There was a note on her pillow: I went out to take a short walk.
The marriage ceremony in the deputy mayor’s office was scheduled for one o’clock in the afternoon.
And at twelve thirty, Dikla still hadn’t returned.
There were no cell phones then, and I was forced to wait for four hours, during which I moved from euphoria to fear to anxiety to total realization, based on many clear indications from the weeks preceding our trip, that she was about to cancel everything.
It was so clear to me that I didn’t even put on my groom’s clothes. I stayed in my tracksuit. And every once in a while, I went to the window to look, just in case. But all I saw were the famous lady embroiderers of Lefkara sitting at the doors of their shops, embroidering. And embroidering. And embroidering.
At twelve thirty-one, Dikla came into the room. And along with her, an unfamiliar smell.
She kissed me on the mouth.
What happened? I asked, trying to keep my voice steady.
I had to think for a while, she replied, her expression serious.
About what?
For the last few weeks, I’ve felt like I was being swept away by a strong current and I never stopped to think: Is this what I really want?
Okay. So what did you decide?
Yes.
Oh, great.
Are you angry?
Very. But we don’t have time for that. The ceremony is in half an hour. Do you want to change into your dress?
Of course. And you? You’re going to stay in your tracksuit? Actually, you look good in it.
Then we went to the deputy mayor’s office and read aloud the vows we had written in advance and kissed and wandered around the village of Lefkara and bought a few pieces of embroidery to cheer up the famous, dejected-looking embroiderers and drank lots of red wine and made love again and again in the large white hotel bed and flew back to Israel and had a party for family and friends and those four hours of her disappearance were swept far under our shared consciousness, along with the unfamiliar smell that had risen from her and that we have never spoken of. It wasn’t until the time she stayed at the desert ashram that all sorts of brief, discomfiting images from Cyprus flashed through my mind. How I stood at the hotel-room window, muttering to myself, Come back, come back, please come back.
—
She came home yesterday. Took off her backpack and propped it up against the wall.
I stood up from the couch and hugged her, unburdening myself of a full week of longing, but her entire bearing reminded me of a line from the Shmulik Kraus song: Give me a minute to get used to you again.
So I went into the kitchen.
Want something to drink? I asked. I’m boiling water.
I’ll make it myself, she said.
We stood close together in the kitchen. Not touching. Not looking directly at each other. Taking a quick glance, I noticed that her face was relaxed, the way it is when she comes home from water therapy with Gaia, and she was suntanned, which looked good on her. But I knew that compliments would not be well received now.
We took our cups of tea into the living room. There’s one long couch there that can seat several people, and perpendicular to it is an armchair. She sat down on the armchair and wrapped her hands around her cup without sipping from it. Which left me no choice but to sit on the long couch alone.
So how was the Tantra festival? I asked, and added a forced smile, like someone adding a smiley face to a text.
I didn’t go to the Tantra festival, she said.
But on the ashram site, it said—
Is that how well you know me? I was there for the weekend, but the minute the place started filling up with all kinds of huggers with rasta braids, I took off.
Really?
Aha.
So where…?
I went to see Shira.
Shira?
She nodded.
At Sde Boker?
Yes. I called her and asked if I could come.
And she agreed?
On the spot. One of her roommates had gone to see her parents in Metulla, and the teachers gave me special permission to sleep in her bed. Where are you going?
Ah…to…to get cookies. Want some?
No thanks.
—
I didn’t really want cookies. But like Effi, the graduate of the anger management workshop from Minneapolis, I preferred to cut off contact and move away from the situation before I said things I would regret. He had stepped out of the car into a snowstorm, and I—I went into the kitchen and pretended to look for cookies. I opened and closed a cabinet and a drawer and another cabinet, although I knew exactly where the box was, and meanwhile, tried to absorb:
Not a sorrowful widower Dikla met in the desert but our eldest daughter.
But still, betrayal.
When that daughter learned to talk, she used to tell me five times a day: I love you. And draw red hearts on slips of paper that she put on my keyboard. When she learned how to write, she would draw a heart with an arrow piercing it: On one side of the arrow she wrote “Shirush” and on the other, “Daddy.” For years, we had a silent bond that sometimes upset Dikla, who remained outside it, and now—
When I returned from the kitchen, I was already two people. One sat straight and continued speaking with Dikla, and the other withdrew into himself.
So you were with Shira for three days? I asked as I placed the plate of cookies on the table.
Yes, with her and Nadav.
Nadav?
Her boyfriend.
She has a boyfriend?
She has a boyfriend.
I don’t believe it.
One of those nature types. With curls and sandals.
But Shira…she’s so…
So what?
I don’t know. Vulnerable. She…
She’s absolutely fine. And so is he. You should see how he looks at her.
But…I don’t want him…to use her.
Forget it. He’s madly in love with her.
Shira has a boyfriend. Wow.
Yes. And she…asked me not to tell you.
Why?
You know why.
But—
Listen, she’s happy. She’s really found her place there. I
