My Michael by Amos Oz Read Free Book Online

our wedding we took an old two-room apartment in the district called Mekor Baruch, in northwest Jerusalem. The people who lived in this neighborhood in 1950 were, besides the Orthodox families, mostly petty clerks in the government service or in the Jewish Agency, textile retailers, cashiers in the cinemas or in the Anglo-Palestine Bank. The area was even then in decline. Modern Jerusalem was reaching out toward the south and southwest. Our apartment was rather gloomy, and the plumbing was antiquated, but the rooms were very tall, which I liked. We discussed plans for painting the walls in bright colors and growing plants in pots. We did not know then that in Jerusalem potted plants never flourish, perhaps because of the large amounts of rust and chemical purifiers in the tap water.
    We spent our spare time wandering around Jerusalem buying essentials: basic items of furniture, a few brushes and brooms and kitchen utensils, some clothes. I was surprised to discover that Michael knew how to haggle without being undignified. I never saw him lose his temper. I was proud of him. My best friend Hadassah, who had recently married a promising young economist, summed him up thus:

    "A modest and intelligent boy. Not too brilliant, perhaps, but steady."
    Old family friends, long-established Jerusalemites, said:
    "He makes a good impression."
    We walked around arm in arm. I strained to catch in the face of every acquaintance we met his inner judgment of Michael. Michael spoke little. His eyes were alert. He was pleasant and self-restrained in company. People said, "Geology? That's surprising. You'd think he was in the humanities."

    In the evening I would go to Michael's room in Mousrara, where we were storing our purchases for the time being. I would sit most of the evening embroidering flowers on pillowcases. And on the clothes I embroidered our name, Gonen. I was good at embroidery.
    I would sit back in the armchair we had bought to stand on the balcony of our apartment. Michael sat at his desk, working on a paper on geomorphology. He was trying hard to have the work finished and to present it before the wedding. He had promised himself that he would. By the light of his reading lamp I saw his long, lean, dark face, his close-cropped hair. Sometimes I thought he looked like a pupil in an Orthodox boarding school, or like one of the boys from the Diskin orphanage whom I used to watch crossing our street on their way to the railway station when I was a child. Their heads were shaved and they walked in twos, holding hands. They were sad and resigned. But behind their air of resignation I could sense a suppressed violence.
    Michael started shaving casually again. Dark bristles sprouted under his chin. Had he lost his new razor? No, he admitted that he had lied to me on our second evening together. He hadn't bought a new razor. He had shaved especially thoroughly to please me. Why had he lied? Because l had made him feel embarrassed. Why had he gone back now to shaving only every other day? Because now he didn't feel ill at ease in my presence. "I hate shaving. If only I were an artist instead of a geologist, I might consider growing a beard."

    I tried to visualize the picture, and burst out laughing.
    Michael looked up at me in amazement. "What's so funny?"
    "Are you offended?"
    "No, I'm not offended. Not in the slightest."
    "Then why are you looking at me like that?"
    "Because at last I've managed to make you laugh. Time and time again I've tried to make you laugh, and I've never seen you laughing. Now, without trying, I've succeeded. It makes me happy."
    Michael's eyes were gray. When he smiled the corners of his mouth quivered. He was gray and self-restrained, my Michael.

    Every two hours I would make him a glass of lemon tea, which he liked. We rarely spoke, because I did not want to interrupt his work. I liked the word "geomorphology." Once I got up quietly and tiptoed over barefoot to stand behind him as he bent over his work.