced degrees took the stage one after the other and imposed overly methodical readings on my book, speaking in authoritative, omniscient tones that made me feel like an ignoramus. I hunched over in the first-row seat that had been reserved for me, and with every knowledgeable sentence spoken on the stage, I withdrew further and further into myself. I put my head in my hands, pressed my elbows against my chest, felt my chest stick to my stomach, until I finally disappeared entirely and the presenter apologized in my name, explaining that personal reasons had kept me from attending the conference. Can you make a living as a writer?
I always fumble for an answer to that question.
I explain that it’s a small market. Mention that I also run a workshop. Point out that Dikla is the business development manager of a large firm.
Sometimes I have no choice and I also tell the well-known story of Hershel of Ostropol, whose mother sent him to the grocery store for milk. When he left the store, he was suddenly struck by the fear that the milk was spoiled, so he took a healthy swig before continuing on his way. But then he was struck once again by the fear that the milk had spoiled during his walk. And drank again. Just to make sure. And so he continued walking and stopping to take a drink, until he reached home, and was sent to buy milk again.
As far as I know, there is no such story about Hershel of Ostropol. It’s a Yiddish tall tale that makes everyone smile in understanding when it’s finished even though the moral of the story is not exactly clear to them.
That’s how I dance around a simple truth: We’re fine.
—
When I left the ad agency to focus on writing, I said to Dikla, Listen, we’ll have to cut back.
She was pregnant with our first child, Shira, not the best time for such a conversation.
Nonetheless, she immediately said, So we’ll cut back.
I remember every word of what we said. I remember where we were sitting: in the small kitchen of our rented apartment on Yeldei Teheran Street. On folding chairs.
I remember what she was wearing: A white maternity top with buttons and a ribbon that tied under her breasts. And black leggings.
I even remember what was on the plate that sat on the table between us. Sunflower seeds. From the beginning of that pregnancy, she had a powerful craving for sunflower seeds, and the entire house filled up with small mounds of shells.
Are you sure? I asked.
I’d like to remind you that you didn’t marry some princess from a mansion in Savyon, she replied, and that has some advantages. Besides, I’m sure your book will sell and everything will work
