with a quick mind and a firm resolve. A fact that I knew how to say “I’m not having my photo taken.”
I didn’t see things like this all the time. There were also times of tender compassion and times when I was seized by a terrible, wrenching pity. There were definitely moments when I succeeded in conjuring up memories of a hand holding mine, and an older sister who insisted on bathing me. But these hours and moments grew fewer and fewer, and my pity for myself—sentenced as I was to live at close quarters with someone of her kind—increasingly filled the space left by that other pity. I was revolted by her flip-flops decorated with plastic flowers, by the movements with which she shook crumbs off her clothes, and by the way she came too close to me in the kitchen. I loathed the electric light in the apartment, the stupid sound of the television, and the pleas that stuck to me even when I went out. It happened that I cruelly refused to tell her when I was coming back.
And once it happened that I came home very late. It didn’t just “happen.” “Happen” means “happenstance.” I deliberately came back hours late.
I don’t remember how much vodka I downed in order to steel myself for this piece of cruelty, but I know very well that when I was already back in the apartment I crawled on all fours to the bathroom to vomit my guts out, and that the frightened Elisheva followed me like a shadow with a damp cloth and a glass of water. I told her that I had been attacked by a virus on my way home, “it’s nothing, it’s just a virus,” and she of course believed me, because in our folie à deux we believed everything and the deal was mutual.
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