I don’t find any evidence of an affair, and strangely enough, I’m more disappointed than relieved.
The gorgeous balcony table. That we bought in the Moroccan Fantasy store up north. Who will keep it if we separate, Mom or Dad?
Army shoes. I once came home from reserve duty in the Gaza Strip, and she was in the middle of the Coen brothers’ film O Brother, Where Art Thou? She barely looked over at me, and I was afraid that this would be like the time I came home from the Arad music festival and Tali Leshem didn’t look at me, and two days later, I left our apartment. I was wrong. You can’t infer anything about one love relationship from another one. O Brother, Where Art Thou? is a film you really can’t take your eyes off. And Dikla and I had another ten good years after that time I was on reserve duty.
Night shoes. In movies, people always look at their kids when they’re sleeping. When my kids are asleep, I look at their shoes: collect them after they fall asleep, pick them up from the living-room carpet, the bathroom, the shower. Then I arrange them in their rooms. In pairs. I look at them. And think about what I might lose.
The carpet in the living room. We made love on it once when we came home from seeing Burnt by the Sun. Or am I imagining it? Dikla is in charge of our couple memories, and now I can’t ask her.
The carpet on the wall. My aunt Noa gave it to us as a gift. Shortly before her death. Framed. Rectangular pieces of somber, dark-hued fabric placed one on the other. Like a Band-Aid on a Band-Aid on a Band-Aid. Or like the wooden slats of a parquet floor. Meant to be impenetrable. Meant to imprison. Under those densely packed strips is the buzzing of protest, subversive activity: flowered fabric whose shape, before it was hidden, looked to me like someone dancing. And lately—like a demon.
Alarm. Installed during one of my trips, and since then, Dikla has no longer been afraid to sleep alone. Recently, she also sets it when I’m in the country and come home at night. I’m supposed to deactivate it when I come in, but sometimes I remember too late. Then it goes off. I hurriedly punch in our wedding date—18301—which stops the alarm but wakes the phone—the girl at the alarm company wants me to give her my password. To make sure I’m not a burglar. I feel like a burglar, but give her the password, and she says good night in a soft voice. After she hangs up, I’m sorry I didn’t try to start a conversation with her. Once, before the alarm, Dikla couldn’t fall asleep without me. During the day she was independent, active, a lone wolf. During the day she sometimes made me feel superfluous, an unneeded man. But at night she needed me. And waited for me in bed, awake, until I came home from the workshops. No matter how late. We didn’t manage to do much. A hug. A few words. She didn’t need more than that. I didn’t need more than that. But now the house is silent and she’s sleeping under the protection of the alarm. I walk through the rooms, gather the kids’ shoes, and then read the program of the 2014 Docaviv Film Festival until I’m drowsy enough to fall asleep.
Another summary from the Docaviv program. For the 65 residents of Maladhu Island in the Indian Ocean, global warming is not a theoretical problem. Barring unforeseen events, their small island is about to disappear because of the rising ocean waters. Inside their straw huts, Maladhu residents prepare to bid farewell to the place where they have lived their entire lives. But on nights when there is a full moon, they gather and pray to their gods in the hope that, at the last moment, there will be change in the plot.
Decaffeinated coffee. (We are like…)
Remote-controlled model airplane. We bought one for Yanai. It cost a fortune. We took it to the park, and on its maiden flight, it got entangled in a treetop. A city worker with a ladder managed to get it down and return it to the boy, but the wings were broken.
Dikla’s screensaver. A photo from a family trip to the Black Forest. From three years ago. The photographer, a German who happened to pass by, chided us: Smile, why aren’t you smiling? After the picture, we got into our rented Opel, and during the drive to the campsite, all the kids fell asleep, even Noam, who never does, and the car filled with the kind of quiet that comes after a great effort. Dikla put her hand on my thigh, I covered her hand with mine and looked at her. Eyes on the road, she said, and I said, That’s a problem, you’re too beautiful. Then she said, I think I’ve figured out this whole business of family trips. So tell me, I said. You shouldn’t expect to enjoy yourself all the time, she said, the thing is to collect the good moments, the moments of quiet joy.
A red Hapoel Jerusalem basketball scarf. Hanging on the wall in the den. It moved with me to all the apartments I’ve lived in since I left my parents’ house. The only permanent element in my life. On the scarf is the team logo and the sentence “Love conquers all.” I bought it with Ari after a game. We split the cost and agreed on a custody schedule, a year with me and a year with him. In the
