Israel Book Shop presents Chapter 5 of a new online serial novel, If Anyone Is Listening, by Esther Rapaport. Check back for a new chapter every week. Click here for previous chapters.
Copyright © Israel Bookshop Publications.
Shio Ching, the interpreter, listened with interest to the story about the bat while he was waiting with Shimmy for the taxi that would take him to the airport. Now, as well, Shimmy censored out the part about the cookie pieces that were thrown at him, because even without that juicy detail, the story sounded delusional.
“The hotels can deny it as much as they want,” Shio said when the story was over. “But when animals lose their fear of people in certain areas, there’s almost nothing to do. And I’ve heard stories like this before.”
“So there are other incidents like what I just told you, in the area where I was? I’m not the first guest in the hotel to have a bat invade his room?” Shimmy scowled. “When Gedalya described to me what goes on in China, he didn’t talk about bats in the room. I thought it was a good hotel!”
“It’s a very good hotel, but not exactly the top tier. You asked for something inexpensive, right? Next time, if you want, go for a better hotel.”
“If I would have known this was what was waiting for me, I would have agreed to pay even another hundred dollars a night.”
“It was just a bat,” Ching said airily. “And you don’t have to pay an extra hundred dollars. You need to keep the windows closed, that’s all. Why did you open it?”
“Because there was a disgusting insect in the room, and I wanted it to fly out. And don’t tell me, ‘It was just a bat.’” His voice was laced with anger. “What if it had corona?”
“Did you touch it?”
“No.”
“Did it touch you?”
“Umm…no.”
“Did it touch your food?”
“Yes, but I threw it all out.”
“Then everything is fine; no corona to worry about,” the Chinese man said. “Next time, let it fly out quietly instead of fighting it.”
“Next time, go to a better hotel; next time, don’t open the windows; next time, don’t fight the bat…” Shimmy sighed theatrically. “Next time, the bat shouldn’t come, and then it will be much simpler.”
“Tell it that.” The other man laughed and picked up the suitcase as the taxi pulled up. He helped Shimmy open the trunk and put in his things, and they shook hands in parting. Shimmy felt a sense of relief as the taxi pulled into the traffic. Having an interpreter at his side all the time was necessary and definitely very convenient, but there were times when he felt that the company foisted upon him was a bit stifling.
There, now he was alone, and from this point on, he could manage just fine with his English, b’ezras Hashem.
Batya had actually asked him why Ching couldn’t accompany him until he boarded the plane, to make sure nothing went wrong. “Because I’m not a little boy anymore,” Shimmy had told her. “Really, it’s not complicated to fly to Israel.’
“Do you know where your passport is and everything?” she’d asked. “I’ve heard about people who missed their flight because they forgot an important document in their hotel or at home. Who knows, maybe the bat took something from you?”
So he’d promised her over and over again that he’d checked his suitcase carefully and made sure that everything was intact. And he had no intention of missing the flight.
It was a miracle she hadn’t mentioned the incident he’d once told her about, the major mishap that had happened when he was eighteen and was about to fly to America for his cousin’s wedding. He was the only one in the family scheduled to go, but he ultimately ended up staying home, because he’d missed the flight. His father had been hospitalized the night before because of a blood clot in his injured leg, and his mother had been with him in the hospital. The mess at home had been so bad that he just couldn’t get out to the airport in time to make the flight.
It was better not to think about that now. There weren’t too many things that frustrated him more than memories of those years, the initial few years after they’d made aliyah.
They’d been welcomed very nicely on the one hand, and on the other—
Oy, the pity.
How could a teenager start a new chapter in his life on the right foot when his father’s right foot dragged behind him—and drew so many snickers and stares?
And the direct questions, the unfamiliar language, and the lack of self-confidence he’d felt…
But how was it that he was thinking about those years now, a moment after he had decided that those memories did little to benefit his mood?!
Shimmy smiled to himself as the taxi advanced. He could coin a new saying: “Memories are like a bat; the more you try to banish them, the more they will throw painful crumbs at you. It’s better to be careful ahead of time and not open the window in the first place.”
The bat!
Wide-eyed, Shimmy stared at the gray-black creature that suddenly flew toward the taxi, directly to the window a few inches from his shoulder. The glass separated them, fortunately, but that did not seem to bother the creature. It attached itself to the window with its little paws, revealing a mouse-like mouth with a distorted, evil smile; Shimmy couldn’t tell if that smile was his imagination or real. The Chinese driver glanced at the window, emitted a long snort, and continued driving indifferently.
Sure, he had no idea what they were dealing with.
***
“Her blood count is low. She’s always been prone to anemia.” Dena, Ruchi’s mother, provides me with some explanations by phone from across the ocean. “They want to give her iron by IV, and maybe even a blood transfusion if necessary. I think she also hasn’t been eating well these past few months… That’s the story.”
“But you are with her so much! How could it be that she wasn’t eating?” I say. What I don’t say is the fact that we never heard anything about this anemia. That’s already the less important part of the things we did not know.
She’s quiet for a moment. Maybe I sound a bit accusatory, without meaning to. “I’m not there all the time,” she answers finally, “and certainly not when the two of them have their meals. I try to help as much as I can, but at the end of the day, they are big children.”
My Yudi, yes. Your Ruchi—I’m not so sure.
“Right, of course,” I answer hastily, and decide to set aside what is not relevant for now. “I very much admire all that you do, really. I just got scared, and I’m worried about her.”
“Of course, of course.”
“Can I speak to her now?”
“I just stepped out of the room so she can sleep. I think Yudi is also very tired. It’s eleven at night here, and soon my husband will take him home while I stay here with Ruchi.”
“Wow, you’re amazing.”
“Come on, I’m her mother!”
“Then you deserve the praise even more,” I say, hoping she doesn’t interpret it as an insult. “Tell me, is there anything I can do to help? Is there a reason for me to fly in?”
My mechuteiniste sighs. “Look, I hope she’s going to be released soon. Everything is so complicated… Ruchi has never done well with medical procedures, so I’m really just waiting to be done with this. Then she’ll need to recover from this hospitalization—I hope it doesn’t cause her any trauma.”
I stand with the telephone facing the framed picture in my breakfront. I have four of these, bli ayin hara, but in recent months, I’ve been focusing only on this one. I stand with the phone, hearing but not hearing my mechuteiniste talking, while I look at Yudi, the chassan in the picture. He is smiling that refined, pleasant smile of his. Ruchi, the kallah at his side, is not looking at the camera; she’s laughing heartily at someone who is not in the picture. Only he and I are exchanging glances now.
“Right now,” Dena continues, “your Yudi is functioning beautifully, baruch Hashem. But if the situation continues, and we see that it’s getting hard for him, then maybe it would be good for you to come for a bit. Your presence will definitely do good for him.”
Her voice is friendly and smooth, and suddenly, I think only about her. Not about me, not about Yudi, but about his mother-in-law, who is struggling. “Dena, how are you, with all of this?” I ask her. “How are you managing?”
“Me? I’m okay, baruch Hashem.”
“You’re strong. Ruchi is lucky to have a mother like you.”
“I don’t know how strong I am,” she says honestly. “I sometimes feel like I have no strength, that’s the truth. But I try to look for things to give me strength. Support groups, shiurim, and I read a lot about nisyonos in life…”
“Are there any books you can recommend to me? I could use the chizuk. I don’t like to read so much, but if there’s something really good, then I would read it.”
“I read in English,” my mechuteiniste says apologetically. “I can recommend some really inspirational books to you, but they’re all in English.”
I walk around the table and stop at the window, through which I see the sky slowly getting lighter. I gaze at the streetlights, which suddenly flick off, as if they were waiting for the moment when I would come to see it happen. “Oh, right. Then they probably won’t work for me,” I agree.
“You speak a great English, though.”
“Yes, baruch Hashem, but I prefer to read in Hebrew. Anyway, when Ruchi gets up, please tell her that I asked how she is doing, okay?”
“Absolutely. I’m sure she’ll feel good to hear that.”
“I’ll call again tomorrow, bli neder. I hope she’ll be up then.” Not that I’m one hundred percent sure that she is sleeping now. But Ruchi’s mother and I have an unspoken rule: Even when it is clear to both of us that something seems like a charade, we continue to play the game.
***
We sometimes have pain—that’s part of life. And it’s not wise to ignore it. I would say the opposite: Take the pain, think about Who sent it, and see how, specifically with that pain, you can become a better person. I’ve already related in the past—to anyone who is listening to me—about the accident that left me crippled for life, right?
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