“No,” I replied.
During the first few months of our relationship, Halimi was enchanted by his ability to fall in love so deeply. He lost all interest in other women—he tested it empirically—and he felt he’d shed ten years: He was strong and vital, his appetite returned, and even his coughing attacks subsided.He only drank when he went out. He smoked less. He reveled in the opportunity to be the responsible adult, something he had wanted for years, or so he claimed. He made sure I ate well and drank well, that I got enough sleep, that I was comfortable and wanted for nothing.
We spent hours intête-à-têtesand philosophical debates through long nights in which we walked across town, got wasted in various bars (my alcohol tolerance soon grew, filling Halimi with paternal pride), or lay naked on Halimi’s bed. One night, he admitted that most of the women he’d been interested in ended up boring him to death in a few weeks, if not in a few hours. “Obviously, I’ll end up boring you too,” I retorted half-defiantly, quietly acknowledging his words. “If you don’t bore me first,” I added right away, determined not to be a bore. Halimi laughed and hugged me.
“There’s a better chance of me boring you first,” he joked and then suddenly turned solemn.
Throughout that time, former lovers continued to show up here and there. Isolated text messages at night, Facebook chats that popped up on his computer screen with an annoying ping, funny GIFs and emojis, telephone calls that Halimi answered before casting an unnecessarily imploring look in my direction. He spoke briefly and coldly, burning all the bridges he’d sustained over the years with his fuck buddies. It made me nervous in a way I couldn’t quite explain. I felt empathy toward all the women who had ever thought they were something special to Halimi, and probably some of them had been. But I knew it was also out of fear that one day he might do the same thing to me. “You’re cute and sweet and oh so pious,” he’d tell me when I suggested he explain that he was in a relationship rather than act like an asshole.
I officially moved in with him about two months after Eran’s birthday party, although I was basically already living there. We made each other laugh endlessly, we discovered a mutual love for books and movies, we told each other childhood stories, and we got to know members ofour respective families. Nevertheless, I anticipated the inevitable deterioration—it was impossible to believe we’d simply live happily ever after—and I was sure that he envisioned a doomed future too.
Back in those days, Halimi was editor in chief of a women’s magazine that branded itself as snarky and sophisticated. It was scandalous that he’d landed the job: The move was considered “the cigarette in the eye of the feminist struggle.” I recalled reading incendiary posts on Facebook before I had even known Halimi personally. Women who’d never read the magazine called for boycotts (“I might not be the typical reader ofFree to Be, but why on earth was …”); every media review website was packed with analysis about it. But Halimi enjoyed the uproar, and so did the magazine’s circulation. And in truth, he did a great job. The tips on beauty, relationships, and parenting remained, but the routine covers of smoky-eyed, half-naked women looking feistily into the camera disappeared.
The new covers ofFree to Bewere shot by top photographers or adorned withNew Yorker–style illustrations, heralding in-depth articles and multidisciplinary projects. By the time we became a couple, Halimi had already been editor in chief for two years—he earned a great salary and had hired an all-female staff that included an experienced deputy editor and high-powered content producers. Occasionally, he had to approve material, attend weekly staff meetings, pitch ideas, put in an appearance at some photo shoots, and snag various key figures—from writers and photographers to interviewees—to oversee the feverish closing of an edition before it went to the printers each month. The rest of the time, he was free to hang out, have fun, and mull things over.
He used to say that his work was bullshit—“Pink frothy bubble bath,” he called it—compared to what I was doing. Back then, I was translating novels and textbooks from Russian, French, and English into Hebrew, and I got good enough to be able to pick and choose what I did. I’d been attracted to French since childhood, perhapsowing to its status among the Russian aristocracy, about whom I read in the many books that had migrated along with my parents to cover two whole walls of shelves in their Jerusalem apartment. I’d studied advanced French in high school and completed graduate studies in French and Classical Studies. I traveled to France whenever I got the chance. To better appreciate the various layers of meaning in a French text I’d translated, I began a self-directed study of Old and Middle French, particularly the Norman and Provençal dialects. Part of Halimi’s charm when we first got together was his French roots, by way of Algeria—still another aperture for French language and culture to permeate our everyday life.
I spent a few years translating second- and third-rate fantasy and sci-fi series, mostly from Russian and English, until one of them unexpectedly became a big hit. Its reviews attributed its success to the translation, wryly claiming it had improved the book. Other, bigger, and more prestigious publishing houses approached me. French translation work began pouring in. At first, I loved immersing myself in the language I adored, and I also enjoyed my rising status, but after a few years, I was bored out of my mind. Literature as such consisted of tiresome sagas of graphomania and self-importance—novels that ambled along behind an egocentric protagonist with dulled senses searching for himself in vain, usually by exploiting weaker people, groveling to more aggressive people, talking the talk and name-dropping.
There was, of course, literature I enjoyed reading and translating, such as the genre-defying novel by a mysterious Russian writer (who never gave interviews to the press, even though he was hugely successful in Europe and Japan) about the owner of a matchstick factory who’s visited by prophetic visions. He resolves to set fire to his hometown and is ultimately declared a saint by the church. I later discovered that Halimi was quoting the book to anyone willing to listen months before we met. When he discovered it was me who’d translated it, he almost lost hismind. He saw it as a harbinger of things to come. He would ask me to read it to him in the source language; it made him horny.
Anyway, I finally tired of French novels. I had signed on for a variety of projects—classic YA series, disturbing graphic novels, juicy fantasy trilogies. Occasionally, I was hired by publishing houses and newspapers as a linguistic editor and translator. I never earned enough to be able to squander money, and Halimi charged like a battering ram at this window of opportunity, paying for everything and refusing to consider that we share expenses. He took me abroad twice in our first year together, once to an urban festival in Barcelona, and once on a monthlong hike through Laos and Cambodia. A few months after I moved in with him, he added my name to his bank account. After I’d had quite a few years of proudly supporting myself and saving money, his cheerful benevolence sucked me in like a whirlpool.
Halimi liked sitting beside me while I translated. He would read a book, work on one of his projects, or simply scroll through Facebook. No one could have been happier than Halimi when I conferred with him over a certain word or phrase. I also loved sitting by his side at meetings in cafés he frequented, typing on my laptop and listening to music through headphones. Sometimes, I would switch off the music and listen in on Halimi chatting with colleagues. It always fascinated me how morsels of gossip and snippets of information could turn into an interesting article or photo essay.
When we went to clubs and parties, which we did frequently in those days, we took care of each other—mostly when we got hammered or did too many drugs—but we didn’t have any claims on each other. Each of us tended to wander off alone and disappear from the other’s sight—but not for very long. We danced together, but not exclusively so, and when we came across each other in a dark corner or hallway, we would hold each other the way we did that very first time—as if we were meeting after years of living apart.
It took me time to open my eyes the next morning. I felt a dull sense of emptiness that rapidly intensified, and after a few seconds, I realized I was ravenous. I imagined slices of bread swimming in butter and the oatmeal I had to make for Lily. Then, I realized Lily wasn’t home, and the habitual vigilance faded. I tracked the sun’s rays and, in the morning light, envisioned the figures of Jean and Thibaut, the way they’d been sitting when I came across them over the ridge, writing songs and smoking from that clay pot. For a moment, I imagined them in the yard of my old high school, cutting gym class (twang, twang, the strings sounded in my head). I got dressed and went to fix myself some coffee.
Halimi was stretched across the couch, buried under the weekend newspapers. He lifted his head when I came in and narrowed his eyes. I turned the kettle on, poked around in the fridge (I pulled out smoked salmon and vegetables, as well as butter), and when I caught sight of Halimi’s smiling face, I gave him a wink.
“Cool, cool,” Halimi said, leaning back. “You had me a little worried back there. What happened?” I sliced a loaf of bread, considered his question, and finally said, “Something … entirely out of the ordinary.” I started to say something else but stopped. “Have you eaten? Do you want something to eat?” I asked him. I cut vegetables, arranged the cutlery, and made coffee. Halimi joined me at the table. “Coffee?” I asked.
We ate and drank, chewing hard and gulping deeply. He tried not to say anything but finally gave up and looked me in the face. “Aren’t you going to tell me what happened?”
I giggled with embarrassment. “No, it’s just … just so crazy,” I said quickly. “I had a trip that I went back to the Crusader days.” Halimi’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “I saw the fortress and the village and the swamps and everything,” I continued in a rush. “Did you know that mushrooms can do stuff like that?” I asked him. “I thought that only happened with cacti.”
Halimi chuckled and repeated, “‘cacti.’” But I could tell he was piecing it all together. “I also went back in time in my dream. I think I went to that Neolithic village buried under the sea … and the very fact that I fell asleep …” He rubbed his forehead.
I asked him to tell me more about his dream—and he tried—but when he began describing the receding tide, he was actually telling me about the people in tattered furs, and when he tried to describe the spring in the middle of the village, he suddenly began wondering aloud about the pitcher a priestess was holding, and how she had poured a brown-red liquid over his head. As I half-listened, my thoughts returned to the sandstone ridge and the buildings I had seen there.
“Anyway, there’s still a bit left. Do you want another round of ’shrooms?” Halimi asked in his mischievous voice, which didn’t contradict the questions.
“No, no. Not yet,” I trembled. “I thought I’d flipped, honestly, it was so … real.” I stroked the coin that hung around my neck. It had returned to its worn and lackluster state.
We called Simone after that, who said everything wasmerveilleux—Lily was having the time of her life. She was hanging out with Richard while Simone sunbathed and read. She promised they’d be back that evening, but late.
Halimi suggested we take a walk to the sea. I almost turned him down—I’d already found a comfortable position from which to stare at the ceiling and chew things over—but Halimi insisted. “Come on, let’s get some fresh air,” he said. “I’m going anyway, but it’ll be more fun with you.” I dragged myself off the couch, stretched extravagantly, and slipped into my flip-flops. Everything suddenly felt so sweet.
When we reached the shore, we sat down and watched the high waves breaking in front of us. The sun burned a few inches above the sea, and I yielded to those final moments of warmth down to the smallest molecule in my body. I sighed in pure delight, and Halimi beamedwith pleasure. He smoked his Camels, and I rolled myself a cigarette. We drank a bottle of Coke together.
Everything was so normal. I stared at the little that was left of the fortress, expecting to feel anxious or alarmed, but the ruins were just ruins. Through the fence, I saw a military vehicle driving through the base behind the fortress. Halimi was in a rare, contemplative silence. He stared out at the sea almost bashfully. “I can’t get that priestess from the dream out of my head,” he said. He never remembered his dreams and never talked about them. But there was more. “She was naked,” he continued, furrows deepening across his wide forehead. “I think she was pouring blood over me. I don’t know if it was the blood of an animal or a human.” He shivered.
“Weird,” I said, almost whispering. Halimi’s words ignited an array of visuals inside my head: Jean, lighting the clump of dry weeds with a graceful motion; Thibaut, eyes closed, plucking his lute and humming to himself; the curls of smoke rising up from the hamlet. I glanced behind me, but my eyes met only the familiar landscape—salt pools; roads; construction sites that had unearthed white dust, biting into the earth and sandstone; and clusters of middle-class houses in the nearby neighborhood.
I walked into the sea; Halimi finished his cigarette and joined me. We stood there, not talking, his arm resting on my shoulder, my arm curled around his back, the waves breaking against our ankles.
CHAPTER 6
