Death of the Poet

The poet succumbed at eight o'clock AM.

Five minutes prior to his death, he made use of a stained rotary dial
phone, its duct-taped parts precariously clinging to each other. His
speech was slurred but his interlocutor - a fan - thought it nothing
extraordinary.

Sighing ostentatiously, she reluctantly agreed to come to him, volubly
replacing her receiver in its cradle.

She was not surprised to be met by others he had called, nor was she
astounded to learn that he had died all by himself, wrapped in two
dusty khaki blankets, sprawled on a tattered mattress, flung on an iron
frame that served as both bed and escritoire. It was so like him, to
die like that.

Removing the rigored cadaver through the narrow doorway was tricky. The
medics rolled it down the claustrophobic and penumbral staircase (there
was no lift). His ink-tainted right hand kept striking the peeling
yarns of greenery that hung, flayed, from crumbling concrete
walls.

Panting, they laid him on the bottom stair, an outsized embryo with jet
black hair and eagled nose. His nostrils quivered.

The radio reported his passing and lengthy obituaries adorned
tomorrow's press. The critics cloaked with affected objectivity the
overpowering disdain they held the man, his lifestyle, and his work in.
They claimed to have been his closest friends and recounted some futile
anecdotes.

The ceremony held by the municipality in the Writers Hall was open to
the public.

I said to Nomi:

"Why don't you approach the organizers? Tell them that you have
composed music to some of his poems and that you are willing to perform
them.'

They were thrilled and Nomi settled on two songs - one that I liked and
one that was her preference. She had a fortnight to rehearse them
ceaselessly.

Then Dani phoned me. Years ago, still adolescent, he costarred with the
poet in a television show. They spent the night discoursing, which
rendered them inseparable thereafter, the apprentice and his mentor.
Because Dani is what he is - he turned into the poet's fan. And because
he is what he is - he abruptly brought it to a halt. They never met
again. Dani never thinks of himself in terms of extremism but his
relationship with the dead poet was such.

And now he enquired:

"You heard? He is dead."

But he did not pause for a response. He went on to recount the by now
familiar story of how they met, and how he admired the poet's
ingenuity, inventiveness, aplomb, the love he made to the Hebrew
language. And how it was all over.

"I am not attending this fallacious wake." - Dani is soft-spoken even
when his words are not.

That evening, Nomi and I went to the Writers' Hall. A woman with
anorectic eyes compared our invitation to a clammy list. We slumped
into some wooden deck chairs, attired steamily in our discomfiture.
People climbed onto a squeaky stage and then retreated, having recited
the poet's work in a post-mortem elocution. They argued with venomous
scholarship some fine points.

The poet's raisiny and birdlike mother was all aflutter in the front
raw, flanked by the agitated organizers. She flung herself at the
poet's ex spouse and at her son, protesting creakily and waving a hefty
purse:

"Away with you!" - she screamed - "You killed my boy!"

The divorcee approached, her black dress rustling, hand soothingly
extended, but midway changed her mind and climbed the podium.

She promised anodynely to preserve the poet's heritage by issuing a
definitive edition of his writings, both published and in manuscript.
Her voice was steady, her gestures assured, her son clung to her dress
eyeing us and the scenery indifferently. He dismounted as he climbed,
obediently and unaffectedly.

On cue, Nomi sang two bits, her voice a luscious blond. She looked so
lonesome onstage, a battered playback cassette-recorder, a wireless
microphone, her quaking palms. When the last note died I discovered
that I am not breathing and that I turned her notepad into pulp.

On her odyssey from stage to seat, Nomi glanced coyly at the poet's
still roiled mother, who hastened to hug and compliment her
warmly.

The night was over and the mob dispersed.

The poet's mother stood forlorn, tugging at the impatient sleeves of
the departing as she demanded: "How shall I get back?" - but she
wouldn't say whereto. Roundly ignored by the pulsating throngs of
well-wishers, she watched them comparing impressions, exchanging phone
numbers, mourning the poet and, through his agency, themselves.

"I knew your son" - I said.

I really did - perhaps not as intimately as a friend, but probably more
than did most of those present. Once I visited that warehouse of
weathered books he called his home, sat on his monkish bed, played the
effaced keys of his battered typewriter.

I offered her a ride and she accepted, sighing with childish
relief.

Nomi drove and I listened to the poet's mother. Like him she wept in
words.

"He used to visit me every week" - with pride. Invited us for a drink
in her room at the seniors' home. The evening chilled, she observed.
How about a warm libation ("I have even hot chocolate"). When we
declined politely, she tempted us with exclusive access to letters the
poet wrote to her.

We took a rain check and made a heartening spectacle out of noting down
her address and her phone number.

The night guard at the entrance, besieged by a polished wooden counter
and facing banks of noiseless television screens, winked at us.

"Thank you for bringing her back. A wonderful woman but lousy kids. No
one ever visits."

He turned to face the poet's mother, raising his voice
unnecessarily:

"And how are you tonight?"

Ignoring him, she eyed us inquisitively:

"You have children? No? What are you waiting for?" - her shriveled
finger spiraling - "Make a few children and hurry about it. Believe me,
nothing in life is more important. Nothing if not ..."

The swooshing elevator doors, an amputated sentence, and she was
gone.

At home, we lay on our backs, each in its corner of our bed, trying to
pierce the darkness blindly.

We never mentioned that evening, neither have we returned to visit the
poet's mother. We came close to doing so, though. One Saturday we
mutely decided to climb the hill and drop by the seniors' home.
Instead, we ventured further, to Jaffa, and bought Sambusak pastry,
filled with boiled eggs and acrid cheese.

Side by side we lived, my Nomi and I.

And then she divorced me and so many things transpired that the poet
and his mother and this story were all but forgotten.

==============================

Short Fiction in English and Hebrew

http://gorgelink.org/vaknin/

http://samvak.tripod.com/sipurim.html

http://www.suite101.com/files/topics/6514/files/worksinenglish.zip

Poetry of Healing and Abuse

http://samvak.tripod.com/contents.html

Anatomy of a Mental Illness

http://samvak.tripod.com/journal1.html