17. Ithaca
It was a dismal day. The skies were cloudy and it started to drizzle. All the same, I was set to walk over to the cemetery to visit Yentl’s grave. Apart from the flowers – a lovely bunch of Dahlias – I was going to take with me a copy of the manuscript. She had prompted me to write my autobiography. It was, accordingly, only right to bring her a copy.
I was about to leave the cottage when I heard Yentl’s voice. Speaking loud and clear, she told me:
“Where are you going, Loeb?”
“To visit you, don’t you know?”
“I thought as much. Not on such a day, Loeb!”
“But I go every week.”
“I know. But do you really think I am there? Surely, you know that all that is left there is a skeleton. I – my spirit – dwells here, with you, Loeb.”
I looked around me with uncertainty. For all practical purposes she was right. Yentl’s spirit – the force that drove me on since the day we married – had become part of me. At the same time, I realised that I was alone in the sitting room. Was I having a hallucination, a mirage? Was I losing my sanity?
“Of course not,” she assured me. “You are rational and composed. But remember: we had a lengthy and happy marriage. In the course of it my soul merged with yours.”
“But I am used to my morning walk on Shabbat; and what shall I do with these flowers and with the manuscript?”
“Bringing them to the cemetery would be stupid. The flowers would crumble and your manuscript would be soaked; and you, Loeb, might catch a chill.”
“I seldom catch a cold,” I reminded her, “but you are right about the flowers and the tome. Well, what shall I do with them?”
“Put the flowers in the vase we bought in Venice; they are lovely and this way I will enjoy them. As to the manuscript: you can do with an extra copy. You can archive it in the local library. Who knows what the future holds for us. And as to your never catching colds, do remember that you are an aging fellow and your immune system is not as good as it used to be. You had a bad attack of bronchitis a few years ago. And don’t tell me it was just a chill.”
Yentl’s words made sense. After the flowers were in the vase and the copy of the manuscript in a drawer of my desk, I looked out the window. It was now pouring heavily.
“You see?” Yentl told me. “Lucky you didn’t go to the cemetery.”
“I have to agree.”
“And you, Loeb, enjoyed traversing your life story, didn’t you?”
“I did. It wasn’t easy. I do have skeletons in my cupboard. I had to lay myself bare.”
“You did; but, then, who doesn’t have to reproach himself or herself from time to time? I can’t think of any man or woman who may consider himself or herself pure and free of error.”
“I agree. Still, people usually prefer to remain anonymous. A person writes an autobiography only if he or she wants to brag or to concede and apologise for errors.”
“There can be another reason, I think.”
“Tell me, please.”
“A person may want to get it all off his or her chest.”
“I suspect this applies in my case.”
“It does, rather. You see, I prompted you to write it because you were becoming so irritable and felt empty.”
“I don’t feel this way any longer,” I assured her.
“In that case, the process of writing was therapeutic. I had hoped all along that it would be.”
Yentl’s last words struck a chord. Before I had embarked on the project – on writing an account of my life – I was becoming a disgruntled old man. Notwithstanding my love for Ruth, I was curt when she called me. I suspect that I was annoyed by her invariably turning up on her own. By now, I have come to understand that my very behaviour might have dissuaded her from bringing my grandchildren and her husband with her. In addition, it dawned on me that the latter might have decided to stay put so as to minimize expenditure.
I also recalled how I failed to open Ami’s letter. I thought he was begging for money. I was pleasantly surprised when I realised that his business was thriving. I was happy that he made a point of repaying the money I had lent him. Gladly I gave some of it to Ruth. I knew that her husband’s business was struggling.
“So you see, Loeb,” Yentl’s spirit told me, “the writing process enabled you to revert to yourself. Once again you became a tolerant and generous friend and father. Gone were the wrinkles of your soul.”
For a few moments I closed my eyes and reflected silently. When I opened them I saw Yentl sitting beside me. She looked as she did when I first met her. She became, once again, the girl who played Miriam – Tevyeh the Milkman’s wife. Startled, I rubbed my eyes and blinked. When I look around me again, she – or her image – was gone. I was alone in the comfortable sitting room.
“You see, Loeb, you are so attached to me that, occasionally, you see things. But let me assure you: I am with you all the time, especially now.”
“What is so special about my current existence?”
“You have traversed your odyssey and notwithstanding the turbulent voyage you arrived home – in Ithaca.”
“Have I, then, completed my journey?”
“You alone know the answer. Some travelers enjoy their journey to such an extent that they wish to continue. They remain restless and in search of adventures. Others are happy when they reach their target, for instance, the top of Mount Everest.”
“I think I belong to this second group. My Indian Summer pleases me.”
“But you do ponder a great deal about your values?!”
“In reality this is part and parcel of my comfortable existence.”
“In that case you have arrived at home.”