The Remains of Love by Zeruya Shalev Read Free Book Online

was tied to her, and it didn’t occur to him that this first love for a diminutive, short-haired girl, which was in essence youthful curiosity and a confused inclination to find a refuge from his mother, would turn into a trap in which he would flutter all his life, unable to escape or to adjust; sometimes he almost managed to extricate his body there but always left one or other of his body-parts trapped in remorseless pincers, even if it were only the nail of his little finger – the pain would still be unbearable and liberation impossible.
    The deep, seemingly eternal sleep of his mother, the whirring of the ventilators and the ringing of telephones amid the coughing and the mumbling, gradually lull him into a state of soothing inertia, as if all these mechanisms are designed to protect him. He leans back and covers his eyes with his arm and apparently slumber takes hold of him, since when he wakes with a start a little while later, the curtain has been removed altogether and the bed beside him is empty. The lean man, with the yellowing skin and the winsome smile, and his beautiful and aristocratic wife, are no longer there, they were his neighbours only briefly, it has turned out, and although his tears are in her pocket he has no idea who she is or where they have gone.
    Did he die just a moment ago, give back his soul to his maker, whereupon his body was immediately disposed of, or had he been admitted to one of the wards? Perhaps their love had defeated the disease, and he rose unexpectedly from the bed and they walked home arm in arm, leaving him traumatised by the premature parting, for which he was entirely unprepared. He had been convinced that long hours were still in store for him as their neighbour, as is typical of casualty wards, hours in which he would succeed in finding out their names, their business, their love story, and now he is afflicted by such a deep sense of lost opportunity that he beats his forehead with his fists, as he used to do as a child in moments of frustration. You’ve missed it again, you’ve gone wrong again, you thought you had time, you thought that even someone whose days were numbered would wait for you. That’s the kind of person you are, dozing while more opportunities pass you by, and although it isn’t clear to him precisely which opportunity he’s lamenting, what those two partners could have taught him, he stands up sadly from his seat and moves to the bed beside him, maybe there’s some scrap of information left there that can help him. But the chart attached to the bed is blank, nothing has been left on the sheets, and he wanders among the patients looking for the nurses, until he catches sight of one some distance away and summons her with energetic gestures, as if his mother needs her urgently. Tell me, he tries to smile when she approaches him, perhaps in spite of it all she’ll remember him from his television appearances, the patient who was in this bed, have they admitted him to one of the wards? And she replies, I’m sorry, I’m not allowed to divulge any information. Are you a relative of his? And he says, no, but I lent him a book and I have no idea how to find him. And she whispers, they went home, you’ll find them at home.
    Then that’s a good sign, isn’t it? he tries his luck, but she answers dryly, I don’t know, there are people who like to die at home and some who prefer hospitals, and already she’s walking away, leaving him stunned and aghast. People like to die at home! What a cruel expression, as if it’s about something mundane, like diet or accommodation. Are you out of your mind? How can you say anyone likes dying? he wants to reprove her, as if she were one of his interns, caught expressing something in slovenly style, but of course she’s gone, leaving him beside the empty bed, and he sits on it with some diffidence, smoothing the sheet with his hand the way the woman in the satin blouse caressed the bony forearm, and when it seems