Something was wrong that morning: she was slower than usual and her colleagues wondered why she had greeted them differently. They looked at her for some time before returning to their usual conversations. She ignored the chatter and tried to focus on the sweater she was knitting. When the telephone rang she lifted the receiver and pushed a button on the switchboard to transfer the call. Then her hands went back to knitting. Something was definitely wrong. In fact, she regretted coming to work because her hands were shaking and she had to stop several times. In the past, time meant nothing to her. The heavy bombing had shattered the monotony of time. She and her mother would select a suitable corner and turn it into their safe house.
She stopped knitting and stared at the switchboard. Transferring calls always made her feel good about herself. She could sense what the call was about from the voice at the other end of the receiver, the eagerness or fear of a lover, the loneliness of a mother whose children are far away. When unable to transfer calls, fear gripped her and she would not dare look into the eyes of people on the street. She felt she had let them all down by adding more worries to their already overburdened lives. Some voices became familiar, and she was able to give each voice a name, to imagine what profession they were in, the problems and sorrows they faced. At home, she would tell her mother about these people, and, from time to time, her mother would inquire after a caller she had not mentioned for a while.
The voices of her colleagues sounded sharper today: they looked older and paler. It was as if she had not seen them in years. Last night she had received a call. When the phone rang she and her mother were immediately gripped with fear and panic. Nobody ever called them unless there was a death in the family. The phone rang for some time before she picked up the receiver. The voice on the other end seemed to be coming from another world.
‘Yes. Seven is fine with me.’
She stood motionless with the receiver to her ear long after he had hung up. It was some time before she was able to answer her mother’s question, and when she did, it was only to mention his name. Her astonished mother remained silent for the rest of the day. She did not even try to get more information from her daughter. In fact, she pretended to have forgotten about the phone call.
For the past ten years she had lived without daring to think about her life. She could no longer remember how she used to be. She and her mother had stayed in their house after everybody else had left the neighbourhood. Even when the few remaining neighbours tried to convince them to seek safety in the shelter, they had refused. They would sit silently in a corner for days, never even bothering to change their clothes. When there was a ceasefire, her mother stayed in bed complaining about her usual illnesses, high blood pressure and rheumatism. She too felt sick, and complained to her mother about the nagging pain in her hands and feet. Even her fingers ached.
Her bed was right next to her mother’s. It had belonged to her father, who passed away years ago. Every night after their fat-free, salt-free and sugar-free dinner, they complained about their numerous aches and pains before falling asleep. The next morning, if the weather was sunny, they woke up feeling better. Some time ago they had decided not to drink coffee in the morning because it gave them stomach cramps. She no longer remembered whether it was she or her mother who felt the cramps first. Shortly after that they stopped putting lemon in their tea.
Most afternoons were devoted to knitting. She would knit dark-coloured sweaters, some with buttons and others without, for herself and her mother. With time, their sizes had become identical, and she no longer knew which clothes were hers and which belonged to her mother. Occasionally they remembered her deceased father and indulged in exaggerating his good qualities and influence on others. They tried to hide their jealousy, for the roles of father and husband had merged after his death, and now they both needed to claim him.
Despite her initial hesitation she made up her mind to go to work, but she could not stop thinking about her seven o’clock appointment. His voice sounded in her head, and she imagined that everyone around her could hear it too. But they were all deep in their own conversations. Soon she gave up trying to relax. Instead, she kept looking furtively at her watch. Long ago, she had known this anxiety, the anxiety of waiting for someone or something. She would try on all her clothes to make time pass quickly but usually ended up wearing the same dress she had on. She could not tolerate another minute. Restlessly, she glanced at the switchboard, grabbed her black bag and walked out. Nobody even noticed that she had left.
She did not lunch with her mother. So great was her need to be alone that she completely ignored her. Instead, she went directly to her old room and sat on the edge of her bed. She hadn’t slept there since her father’s death. Today it was bathed in sunlight, and the pink bed covers seemed to belong to some other girl. She imagined herself in happier times as she searched in her wardrobe for a dress that would accentuate the curves of her body. She could hear herself laughing while he whispered gentle words in her ear. Her laughter used to be spontaneous: joy made her as light as a feather. When night fell and as the battles raged on, they used to sit close together at the top of the stairs, with her head resting on his shoulder, long after her mother had gone to sleep. Not even the neighbours noticed them holding hands and hugging.
Then one morning she watched from her window as he loaded luggage into the family car. She had refused to say goodbye and, when he glanced up to see if she was watching, she had immediately disappeared. After he left she couldn’t even cry, she slept for days: his departure was like a sudden death. At the time she said nothing to her mother, but it was not long before she withdrew from life. Eventually they both became obsessed with the tales she told about the people whose voices she began to recognise over the phone.
Through her window, she could see his old flat in the building across the street. She smiled as she chose a simple blue dress, the dress he liked. After closing the curtains, she struggled in vain to get it on. In the mirror her sagging breasts, swollen stomach and thick thighs were clearly visible. Slowly she slipped her black skirt and dark sweater back on.
His voice over the phone was like an earthquake shaking her world. In her dreams he remained handsome, gentle, smart and cheerful, but what would she say to him after all these years? Finally she decided not to say anything. It would be better to listen to what he has to say, and laugh out loud when he asks if she still loves him.
First she stood in front of the mirror brushing her hair. Then she sat down for a minute before going to fetch some make-up from her mother’s room. She applied a thick layer of foundation over the wrinkles on her forehead, under her eyes and on the corners of her mouth. Her face looked shiny, and a thin film of oil stuck stubbornly to her skin.
She went back and sat on the edge of the bed away from the mirror, as if resting after a long journey. When she looked at her watch, her heart jumped. It was already five o’clock. She showered, selected a matching sweater and skirt, dried her hair and let it fall over her shoulders. Suddenly a great sadness overwhelmed her. Why had she failed to notice that her hair was turning white?
Would she really laugh when she saw him? She practised smiling, as if smiling was something she had forgotten how to do. But something was holding her back. Perhaps he will not notice her when she enters the room. He might keep staring at the door, expecting her to walk in any minute. Even if she looks straight into his eyes, he may not recognise her. Why should he? She has acquired a sad look that is unfamiliar to him. It would be best to stand at a distance, to catch a quick glimpse of him and then leave while his eyes are still glued to the door.
She undressed and placed her clothes on the bed that used to be hers. When she entered the adjacent bedroom, her mother didn’t ask any questions. Nor did she comment on her daughter’s nakedness. Getting out of bed, she placed a woollen shawl around her shoulders and tucked her into bed as if she were a small child or an old woman. A few minutes later, she could hear here crying.
Translated by Mirna Haykal