5

I RUSH BY the wax pavilion, following my conversation with Eli, ignoring the figurines’ inquisitive eyes. I’m not in the mood.

Last night I tossed and turned in bed, replaying my meeting with Dina, knowing there was something that eluded me there, something important. Some word that was said, a clue suspended mid-air, something deep and dark, impalpable, like BO.

A moment before falling asleep, my body already cold and slack, I felt the answer teetering on the edge of my consciousness, like when you’re about to sneeze, but the fleeting moment passes, it’s right under your nose, silly!

The figurines lock their wax eyes on me, none of them smiling.

The collection was donated by one of our bigger benefactors abroad. At first there were a few who tried to object on the grounds of “Thou shalt not make unto thee any graven image,” and there was a vociferous article in the local paper and an attempt to organize a protest against “blasphemous” sculptures “in the Bible museum no less!” But as always in such cases, when it comes to a serious benefactor, the collection stayed right where it was. Normally, I actually like walking along the pavilion, but these days are anything but normal, and the figurines look especially grouchy.

Our mother Leah seems grouchiest of all, with those dead eyes of hers, placed next to a figurine of our father Jacob, and her big brood of kids are all slung from her arms like cherries on melting ice cream. The artist obviously took his interpretation of “tender eyes” a little too far, rendering her expression a unique combination of cross-eyed and blind.

Our mother Sarah, standing by the figurine of our father Abraham, also frowns at me, looking old and more wrinkled than ever, especially since she’s holding the little wax hand of baby Isaac. Sarah’s Egyptian slave Hagar, of course, has been sculpted as young and beautiful, “too beautiful,” a visitor once remarked disapprovingly. I agreed with her, finding her generous and perky wax breasts annoying as well.

As usual, I pick up my pace as I pass by the figurine of Miriam the prophetess, feeling that same old peevishness over the fact that they chose to immortalize her in her famous scene, as a little girl peeking through the reeds, looking over baby Moses, who, for some reason, was shaped as a pig in a blanket. At least he got another figurine as an adult, while Miriam has been frozen in time as an anxious child. What about the powerful prophetess she grew up to be? What about it, indeed.

Today I rush past her even faster than usual, a few more figurines and I’ll be out of the pavilion. Here’s David and his wives, a smug redhead surrounded by a group of beautiful women, and next to them, at some distance, sits a proud, sad woman, her small crown atilt. All the other women are carrying a chubby wax toddler in their arms, while she settles for the crown and a hungry expression. It’s Michal, daughter of Saul, the only one among King David’s wives I was ever partial to. But the lecture about her is in scarce demand, or as some instructional coordinator from the South once commented to me, “Who wants to hear about that barren hag?” before asking to sign up for the lecture “Four Mothers – Birthing a Proud Nation.”

Adam and Eve are waiting for me near the exit, clad head to toe in fig leaves.

Efraim saw to that, brought kids over for a special arts and crafts workshop to churn out dozens of ornate fig leaves, and glued them on himself. I remember watching him, gluing on one leaf after another in silent wrath. By the time he was finished, Adam and Eve looked as if they were wearing dark green scuba suits.

At least he was spared the sculpture of Lilith. A few years back the girlfriend of one of our benefactors decided to donate a sculpture of Lilith to our collection. Unfortunately for Efraim, the girlfriend was a renowned New York sculptor who argued it was ridiculous not to include the first woman created in the Garden of Eden in the exhibition. Efraim tried to fight it, explaining that it was more homiletical exegesis than biblical figure per se, but as usual, the big bucks tipped the scales.

I was standing next to Eli when the truck arrived and unloaded the New York Lilith, and together we watched Efraim lose his cool. She was naked, Lilith, tall, gigantic, hairy and stark naked. (Later the sculptor explained that she actually did try to be considerate and glue on her long dark hair so it would cover the more risqué bits, but the glue wore thin along the bumpy journey and revealed the sculptor’s hyper-realistic styling of body parts.) And if that wasn’t enough, she had her teeth sunk into a tiny baby. She looked like a predator.

I wasn’t surprised, knew all the myths describing her as the enemy of mothers and devourer of babies, and even the sculptor explained, once the tumult died down, that her intent was merely to criticize the manner in which Lilith’s character had been vilified: that she would never dream of eating her young, and that her only crime was her unwillingness to become the mother of a controlling man’s children; but for Efraim it was a real lifesaver.

He knew that fighting liberal loons over exposed body parts was one battle he stood to lose, but over a woman devouring live babies? Come on.

Letters were sent, phone calls made and Lilith the cannibal was duly dispatched overseas to appear in the exhibition “The First Woman – The Last Mother,” the sculpture’s last known address.

But if you take a close look at the wax figurine of Eve, you can still see the crack that split open in her shoulder when she was moved in order to make room for Lilith, and got crushed against the wall. The shoulder area has since been restored, but the injury is still visible.

It’s just how it is with Lilith, always leaving a trail.

My phone rings. I look at the name flashing on the screen and my heart skips a beat. You idiot!

I debate whether to answer right away or prolong the anticipation, then remind myself this isn’t the usual tug of war we’re playing here.

“Hey, Micha,” I say, trying to find the right tone.

“Give me one good reason I shouldn’t arrest you right now.”

I freeze. From the corner of my eye, I notice little Miriam peeking from between the reeds.

“What… what are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about you bullshitting me about you and Dina not being in contact when it turns out you went over to her place the night she was murdered, that’s what I’m talking about.”

I feel the chill creeping through my entire body, how does he know? And that raw anger in his voice, with just a hint of violence. I was never good at dealing with direct accusations, always preferred the more indirect, roundabout way.

“I wanted to tell you,” I drag the words out, “but I was afraid it wouldn’t come off so well.”

“It comes off like shit.”

Okay, so definitely not the roundabout type. Little Miriam gazes at me with worry as I search for the right words, and keeps on gazing when they don’t come. I hold the phone silently, a horrible, never ending, radiation-riddled silence. Well, make something up already!

“Look, Sheila,” he says, and mentioning my name makes him sound a little friendlier. “What am I supposed to think? You didn’t tell me the truth.”

“Because I couldn’t.”

“Okay, so tell me now, slow and steady, why did you go to Dina Kaminer’s?”

“She initiated it.”

“Really?” he says, his tone once again devoid of sympathy. “Just like that? After twenty years?” He’s asking the same questions Eli asked, but he’s not Eli, he’s the opposite of Eli and you better keep that in mind. “Or did you in fact keep in touch all this time? Maybe you lied to me about that too?”

“Look, I have to go teach a class, can we talk later?” I take a deep breath. “You can come over to my place, if you want.” There, I said it. I feel the fear and foolishness jumbling in my stomach, like every time I make a destructive move. The wax figurine of Michal fixes her icy glare on me, the crown on her head sparkling.

“I’ll come over, but this time no lies, Sheila, because I don’t know where that will lead us.” And he hangs up, leaving me clutching my phone, surrounded by wax figures whose gazes all say the same thing: incorrigible.

I walk into the instruction room, and Efraim immediately blurts out, “Well, hello there, good morning! Look who decided to show up! We were afraid some murderer had gotten to you as well.”

Good morning to you too, Efraim. I know you mean well, or at least you think you do, but very soon I’ll make you stop.

From across the room I exchange looks with my colleague Shirley, her consoling eyes telling me that she’s already received her daily dose of “high risk single women” jokes.

Poor Efraim! If only he knew that Shirley was already making great strides towards getting pregnant via sperm donation, it would really have messed with his head, but eventually he’d reach the conclusion that it was a blessed event. Childbirth is always a blessed event. Obviously, if said baby came with a father, maybe even an observant father, it would make it all the more blessed, but Efraim has learned not to expect too much of his two spinsters – who also happen to be the best instructors on his team – so he’s careful with his jokes. However, this particular murder seems to be beyond his self-restraint.

“Here are the reports Eli sent,” I say, shoving them in his hands.

When Eli started working here, the mere mention of his name would bring a dreamy smile to Efraim’s face, and he’d send me on all these ridiculous errands, fussing around me like a wrinkled old Cupid. Those good intentions again.

“Kill me now!” Yifat bursts into the room and collapses onto one of the chairs. “What an awful group, they wouldn’t stop complaining the entire session.”

“What do you expect from teachers?” the seasoned Efraim says. “Don’t worry, it’s all been taken care of; they just want a slight alteration in their lesson plan.” He informs me that subsequent to recent events, this particular group of teachers from the settlement of Elkana in the West Bank is now interested in a “brief overview of that famous article by, you know, that friend of yours – but be gentle, Sheila, don’t start up with all those aggressive opinions of yours.”

That friend of yours. I once read that when someone uses that expression, more often than not they’re referring to someone who isn’t your friend at all. I take the instruction manuals and make my way to the auditorium, hearing from a distance the wax figurines bursting into giggles.

They’re already waiting for me, sitting there chewing despite the No Eating sign hanging above the entrance to the auditorium.

A closed room crowded with religious women of child-bearing age has a very distinct smell, a combination of sweetness and acidity, the aroma of hormones, milk and blood. I feel the invisible babies nestled up against a few of them.

“Hello there,” I begin. “I understand that, following recent events, you’re interested in a brief review of Dina Kaminer’s article.” The words get stuck in my throat, but one should never show weakness, certainly not in front of a room full of teachers.

“Excuse me.” It’s one of them, the invisible baby clinging to her neck. “It’s absolute hogwash. What does it even mean that women in the Bible didn’t want to be mothers? Who doesn’t want to be a mother?”

I look at her without blinking, taking in the smell of sweat and milk.

“Well, that theory certainly has quite a few detractors, but there were indeed several prominent biblical women who didn’t have children, supposedly by choice. It might also explain the fact that many women in the Bible, including the nation’s matriarchs, were portrayed as barren.” I recite the essay’s opening line, feeling my voice becoming lower, purring.

“What are you talking about?” a few of them exclaim in unison. “Those women begged for children, Rachel almost died childless!” I note to myself that Rachel eventually died in childbirth, but I don’t want to incite the room, which is already starting to buzz with commotion.

“That’s certainly the opinion of the biblical narrator,” I reply calmly, “who was a man, of course, but he doesn’t conceal the fact that some of the most active and accomplished women in the Bible, like Miriam the prophetess or Huldah the prophetess, didn’t have children.”

“A life without children is no life at all!” a woman shouts from the back of the auditorium. “Look at Michal, daughter of Saul, her punishment was a life without children.”

“Punishment?” I reply. “Perhaps she simply wasn’t interested in having children with the man who murdered her father and brother?” Michal’s wax figurine flashes before me; maybe she’s not sad at all, maybe her expression is one of relief, I was spared.

“Where did you come up with that nonsense?” Another one, ruddy and round, stands up in front of me, going on the warpath, Don’t take my motherhood away from me, it’s all I have.

“It’s in the essay, dear,” I reply peaceably.

“What essay? That’s Kaminer’s famous theory? That malarkey?”

“Call it whatever you like, but that theory gained her international acclaim, and has a very deep, serious factual basis.”

“And how would you know?” It’s the flushed one again, and she’s standing so close to me now she almost looks cross-eyed; she’s starting to resemble the wax figurine of our mother Leah, melting babies to boot.

“As a matter of fact, I was the one who helped Dina Kaminer develop the theory.” Efraim, who happens to be passing by the auditorium on his way out, halts and fixes a curious gaze on me.

“Are you sure?” Then how did you become such a loser?

“Yes, I’m sure. Google it and see for yourself,” I say, and hear the sound of all the wax figurines starting to applaud. With the exception of Miriam, of course, I can picture her evil eyes. A little girl standing between the reeds, frozen in time, never to grow up to be a leader, never to hold the drum.

By the end of the instruction class I revert back to my familiar calm and collected self again, including during the usual conciliatory closing round, in which each teacher likens herself to an inspirational biblical character. The ruddy one, as could be expected, chose Leah, the great matriarch. Good for you, homegirl. All that hormonal, milky sweat I have inhaled makes me a little sleepy and I almost blend into them to become one of them. As it was back then, living in the all-girls national service apartment, when after a while the little garbage can in the bathroom filled up with bloody sanitary pads on the exact same day, and later at the exact same hour. That subterranean female connection, working around the clock. Tick-tock.

And now, as I make my way home to prepare for Micha, I run through the list of suspects who could have told him about my meeting with Dina that evening, and none of the possibilities makes me very happy.

But only one makes me shudder at the mere thought.