her out on Saturday night dates to movies. Moshe never took her anywhere; he just waited for her by the train. He wasn’t a boy either; he was a man, and an older man at that: forty-two to her twenty-four. Forty-two, twenty-four: opposite numbers, but matching opposites.
The other word that didn’t fit her relationship with Moshe was love. They never used this word between them, not once. Though this thing between them was deep, maybe even as deep as love. Because Moshe was a man of the land. He had five dunams of land on a moshav that he farmed himself with his own tractor, growing artichokes, melons, and orange and lemon trees. To her, he smelled of the earth, the fields, the orchards, and the sun. Sometimes, after they’d made love, she would lie face down on top of him — the same way she liked on nature trips to lie face down flat on the Israeli earth and inhale its deep scent — and she would smell him. As if Moshe were the Land, Israel itself. Once, lying on top of him like this, she wished she could just for a while be male, so she could scatter her seed on Israel’s earth, and in this way help to — as Ben-Gurion put it — “make the desert bloom.”
Now at the front of the room a tall, skinny man is making his presentation. The blonde woman is gone: Judith didn’t even notice when they switched. In fact, she’s not even sure there hasn’t been someone else, or even two other people, in between Blondie and this guy. Now she feels anxious: maybe she’s missed something important. So she tries to focus and listen to this man. He is talking about the elusiveness of language, and how, from a postmodern perspective, the meaning of a word is not static, but something that constantly shifts, depending on its context. What he’s saying sounds very interesting and seems to resonate with depth. Yet she keeps feeling that she almost understands what he’s talking about, but never 100 percent. As if he were an ad for his own product: Elusive Language. After ten minutes of increasing frustration, she asks herself what Moshe, if he were here, would say.
“Bullshit,” comes his immediate answer. Judith suppresses her laughter and looks down at the arm of her chair. Of course he’d say that: to Moshe, language was a simple matter. He spoke without thinking about the words he used. But she found them fascinating because they were Hebrew. Moshe was a man of Hebrew words. A “real Israeli,” a sabra. This was his language, his and Bialik’s and the Bible’s — this language she had just borrowed, acquired through painful study, “breaking her teeth” on it, as the Hebrew expression goes. And which even now she knew — though unusually well for an immigrant — in only a fractured way. It was still for her a second, “other,” language, like being the “other” woman, someone’s second love. Yet this language, this holy tongue, belonged in Moshe’s mouth. Sometimes when he kissed her, she imagined thousands of Hebrew words, tiny as sperm, being transferred from him to her, along with his saliva and desire. Planting themselves within her, taking root, and then blossoming inside her into a tree, with hundreds of Hebrew words hanging off the branches, instead of pink flowers. Making her a “real Israeli,” too.
She looks at the postmodern guy. No — words for Moshe didn’t shape-shift. They each had a meaning that was constant and clear. She used to ask him for words, and his answer was always unhesitating.
“How do you say this in Hebrew?” she’d ask him, scooping a palmful of soil from the ground.
“Karka.”
She held up a pine cone.
“Itztrueball.”
She pointed to a pink wildflower.
“Hotmeet.” A hot meeting, she thought. Hot meat.
She was like Helen Keller asking Anne Sullivan to tell her the names of things. Moshe always told her. But he couldn’t understand her hunger for words. He’d say to her, tenderly joking, “What do you need all these words for, Judith? What will you do with them once you have them? When are you ever going to have a conversation about pine cones?”
But she kept asking. Earlobe. Spider web. Cum. (T’nuch. Kurei akavish. Shpeech.) Which, written, looked to her almost like Speech. Slurred speech — shpeech — like when you come. When Moshe asked her halfway into their relationship what she wanted for her birthday, she told him “a word.”
“A word! What word?”
“Any word. As long as it’s one I don’t already know.”
“But how am I supposed to know what words you don’t know?”
She just shrugged.
“Crazy girl,” said Moshe.
But the following week, when she turned twenty-five, he gave her two presents. First a plastic, imitation-alligator-skin purse — the kind of thing she’d never be caught dead with. Then he gave her the word ta’ava. Craving, or longing. Because, he said, she seemed so much to want, and to want so much. “Greedy girl,” he chided her gently. “You must learn to be satisfied with less. L’histapek b’m’at.” Which she realizes now was probably his way of reminding her he was married, and she shouldn’t hope for too much from him. He concluded his little birthday speech by quoting from Ethics of the Fathers, disconcerting her since he was so staunchly secular: “Who is rich? He who is content with his portion.”
He … his, she thought. That male language doesn’t include me, so I don’t have to be content. She said this out loud to Moshe, half-knowing he wouldn’t understand. And he didn’t. But that’s okay, she thought. L’histapek b’m’at.
Now at the front of the room, there has been another changing of the guard: a skinny woman with wild hair like a cavewoman is talking. From postmodern to premodern, or even prehistoric, thinks Judith, and listens for a few moments. Blah blah blah. She returns to Moshe. Yes, he was married. He had two young daughters who adored him, and a wife who didn’t like sex. And who he in turn didn’t seem to much like, his lip curling involuntarily whenever he mentioned her. What Zahava did like, though, was lampshades. Apparently she had over a hundred of them, and bought a new one at least once a month. Judith pictured a small house crammed full of lampshades, all tawdry and vulgar, and Zahava as tawdry and vulgar too. But actually it was thanks to Zahava that she met Moshe. It was only because he had to keep up with the cost of Zahava’s wild shopping sprees that he started moonlighting and took the six-month part-time contract in the town where Judith worked. He was hired as a contractor to renovate this small, run-down development town. In the thirty-ninth year after the town’s founding, and in anticipation of the fortieth-year festivities, a group of leading citizens had convinced the municipal council the place needed some sprucing up. So, twice a week, Moshe wandered in and out of decrepit abandoned shacks, houses missing half their roofs, and never-used “community centres” with all their windows broken — donated by well-meaning but naive Jewish communities abroad — as he chewed thoughtfully on a piece of straw, considering what to do. She watched him and thought, This is a man who fixes things. Takes that which is broken, and makes it whole again. Perhaps he could do this for people, too.
She soon discovered, though, that he didn’t work alone. He had a Moroccan guy helping him, a skinny younger man named Koby, who measured everything in sight, listened to Moshe weigh the pros and cons of various repair plans, acted as his sounding-board, and helped him come up with price estimates that were neither too high nor too low. Once Judith came with Moshe to visit one of his sites. Koby looked with surprise at her, then questioningly at Moshe; Moshe just smiled and shrugged. For the next fifteen minutes, she watched the two men work together and saw how heavily Moshe depended on Koby: he couldn’t have managed this project without him. But that didn’t stop Moshe from saying when they were alone again back in the van: “Never trust a Moroccan, Judith. You’re not from here, you don’t know what they’re like. They’re lazy, and primitive, and they’ll rob you blind the second you turn your back.”
She
