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Overview
Zeruya Shalev achieved international literary stardom with her novel Love Life, which The Washington Post Book World called “a brutally honest and often brilliant tour of individual and family psychology.” In Husband and Wife, she takes us into the heartbreak and compromise of a diseased marriage that may or may not be capable of healing.
Na’ama and Udi Newman, together with their young daughter Noga, lead a quiet domestic life. But their idyll abruptly ends when Udi—a perfectly healthy man—wakes up one morning unable to move his legs. The doctors can find no physical explanation for his paralysis. It appears to be a symptom, not of illness, but of something far more insidious. This mysterious disruption soon reveals a vicious cycle of jealousy, paranoia, resentment, and accumulated injuries that now threaten to tear their small family apart.
In a rush of hallucinogenic imagery, Husband and Wife captures the vulnerability and deceptive comforts of lives intertwined, offering “an acutely intimate portrait of a relationship” (Donna Rifkind, The Baltimore Sun).
“Nearly impossible to look away from.” —Elle
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781555847852 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Grove/Atlantic, Inc. |
| Publication date: | 04/24/2019 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 320 |
| File size: | 2 MB |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
In 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, sunspots 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 notebooks thrown onto the floor, stumbling on the stacks of closed books, trying its 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, opposite 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 hears 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 you, 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 tired, 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 as at a blow, 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, and 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 book bag 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 pajamas, I suddenly realize, you forgot to get dressed!
She climbs the stairs with her eyes downcast, almost closed, and I hear the bag 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 a 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 toward 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 backward, staring at her closed, thunderous door, and his silent door, and go on walking backward 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 sticks 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 book bag with burning eyes. A huge, overripe 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 gray 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. With a sinking heart I inspect him, looking for a movement in his limbs, the light blanket lying rejected at his feet, above him the reading lamp bowing its head innocently, as if we didn't quarrel over it night after night. Put the light out already, I would say, I can't sleep with it on, and he would say irritably, but I'm still reading, I can't go to sleep without reading, and I would curse the lamp silently, wishing it a fatal short circuit, and sometimes I would leave the room demonstratively, hugging my blanket and pillow, falling like a refugee onto the living room sofa, and in the morning he would always get his complaint in before mine, you ran away from me again, every little thing makes you run away from me.
His thin legs are still, but his mouth cracks in a sigh, the taut lips of an aging boy lost in his wilted face, swallowed up in the caverns of his cheeks, under the precise lines of his eyebrows looking down sorrowfully at the face whose beauty has dulled overnight, everything exactly the same sandy color, a uniform yellowish gray, like livery that cannot be removed, a uniform of sun and dust, and I try to heal him with my look, anxiety crawling over me like a hairy caterpillar, is this the moment I always knew I would not be able to escape, the moment that breaks life in two, after which nothing is the same as it was before, but like a distorting, mocking reflection, is this the moment, is this its smell, are these its colors, the moment in which all our previous lives would seem to me bursting with happiness, like the orange when it fell, as opposed to this loneliness, crippled, shamed, bedridden forever.
An imaginary hand, long and warm, reaches out to me from the bed, a huge maternal hand, seducing me to sink down beside him, to let him infect me with his paralysis, and I shudder, I can feel my life being drained out of me, gently, drop by drop, collecting in a puddle outside this room, and weightless and airy I try to hold on to the open window, surveying the room as if I am a spring bird which has landed up here by accident. Here is the big wall closet, only yesterday I stood on a ladder and took down the summer clothes and hid the winter clothes, pushing them deep inside, as if winter would never return, and Noga rushes urgently out of her room, always in the middle of a sentence, when's Daddy coming home, she asks, and immediately after that, when are we going to eat, and I say, he'll come home tonight, when you're asleep, and you'll see him tomorrow morning. And will he take me to school, she asks, her nostrils vibrating, and I say, why not, always after an absence of a few days it seems to us that only the lack of his physical presence stands between us, and the moment he returns the void in our home will be filled.
Here's the red rug, the rug of my childhood, with the little threadbare hearts, and here's the bed we bought, hesitantly, years ago, from a divorced couple, and next to it his backpack, dusty and empty, and on the wall a picture of an old house with a tiled roof and clouds sailing over it, and I try to find salvation in the inanimate objects, look, nothing's missing, nothing's changed, and therefore nothing will change in the living either. In a minute he'll wake up and try to pull me onto the bed with his edgy aggressiveness, I know exactly what you need, he'll inform me, why aren't you willing to accept what I want to give, and this time I won't begin to argue like I always do, I won't present him, earnest as a fledgling curator, with the catalogue of my disappointments, I'll take off my nightgown and jump into bed as if I'm jumping into a swimming pool, all at once, without testing the water, why not, we're husband and wife, after all, and this is our only slice of life.
CHAPTER 2Engulfed in a torrent of almost boiling water I think I hear an infantile wail, which doesn't penetrate my ear but sticks straight into my heart, between the ribs. Little Noga has woken up, her white forehead is burning, her eyes glittering with fever, and I regretfully turn off the water, part from its calming flow, and try to listen, but Noga's already gone, I recall with relief, and her infancy is gone too, no longer threatening me with its helplessness, and I turn on the tap again, once my mother used to put a clock in the bathroom, only seven minutes, she would warn, so there'll be hot water for everyone, and I would watch the racing hands with hostility, those seven minutes of the warm embrace of the water were so short, and I wanted to grow up and leave home simply in order to take a shower without watching the clock, and now I am ready to begin my shower again, eagerly embracing the stream of hot water, but once more I am alerted by the weak, demanding wail, and I run to him wet, and find him crying with his eyes closed, his nose running. Udi, calm down, everything's all right, I shake his shoulder, my hair dripping onto his tanned face, even his tears are the color of sand, as if he has been sentenced to camouflage himself in the desert forever, and I sit down next to him and try to put his head in my lap, but his head is heavy and cold as marble, and suddenly a scream escapes from his throat, surrounded by a fiery red halo like a bullet escaping from the barrel of a gun, don't touch me, you're hurting me!
I get up immediately and stand in front of him naked, not the provocative, impulsive nakedness I once possessed, natural and confident as that of an animal, but a human, apologetic nakedness, in which a loving eye may find beauty, but it wasn't a loving eye that was glaring at me now, spitting sand in my face. I thought you liked me to touch you, I mutter, trying to call the certainties of the past to my aid, but again the red fire sprays from his throat, don't you understand that it hurts me!
Before you said that it didn't hurt, I argue, unable to adjust myself to the upsets of this morning, still hoping that in a minute everything would return to normal, and we would begin to talk about it in the past tense, where did it hurt you, I would ask, and he would say, what does it matter, as long as it's over, the only thing that still hurts is my prick, he would leer at me, it wants a kiss, and with assertive hands he would help my wet head to cover the distance, which always seemed longer than it really was, between my lips and his penis.
I want a drink of water, he mutters, I've been asking you for water for hours, and I hurry to fill the glass and hold it out to him, but he doesn't stretch out his hands, thin and dry they lie at the sides of his body. Drink, I say to him, and he asks, how?
What do you mean, how, take the glass, I say, full of dread, and he sighs, I can't, my hands won't move. That's impossible, I say in annoyance, only an hour ago those hands strangled the alarm clock, there's no disease that advances so quickly, what's going on here, he's pretending, and violent swings of anger, pity and suspicion quarrel inside me like little girls, each reproaching the other in turn. How can you suspect him, look how he's suffering, but it doesn't make sense, maybe he's acting, but the acting is also an illness, no less worrying, how am I going to cope with all this, until the voice of compassion rises, drowning out the others, which fade shamefully away, and thunders in the house, he's sick, he's sick, a sickness has come and taken him, dragging him down to the depths.
I cover myself with a terry-cloth robe and sit down next to him, trying to feed him the water with a teaspoon, the water slides over the parched soil of his tongue, and makes his Adam's apple dance. Close the blind, he whispers, and I bravely repulse the sun and all its hosts, and lie down next to him in the gloom, stroking the ashen gray hills on his narrow chest, what's happening to you, Udi, when did it start?
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "Husband and Wife"
by .
Copyright © 2000 Zeruya Shalev.
Excerpted by permission of Grove Atlantic, Inc..
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
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