Motti Read online

  As if kind hands reached out and released her from her body (her bones remained, as clean as clean can be, to drift through space). Never before had she been so embraced. Her spiritual fur sparkled from such pleasure, and her spiritual tail wagged as if she was at play. She saw the light that persisted even within the absolute darkness of space, and small growls of excitement and expectation, satisfaction even, broke out from inside her spiritual throat. (Or so Motti thinks, now appeased. He’s always like this. Stories that never happened and small mysteries, too—even those strange personal questionnaires in the newspaper, they always bother him. He never approaches them casually. Always so serious.) Laika was released from her body, from everything, she’s quite free now, absolutely free, free to do as she pleases, no, freer even than that, she is even free from the fetters of her own desire.

  Did she bark? I have to know if she barked. And how the echo sounded in that narrow space. If it sounded like distant dogs answering her.

  We also close up space so that voices can echo—but whose voice? The events of the world (the world itself) are woven into a living network of overlapping dimensions. Motti’s fingers of thought are sent toward things past like the fingers of a weaver wanting to try something different, to free each strand from an unsightly tapestry one knot at a time, to strive for something marvelous and new.

  5

  He will lie on his back in their bed, the bed that is theirs, and she’ll take the thick pen resting on the nightstand right next to the bed, and she’ll say, turn over. So he’ll lie on his stomach in their bed, in the bed that is theirs, and she will write on his back, with the thick pen, property of Ariella. This here Motti is private and nontransferable. This Motti left our factory in good condition. This side up. Private. Not to be consumed after expiration date. Does not contain preservatives. Motti, for me and mine. Mine mine mine.

  It will be like in that movie, what’s it called. He’ll tell her, that tickles, what are you writing? And she’ll read to him. Which hand does she write with, right or left? Let’s say right. She’ll read to him and he’ll add, we thank you for choosing Motti. Motti, for you and yours. Caution, fragile.

  Good God! He could learn to make things with his hands! He’ll make her necklaces, bracelets, chains, he’ll make everything she needs. He’ll do woodworking. He’ll make her a pencil case if she needs one. He’ll sew her a stethoscope case. A case for things you use to mark trails, for drawing maps, for veterinary medicine, for particle acceleration, for social work, for the philosophy of science, for the repair of electrical devices. He’ll sew her a dress, a shirt, bell-bottom pants, a lunch bag for breaks at school (if she becomes a teacher, that is).

  6

  That’s the way it is. Best for him, for Motti, are doorways. Sitting in a waiting room, bent over his number in line, sitting in a corridor with no one demanding anything, with no one glancing over his shoulder, no one telling him off or praising him. A certain amount of tension is a given with him, without his even thinking about it, like a fish in water or a man in the atmosphere, so it dissipates: the rules are known, and he doesn’t have to do anything at all.

  It accumulated in him, what else is there to say. It accumulated like bits of asbestos in the lungs of a fiber factory worker, sooner or later it’ll reach a critical level. How much misery and frustration can one actually take? (And the answer, of course, is a lot, quite a lot. Entire long lives of this, and no creature will compensate Motti for it afterward, when the pulsing biological system—that is, his living, active body—shuts down. This will be his wasted life. His life and that’s it. All this in small, ongoing portions, you get used to it. Only occasional little symptoms, sighs of dissatisfaction, and barely even a hint that anything else is possible, that there’s a life of comfort and freedom out there, that there might be a place to relax in.) He didn’t believe in great acts. Didn’t believe in his ability to break through the tedious maze that is his life, to shatter the structure once and for all, his habits, his personality (every sort of behavior can be reinforced and encouraged, rewarded bit by bit until it becomes second nature; who would have guessed that it’s possible to reinforce unbehavior in this way too?).

  At first he would watch movies on video. Night after night, in front of the screen. Here too, time is beyond his control: on the faint display the digits turn over backward. Meanwhile he sits idly, his thoughts can either wander or not wander, drawn into the plot and then popping out again, free, and that’s how it is again and again, there isn’t a single constraint or necessity, just the silence of time. That’s how it was at first, but after some time his attention began to wander to the supporting actors. The thought wouldn’t leave him alone. Certainly they studied acting for years, waited for their chance, embarrassed themselves in children’s plays, prayed over every tenth-rate part in a commercial on some local channel. So, again, he lost track of the plot, and now the lead actors as well. He couldn’t take it anymore. Sometimes the supporting cast was more talented than the leads. Sometimes their noses were too big, or they looked too much like someone famous, and who needs two Harrison Fords, Brad Pitts, or Moshe Ivgys? Maybe one of them was an old woman by the time she got a part in a movie. Maybe she’d dreamed about acting since she was seven. Here, after years of frustration behind a counter at a shitty hotel (alternatively, a counter at some tax or transportation office, or any other office, unfulfilling but sadly not a temp job), she’s finally got a part, at last facing the camera. Motti sat in the dark and cried bitterly, and then he sat in the dark and watched the film’s credits until the end. So many people worked so hard, got home late, their children already tucked into bed and asleep, their spouses possibly cheating on them out of loneliness—and what, a man can’t even spare the time necessary to redeem them, even without their knowing, to read their names and give thanks? Art is a letter written on the surface of time—someone wrote it, how can we not read it? But also over the following nights he remains sitting facing the credits and then facing the empty screen, waiting. He doesn’t watch movies the way I did in my own childhood, with the thought that maybe they hid secret messages there, at the end of the movie, on the end of the reel, and that maybe a wild adventure would spin out from them. He doesn’t watch that way. And if anyone could see him from outside, they might think that he’s a sick man, a very unfortunate man, sitting in the dark and rocking absentmindedly back and forth in his chair. But looks from the outside are not to be trusted.

  7

  Whereas Menachem, absentmindedly, had made his life into a tangled net of debts and counterdebts. In fact, he made these debts into a kind of insurance for himself: as long as one of them is pending, as long as his attention is taken up with a grocery tab as yet unpaid, with an insignificant loan (a few shekels to be exact, which he took from a friend at work for the sake of the soda machine in the kitchenette), as long as his attention is taken up with some kind regards he was asked to pass along and that have not yet reached their destination—he cannot leave this world, and should this system fail him, should his death come without warning nevertheless, certainly these debts will bind his soul to this world, and he won’t be able to depart, not without making prior arrangements. That’s it, I think—if I can say I truly understand his motives. Actions are clear, those are what keep the book’s plot moving, but motives, look, maybe I’m wrong and he acts this way for no particular reason, but there have to be motives, the kind we can understand, even identify with, and through this feel some sort of affinity with Menachem, maybe even affection, but his debts are debts in any event, and in the meantime Edna and Menachem are in bed, sleepy. Saturday morning and the kids are in the doorway, sneaking toward the bed to wake them gently. Note the frantic bustling under the blankets now, because last night there was a different sort of frantic bustling, and now Edna wants—without ruining the game by waking up ahead of time—to quickly, quickly pull on a pair of panties before the children crawl under the covers. She succeeds in the nick of time. The morning again ope
ns with a family hug. And this, ladies and gentlemen, this is happiness. This is the quiet and relatively stable happiness of the members of this family. Menachem is willing to do exceptional things to maintain it, though frankly it might be advisable that he begin with simpler stuff, like for example not driving even a little bit drunk again. Idiot. His little friend Motti—this is how Menachem sees him, as his little friend, for no real reason, even though Motti is two months older than him and almost a head taller—also tells him this each and every time, don’t drive drunk, you idiot. And there the voice of the narrator is bursting from Motti’s throat. Not because driving under the influence is against the law (not at all for this reason—quite the contrary; I piss on the law, I fear it, I fear its blind power, and yet I piss on it), but rather because it’s a matter, you know, of fractions of a second, running over a person or a dog or a cat or not running them over, braking in time. If someone, because he was drinking or just being careless, kills someone I love in this way, I’ll put my hand so far up his ass he’ll be sorry he was ever born. Unpleasant words.

  Now, I know, I even hope, that there are those who are saying, and not unjustifiably: enough, I’m sick of this already. This writer guy already stuck himself into his last book more than enough, so why not do us a favor and leave us alone. Let the plot roll along and that’s it. But me, what can I do? This is how I am, gentlemen. As my sister-in-law said to me on the same subject, if art has any obligation, if the people trying to make it have any obligation at all, it’s only to be utterly human. That is, fully. And this includes being the piece of shit that this one is, overall—a pest, a nuisance, an irritation, etc.

  And if I may, know that I don’t do this out of arrogance (nor, I should admit, out of an overabundance of humility). I write like I write to upset my own sensitivities (write clean to upset my sensitivity to dirtiness, write dirty to upset my sensitivity to cleanliness—to annoy them just so, word by word. Because here, and not in my strange monologues, not in the various plotlines, in the possibility whose realization would be an unforgivable sin—no, no—here is the seed. The heart is the sentence. Always the sentence. It doesn’t even matter what I say in it, it’s just the labor that’s important, always this labor, word after word after word, in the end a great light shines out from this, no, a small light, or not even that, but a light nevertheless, let’s be satisfied with what we have. And if not a light, not even a flicker, something nevertheless happens. Some feeling is passed along, some idea. There is communication. Something is opened, we are mixed together like clear water poured from glass to glass).

  8

  They’ll also buy a video camera. Maybe they’ll have a boy. Or perhaps a girl. They’ll record her in public places. At first, when she grows up and sees it, she’ll be embarrassed. Years later, though, she’ll be delighted. All the more so if she becomes a performance artist. So much material there for her to discover, her first words, her first steps. The last ones, they won’t be there—Motti and Ariella—to record.

  And Ariella, Ariella, with him she’ll live like a queen. No. Not like a queen. Like a princess, who knows that the best is still to come. Again and always it is still ahead of her, everything just gets better and better. The finest crown he will set on her head, tender as a spring day, soft as moonlight, though not as sad. Oh my, how much he’ll love her. Like children they’ll go to an amusement park for fun, and he’ll buy her cotton candy, and when her lips are sweet from sugar, he’ll kiss her again and they’ll laugh. Afterward they’ll stand in line for the rollercoaster, maybe she’ll wear heels in honor of this special day and she’ll be taller than him. All the little kids will look at them, how much fun they have, laughing like crazy people on the way down, holding on to the safety bar so very tight and choking on this tiny pleasure. All the fathers of all the little kids will look at them in envy, they’ll know that love like this can’t be gotten just anywhere, the love that pop stars sing about without knowing what they’re singing about, they’ll know that she is his only, and he is hers. And at night they’ll be together in bed, doing things you couldn’t imagine. And if they find a boy that got lost there (not in bed, in the amusement park), maybe his mother went inside the public restroom for just a moment, and he, mistakenly, thought he saw her from a distance, so he went after her and now he’s lost and frightened, Ariella will bend over and calm him down with some pleasant words, and together they’ll all go and find the lost mother. She’ll almost hyperventilate with relief, the mother, and the boy will say, Mommy, mommy, this pretty lady took care of me. And he, Motti, will stand back a bit as happy words are exchanged. Every week he’ll bring home flowers for her, for her he’ll fill beautiful vases and bring other little cheery gifts. At night (it’s the best at night, more than anything he loves to return there in his thoughts) they lay their heads close on a pillow and talk, and he’ll caress her under her nightgown or her pajamas or whatever she chooses to wear, unless she actually sleeps naked, then he’ll caress, simply, the body that there’s still no guessing how it will look or smell, what it will taste like on his tongue. During days off (sometimes in his imagination every day is a day off) they’ll head out to nature and sometimes they’ll stay home and sometimes they’ll return to the amusement park, and one time the boy they saved from being lost will see them and run to them from far off, he’ll hug Ariella with joy, and Motti will be happy too.

  And at night (again the night, yes) they’ll lay head beside head on a pillow, and the conversation will grow like a tree of many branches. Head beside head they’ll lay them, and stare happily. You could make a ruler using the line that will stretch out between their eyes, between his pupils and her pupils, and the other way around at the same time. Though the question is if this is really possible in the first place—is it possible, that is, that we can ever truly speak, that we can see one another eye to eye—or if everything is like Motti and Menachem, someone always up and someone down, dominant and submissive. Maybe we’re like wolf packs (in a positive sense, actually): there’s an order to things, flexible to a certain extent; in other words, first one can be up and then the other can too, but there must always be both an up and a down. Only this keeps us moving. Only this lets us touch.

  9

  At night Laika woke up. Small movements passed through Motti’s hand resting on her head during sleep, as if a small motor there had started up, and he woke as well. Each one lay in his or her place and listened. He heard nothing, and said to her, drowsy, Laika, enough. Quiet, Laika, quiet down. But she didn’t quiet down. Her ears stood up. She growled. She listened for a moment and then jumped from her spot and rushed to the door. He wanted to go back to sleep, but she started to bark, and it’s the middle of the night now, what about the neighbors. Stepped after her in the dark. Next to the door she wouldn’t give him even a glance. Barked and barked at the door, maybe out of anger, maybe out of excitement, he doesn’t know. Froze in her place for a moment and then once more, barking and barking like crazy and attacking the door, then she stops again and brings her snout close to the floor, as if she’s trying to dig there, to squeeze through the sealed slit at the bottom of the door. What’s there, Laika? (He asks her, but knows that she can’t answer, since she’s a dog, and not a person.) What’s there, Laika? Quiet, Laika (he’s scolding her). Quiet! It’s the middle of the night.

  She doesn’t quiet down, and through the peephole there’s only darkness. His cheek is up against the door and his eye to the eyepiece, and Laika sits down and fixes him with a glare. Who’s there Laika? (He’s asking again, and when she doesn’t answer, he cautiously opens the door.) No one’s there. Laika goes out and busily sniffs up and down the stairs. What is it, Laika? he asks her in a whisper in the stairwell and turns on the light. Who was here, girl?

  Laika raises her eyes to him and crouches to urinate a bit next to the welcome mat. Afterward she goes inside with a drooping tail and heads to her place in the bedroom. Not giving him so much as a glance. He looks at the stairs for another mo
ment, and then goes inside, locks and bolts the door. You have to be careful; outside, the world gapes wide open.

  10

  Perhaps he’d wronged Laika when he turned on the light, he thinks as he lies in bed and doesn’t fall asleep. He pets her and looks at her. She averts her eyes, perhaps seeking in this way not to register her complaint, perhaps seeking in this way to minimize his presence to her senses, to negate in this way the wound lurking inside her. Perhaps (he wants to laugh dismissively, but the thought already has a hold on him), perhaps until he himself looked, until that moment the King of the Dogs was there, on the other side. He can’t be seen through a peephole, and he, Motti, instead of letting Laika be, scolded her and opened the door and ruined everything. That’s the problem with relationships between species so different, biologically speaking: you simply can’t know with any certainty. The great god of the dogs was there—Motti makes up a story for himself before falling asleep. The King of Dogs materialized there all by himself and then, just like that, melted away. Didn’t use the stairs. And actually, Laika urinated as a sign of mourning.