TEL AVIV, ISRAEL
December 1966
Tamara froze at the foot of the ficus tree, half stripped of leaves by the winter chill. She didn’t move a muscle, barely drew a breath. Above her, maybe five feet, a white bird with an S-curved neck watched immobile from a jutting limb. It was large with a long yellow bill, sharp like a dagger, and thin black legs. It’s an egret, she thought, it must be lost. It should be on the migration route, in the Hula Valley. What is it doing here?
She was bewitched by the dazzling white-feathered beauty, so noble, so close she felt she could touch it, until she realized she could ask the same question of herself. What was she doing here? She looked up at Peter’s apartment. Was she lost too? But her head movement, as she turned back to the bird, startled it, and with a flap of its mighty wings, so close she felt the shifting air, the egret soared, to seek its flock.
She should leave too, she thought, this is madness. She belonged with her family.
But the family was changing. The twins were sixteen and seemed to prefer the homes of their friends. Ever since Peter had asked to meet, alone, secretly, she had been racked with doubt. She lay awake at night, questioning every part of her life, but especially Arie, who rarely slept at her side. How long had he been cheating on her? Forever. And everybody knew. If she was her own client she would have advised herself to leave her husband years ago. And now here she was, doing the same thing as him. Or about to. She looked up again at Peter’s balcony, at the pants and shirts drying on the line, a bicycle’s handlebars visible above the brick wall, the ugly square air conditioner sticking out like a wart.
She remained in the tree’s shade, absorbing the grace of the diminishing bird as its white body vanished among puffs of gray cloud. She looked around, over her shoulder. Is anybody watching, does anybody know me? All she had to do was walk the final few steps to the building’s entrance and climb the stairs into Peter’s arms. But with a sinking feeling she thought, I can’t, I truly can’t. Despite everything, this is so wrong.
Upstairs, there was nothing more Peter could do but wait, and hope Tamara would come. He had changed the sheets, smoothed the pillows, collected the pile of shoes and sandals that littered the entrance and stuffed them beneath the hall table. He had taken all the toys and skates and dropped them in the children’s room. He had dusted the surfaces and rearranged everything that moved. The boys were at school and wouldn’t be home till two o’clock, while Rachel would pick up little Diana from kindergarten at midday and take her to her own home. He had four hours. But where was Tamara?
Resisting the temptation to look out of the balcony every ten seconds, Peter poured a glass of lemon juice from the jug he had prepared for Tamara and sprawled across the sofa, resting his head on a cushion, his feet draped over the end. He closed his eyes, trying to control his breathing, but his mind kept turning to what would happen when Tamara knocked on the door. If she did. Would she? He placed his hand on his heart, felt its rapid beat; I could be on a stakeout, waiting for a target to leave the building. No, I’m never this nervous at work.
How long had he wanted Tamara? He didn’t dare answer, even to himself, he didn’t dare consider that all the nine years he had been married with Diana he had loved someone else. It wasn’t even true, even to think it was disloyal and false. And yet … they had only come together because Arie had got in first with Tamara. There. Said it. He quickly banished the thought, but here it was again. Oh, Tamara.
Will she come? But what about Arie? His own brother.
Peter pushed that thought away too. He wouldn’t let him ruin it. He wanted to strip away all pretense, all borders, and finally, after all these years, let the chips fall where they may. For once he had to be true to himself.
But where was she? He went to the balcony. He looked to the left and to the right, peered along the path through the trees. No sign of Tamara. He felt nauseous.
So did Tamara, who was now at the door, her hand raised to knock, but slowly she let it fall to her side, her heart thumping.
This is madness, she thought again. What if Arie found out? He would go crazy. Yes, she knew Peter had loved her, since they’d first met, that is what he told her on the park bench, that he had always loved her, that Diana had been his love too, his true love, but she, Tamara, had always been the one, the one he had lost. What made it worse was that his words were honey to her soul, they stirred her heart. She had held his hand tighter and tighter and when he had poured out his love, at the end, when he had asked if she would come to see him, and he had said they could no longer deny themselves, she had answered with one word, the one simple word that threatened everything she had and who she was. She answered, so quietly he could hardly hear, or believe what he heard, she answered with one daring, dangerous, deceitful word: Yes.
* * *
Peter looked at the clock. It was ten past ten, she was ten minutes late. That’s nothing, he thought. Maybe she couldn’t find a taxi, maybe it broke down, anything could be delaying her. At a quarter past a sense of desperation came over him. If she doesn’t come now, she isn’t coming. He had given her his heart, and she had rejected it. He could never offer it again. He had made his play, and he had lost. He couldn’t blame her. Life in a mansion with one of Israel’s richest men, even if it was a lousy marriage, was better than living with him in a messy two-bedroom apartment with three kids. What did he really have to offer? He must have been crazy, all these years of longing and frustration. Get real, Peter. The dream is over.
At ten sixteen there was a tap on the door.
Twice he had hidden Diana’s photograph in a drawer, and twice he had taken it out again. In the end he had left her where she always was, presiding over the room from her silver frame, in the middle of the sideboard.
He knew she’d approve.
When he heard the tap on the door Peter couldn’t help glancing at Diana. He felt a shiver. Was it delight? Regret? Or anticipation? Or dread at his next move, one that could destroy his family and hers? Maybe it would be smarter not to answer the door.
He moved slowly, adjusting his belt, running his hand through his hair.
On the other side of the door, Tamara was thinking, maybe he isn’t here. Maybe he forgot. She was ready to turn and flee. The flying egret flashed through her mind as the door opened and there was Peter. She thought, he looks so serious.
He closed the door behind her and watched. Silently she took off her jacket and draped it over a chair. She wore a white high-collared blouse with a tight gray skirt, as if she was going to her law office. Keeping up the pretense, a step toward deceit. She turned and hesitated. Uncertainty, tension: What did a good woman do? A good woman about to become a bad woman.
Peter gazed into her eyes, as if he was amazed she had come. With good reason, she thought, yet she found herself leaning toward him, until, as one, they moved into each other. Peter embraced her, and she rested comfortably against him and in this way they stood, silent, snug, her chest against his thin shirt, his against her flimsy blouse, each feeling the other’s pounding heart, their touch and tightness saying more than words ever could.
And then, at last, Peter’s lips found hers, and her sweet softness, yielding all the promise and hopes of the years, surrendered with a passion that grew with every passing second. Fifteen years of longing sweetened every sense until Peter felt giddy and had to steady himself with an arm on the entrance table.
Tamara held him, and smiled. She took him by the hand and turned, as if to say, Come with me.
In the bedroom, standing, they kissed more, passion and impatience now overwhelming them. Peter’s hands rose to Tamara’s breasts and one by one he unfastened the buttons on her blouse, while she opened his belt. Their lips still joined, Peter pulled off his shirt and held her against him, unclasping her bra. At last their lips parted and he looked down and gently kissed each breast, sinking to his knees, as if worshipping her, while Tamara threw her head back in ecstasy. She could barely breathe as his lips brushed her belly, his tongue flickering against her, his hands cupping her breasts. She tore off her skirt.
Looking up, Peter peeled down her panties. Tamara stepped out of her shoes and stood naked before him. She had never felt so beautiful, so proud, so majestic, like a noble egret settling its wings. It seemed to her now that this was where she belonged. With this man, who had loved her quietly, truly, with no reward, for so long. She took him by the hand, raised him to his feet, and opened his pants. They kissed again, harder now, urgently, he caressing her, from her shoulders to the small of her back, her skin warm and soft, and then, grateful, every nerve of his body awake, lower and lower until he clasped her bottom with both hands and pulled her against him, and she felt his hardness against her belly. Shivering with pleasure, she leaned back, away from him, and looking down, with no shame, pulled his shorts over his erection and down to his feet.
She held him, her head on his shoulder, chest to chest, hip to hip. In the far distance a warning sounded in Peter’s mind, only to be silenced by the rapture building inside him. Tamara’s body was at once firm and soft, empty of guile and full of promise. Peter tensed to pick her up but Tamara placed a finger on his lips as if to quiet him, and with the slightest pressure on his shoulder turned him around, inspecting him. His muscled, lean body, his chest fluffy and dark with hair, his buttocks slim and … She trailed her fingers across his scars and murmured, “You are a fighting man.” These were their first words.
Her finger rested on a mottled purple patch below his right hip. “What is this from? And this?” A wine-red indentation in the shoulder, the width of a finger.
“A burn. A bullet. One German. One Arab. From another life.”
Tamara completed the rotation, a little smile on her lips. She brought her mouth to his chest, and toyed with one nipple, and then the other. But Peter couldn’t wait. He had a sense of time evaporating, he wanted her, needed her, now.
“My body may have a fault or two, but you, Tamara, you are perfect,” he whispered as he moved her to the bed. Lying by her he trailed his fingers along every ebb and flow of her, silken and thrilling, kissed her eyes and her throat all the way down to her thighs, wondering and exploring every inch of her flesh, until he found her very center, her revealed core, and there he lingered.
She trembled at his touch, rousing and insistent, her eyes clenched, her hands balled into fists. Her breath came in loud gasps until she arched, rocked, and finally shuddered to rest in his arms.
He could hardly believe it. Tamara … he overflowed with tenderness toward her. Everything that didn’t make sense before now did. He gently entered her as the words slipped from his mouth: “I love you.”
Tamara sighed and shifted to receive him, gripping him with her arms and legs. She breathed words he couldn’t hear, but when he put his ear to her lips he heard what he longed for: “Peter. I love you too.”
He hadn’t loved a woman since Diana, and Tamara hadn’t loved a man for a decade. They were like two drifting branches that reached the waterfall together, and swept over entangled and dripping, crashing into the cauldron below. She fell off the bed, he pulled her back and took her from behind, she collapsed and he pulled her on top, he couldn’t get deep enough and she couldn’t get enough of him. She came first, then he did, then they rested, gasping and laughing, and did it again.
Spent, they fell silent, lying back against the headboard, holding hands. With a deep sigh Tamara slipped down and laid her head on Peter’s chest, her long hair sprawled across him. He rearranged her locks so that they lay by her shoulder, and he stroked her neck. She was hot and sweaty, and every few seconds her body shook, squeezing out every last gram of pleasure. Her mind was blank, her hand quiet on Peter’s groin.
And then came the reckoning. Tamara took long gulps of lemon juice while Peter smoked half a cigarette before they spoke. “Now what?” he said.
“You do have a way with words,” Tamara said. She added, “Nobody must know. This is our secret.”
And then, “Let’s not think about it. Enjoy the Now.” For right now, Arie did not exist for her.
He did for Peter. His thoughts were a jumble, but uppermost was jealousy. How could Arie have been so lucky for so long, to have such a beautiful, sexy, glorious wife? And he doesn’t even love her. He sighed. Although he inhabited a secret world, he could not lead a secret affair with Tamara. In the end they’d be found out anyway. Better to take the initiative. She must divorce Arie and marry him. For all they knew, Arie would be happy to divorce Tamara; their marriage had long been a sham. The problem with Arie would not be his nonexistent love for Tamara, but his pride.
Under Tamara’s warm touch his brother receded, he felt himself growing hard again. They kissed, she gripped his buttocks as he held her by the waist, he wanted to make love to her forever, he didn’t want to come. But he did, loudly, and fell asleep in her arms, while she dozed with a smile on her face.
Tamara could not remember when she last felt so relaxed, so deeply content, so full. She rested her hand between her legs. Moist, so deeply sated. She drifted in and out of sleep, trying to prolong the moment, the joy of holding Peter’s naked body. As he breathed, long, deep, safe breaths, she fought her own sleep, wanting to enjoy the feel of him, the beating of his heart, the powerful arms and legs, like a big strong baby in her arms, his chest rising and falling, his breath tickling her cheeks, his sweet smell of sweaty pleasure. She never wanted to leave this bed, she wanted this moment to last forever.
* * *
“Oh!” Rachel caught her breath and closed the bedroom door.
Tamara shot upright. She looked at Peter, at the door, back to Peter. “Peter!” She jabbed him, shook him. “Peter.”
He stirred, groaned.
“Peter, Peter!”
“Yes, my love?” His hand searched, fell onto her belly. He snuggled against her. “What time is it?”
She glanced at her watch. “Twelve thirty.”
“Lots of time. Come back to sleep.” He shifted, settled, and slept. “Peter!” Tamara jabbed him again. “Wake up. I think someone’s here.”
Peter tensed, and in an instant was on his feet, with his finger to his lips. He whispered, “Why?”
“I think someone opened the door. And closed it.”
Peter slipped into his shorts and pants, pulled on his shirt. He padded to the door, strained to hear, took a deep breath, and pulled it open. He heard sounds in the kitchen, tiptoed there. Diana was sitting on the floor, looking up at him. “Daddy, I don’t feel good. I miss Mummy.”
“Mummy?” he said, bending down. He looked up at Rachel. “What happened?”
Rachel could not look him in the eyes. Her lips began to move but no sound emerged. At last she managed, “Tea?”
“No, thank you.” She saw us. He took some biscuits from the cupboard and put them on a plate. “Here, darling,” he said, putting the plate on the floor by Diana. “Was she crying at school again?” he asked Rachel.
She nodded, her eyes everywhere but on him.
He picked Diana up and held her close, whispering into her ear, soothing her. But she struggled to get out of his arms, to reach the biscuits.
Peter walked back to the bedroom and closed the door, looking grim.
“What is it?” Tamara was sitting on the bed, dressed, holding her hand to her throat, her eyes wide. “Who is it?”
He wouldn’t mention Diana crying for her mummy. It would be too hurtful. He tried to smile but failed. “Well, some secret. We’re busted.”
“Who is it?”
“Your mother.”
Tamara’s face went from white to red. This couldn’t be happening. Her mother! She had no idea what to feel. Or say.
“Whatever happens,” she said finally, “after giving birth, this was the best moment of my life. Thank you, Peter.”
“So formal. This is just the beginning. Anyway, what do you mean, whatever happens? We need to hold hands, go out there, and face your mother.”
“No. Oh, God no! Not yet!”
“Well, she’s out there. We can’t hide in here.”
“We can. We can. Get under the bed, I’ll get in the closet.”
“Good thinking. Maybe she’ll leave and forget all about it,” Peter said.
“Yes, yes. She has a horrible memory.”
“We can just deny it. Deny is always the best response. She can’t prove anything. No photographs.”
“I have to talk to her,” Tamara said, standing up.
Rachel called through the door, her voice more quavering than usual, “I’ll go then, Peter, put Diana to bed. Bye-bye.”
Tamara flew through the door. “Ima, wait, don’t go.”
Peter sat on the bed and sighed, torn between Tamara and the thought of poor little Diana. How could he make her understand that they all missed her mother, but they had to get on with their lives, they could never bring her back?
He looked at the door, feeling sheepish. Best let Tamara handle her mother.
And then he thought, wait. I’m forty-two years old, I’m deputy head of the Special Operations Division of the Israeli Secret Service, and I don’t have to be afraid of Auntie Rachel.