And the Bride Closed the Door Read online

  Nadia stood up straight and tensed all her muscles, as though her body were tied to a pole with rope. “Natalie,” she said in a foreign voice, “she made that poem about Natalie, Margie did.” Then she paused before adding: “She got lost, Natalie. The girl got lost, just like the poem says.” With extraordinary gentleness, as if in a dream, she pushed Ilan, who moistened his fingers with water and smoothed them over her face to cool her.

  The doorbell played its unflagging tune, not stopping even when the door was finally opened. The unfamiliar woman who entered had to repeat herself twice, loudly: “Regretful Brides. I’m the psychologist you called from ‘Regretful Brides.’”

  Nadia fled to the bathroom to wash her face and apply blush, while Peninit walked the doctor to the dining table, then changed her mind and led her to the living room. Arieh, Matti (who dragged the recliner back to the living room for Arieh), and Ilan, who linked his arm with Gramsy’s and helped her along, hurried after them. The doctor sat down on the couch with her legs close together, clad in shiny nylons, and placed a large binder on her lap. “Where is the bride?” she asked in a hoarse, stern voice that confused Peninit a little (“So young and already a doctor!” she marveled). “Oh, she’s not here. Not here,” Peninit replied. “Then where is she?” the doctor insisted, and Matti answered instead of his mother: “Margie” (somewhat irritated by all the “shes” being thrown around, he wanted to demonstratively say her name) “has been locked in the bedroom since around midday. She won’t open the door and won’t talk to anyone. That’s more or less the situation.”

  “Margie?” the doctor wondered. “What sort of name is Margie? Are you from South Africa? I was just with a South African family. Cape Town.”

  “Margalit,” Matti explained, “Margie is short for Margalit.”

  The doctor surveyed him (“from head to toe,” he thought, “she has no shame, this woman”) and asked, “Are you her brother or the one who’s marrying her?”

  Matti gave her a crooked stare (his face went slightly lopsided) full of bewilderment, felt himself swirl around in something, as though his foot had sunk through a thin membrane over a gushing flow of water, which pulled him down dizzily into a whirlpool of darkness, and the words “I’m her brother” tickled the tip of his tongue.

  Peninit said: “He’s the groom. He’s my son and he’s the groom.”

  The doctor furrowed her brow and wrote something down in her binder. “Where are the parents?” she asked without looking up.

  “Here,” Peninit said, pointing to Arieh, who was shuddering in his recliner, kneecaps jumping. “Him and me, we’re the parents.”

  A thinly ironic smile came over the doctor’s face. “The bride’s parents, I meant. The one who’s shut in her room.”

  “Margie’s father died five years ago and the mother will be right in,” Matti said, glancing at the living room doorway. “Where’s she disappeared, now that we need her, that Nadia?” Peninit whispered hotly in his ear.

  Nadia walked in, freshly made up, though her eyebrows were penciled on slightly crooked: one was lower than the other. She shook the doctor’s hand for a long time, then kept holding it between her two hands. “Margie is sad. She has a lot of sadness in her heart, that girl,” she explained, looking straight at the doctor. “Write that down,” she implored her, looking at the open binder on the doctor’s knees. But the doctor stopped writing, pulled her short skirt farther out over her knees, and asked, “Why do you think she’s sad?”

  Nadia sat down next to her on the couch, digging through the pockets of her robe again. “I don’t know,” she said quietly, almost whispering. “What? What was that?” the doctor leaned close. “I don’t know, I don’t know anything,” Nadia murmured. The doctor opened the binder again, looking for the appropriate page. “There are a few routine questions here that I need to ask before I talk to her,” she said. “To who?” Arieh asked, puzzled. “To Margie, of course. The bride,” she replied. “But she’s not talking! That’s why we asked you to come here,” Arieh said, and then he lowered his voice: “She’s not talking to anyone. All she does is write poetry.”

  “How old is Margie?”

  “Twenty-four. She’ll be twenty-four next month,” Nadia answered.

  “Does she live at home?”

  “Yes, with me all the time, at home,” she said hesitantly (debating whether or not to tell the doctor about the brief period of time during which Margie and Matti had lived in his grandmother’s home).

  “What does she do? Is she studying? Working?”

  “She’s a university student. Not at the local college—at Tel Aviv University. And she works, too.”

  “What is she studying?”

  Nadia’s eyes glazed over awkwardly for a moment. “To be a teacher. She wants to be a teacher,” she said finally.

  “Literature and theater,” Matti clarified. “But she’s switched majors a few times. Before that she was doing history, archeology, art history, and French culture.”

  The doctor glanced at him. “Are you also a student?” she asked, and he nodded.

  “He’s graduating soon,” Peninit intervened. “With honors.”

  The doctor flipped a page in the binder. “Brothers or sisters?”

  Silence.

  She looked up. “Brothers or sisters—does Margie have any?” she repeated, accentuating each word.

  “Marmion!” Gramsy’s voice suddenly screeched through the silence. “Marmion!”

  “What is she saying?” the doctor asked. Peninit tried to capture her eyes and mouthed the words: “She’s not right. Not right.”

  Ilan went over to Gramsy, rearranged her sweater sleeve, which was tangled around her arm and snagged on her watch strap. “Stop, Gramsy, that’s enough. Why do you keep saying that word? You starting again?”

  But Gramsy shoved him away gently and stuck her neck out like a chicken. “Narmion! Narmion!” she exclaimed stubbornly, with peculiar fury.

  Nadia shrank back in the corner of the couch and wrapped her shoulders in a throw that was lying there. “Margie’s the big one. There’s Natalie, the little one. Three years younger than Margie. She’s gone,” she said.

  “She passed away?” the doctor asked cautiously.

  Nadia shook her head. “No, no, she’s alive, poor girl. Natalie’s alive. She’s gone,” she said into the blanket, then held it over her face up to her eyes, like a veil.

  The doctor gave Matti a questioning look.

  “Ten years ago Natalie left school and disappeared, and they never found her.”

  “I see,” the doctor said slowly, and wrote something down (not from right to left as Hebrew is written, Matti noticed).

  “And just imagine this, Dr. Julia . . . ” (Peninit began but then paused, having realized that she couldn’t remember or didn’t know the doctor’s last name; then she forged ahead.) “To this day—to this day!” (her voice escalated) “they haven’t recognized them” (she jerked her head at Gramsy) “as HDA victims. To this day! And it’s impossible that it wasn’t HDA, what happened to Natalie. It’s impossible. I mean, there’s no doubt that it was HDA.”

  Matti closed his eyes. “Mom!”

  “And with all my senior connections at the National Insurance Institute, and I do have them, I couldn’t get anything to move. I couldn’t get them recognition as an HDA family. Dear God, what could it be other than HDA—what? Was it a flying saucer that came from outer space and kidnapped the girl?” Peninit tugged on the tank top that had climbed up above her naval in her excitement.

  “It’s not certain that it was HDA. Do you know better than them what’s HDA and what isn’t HDA?” Arieh argued. “I trust them to know, up there, if something isn’t definitely HDA.”

  Nadia stood up, the blanket fell to the floor, and she left the room.

  “I’m sorry, perhaps my Hebrew isn’t good enough, but what is HDA?” the doctor asked Matti with some embarrassment.

  “It’s an abbreviated acronym,” Arieh in
tervened from his armchair. “Do you know what an acronym is? Hostile Destructive Activity. That’s what the acronym means.”

  “Narmion!” Gramsy screamed again hoarsely, slapping her thighs with both hands and rocking back and forth on her chair. “Marmion!”

  Peninit stared at her for a moment, as her face slowly became lucid then drooped to her chin. “Did I say something wrong?” She looked pleadingly at Matti, then at the doctor. “Was there something wrong with what I said? I was just . . . ” The doctor stood up and rearranged a bobby pin in her shimmering bun of hair. “I’ll go see about Margie,” she said.

  Arieh’s phone rang. He stared at the number on the screen with a look of dread. He did not answer. “It’s Mano Dvir, from the catering hall,” he said. “Third time he’s calling. Should I answer?” Peninit put both her palms to her temples. “I don’t know, I don’t know, do whatever you want.” The ringing stopped briefly, then started again. “I’m answering,” Arieh warned them, “I’m answering his call, just so you know.” But Peninit grabbed the phone from him: “Give it to me, I’ll answer him.” For some reason she quickly slipped her feet into her shoes before speaking. “Yes, Mano. No, there’s nothing to worry about. You heard from who? From who? Yes, yes, the bride isn’t feeling well, she’s a little under the weather, but the doctor’s here now. Yes, a doctor. It’ll be fine. Yes, of course we know about the deposit.” (She glared at Arieh.) “Who said anything about canceling? Why would we cancel? Okay, listen, I’m in the middle here, I’m in the middle. We’ll talk afterward. Yes, of course, we’ll let you know.” She hung up and hugged the telephone to her chest.

  “What did he say?” Arieh wrapped the blood pressure monitor’s cuff around his arm and squeezed the bulb. “What did he have to say for himself, that thief?”

  Peninit collapsed onto the low couch next to Ilan, trying to eavesdrop on the hum of voices coming from the hallway, near the locked door. “Shhh . . . Let me hear.”

  The doctor was led to the hallway and stood outside the door, clutching the large binder to her chest. “Margie!” she called, waited for a moment, then went on: “Hello, Margie. This is Dr. Julia Englander.” (“Answering machine,” thought Matti, standing beside her.) “I’d like to talk with you. Would you be willing to talk to me?”

  The familiar silence prevailed, except that now Matti was sharing it with someone. Her perfume, reminiscent of citrus and bergamot, reached his nostrils—assailed them. They waited. “How many hours has she been in there, did you say?” the doctor whispered. “Seven, I think. A little over seven,” he replied, looking at the doctor’s exceptionally thin and birdlike profile, whose outline glowed in the shadowy hallway. “And she hasn’t come out to use the bathroom in all that time?” she whispered. “There’s an en suite in there. But anyway, she doesn’t go the bathroom very often,” he realized. “What do you mean?” she questioned him. “That’s how she is. She can go for hours, holding it in for hours and hours,” he admitted awkwardly. “That’s bad for her kidneys,” the doctor noted gravely, and he nodded in agreement, perplexed by the strange unfolding of events that had led to him standing outside a locked door in an ugly hallway, debating the state of Margie’s kidneys with a stranger.

  The doctor interrupted his musings. “Could it be because of the dress?” she asked. “What dress?” Matti wondered, a little dazed. “The bridal gown. Lots of brides break down and get cold feet at the last minute because of the dress. Like if there’s family pressure to rent a six thousand shekel dress and they wanted the thirteen thousand one, or the fifteen thousand one, and some girlfriend makes a comment. That sort of thing.” He stared at her (lingering on the brown mole next to her nose). “Thirteen thousand?” he said. “Margie is not at all the type you’re thinking. Not at all the fifteen thousand type. A friend of hers who’s studying design sewed the dress for her as a gift. I don’t even have any idea how much it cost, if it cost anything at all.” He pulled out his phone and ran his finger across the screen. “Here she is in the dress. She tried it on last night.”

  The doctor removed her glasses and looked. The bride’s straight, dark hair fell in two heavy, desperate cascades on either side of her face, plunging down to her gaunt shoulders, which were covered by the dress’s translucent white fabric. A single, muted pearl glimmered at the round neckline. Her large, slightly slanted eyes were too wide open, almost unnaturally so, and blended in the picture with the very dark, very bushy eyebrows, so much so that at times it looked as though the place where her eyes should have been was cut out, with only two dark, round holes testifying to their location. She had her hand held up to her cheek and the dress’s wide sleeve drooped down a little, exposing her forearm, revealing five colorful beaded bracelets that reflected dancing light on the wall, and whose cheerful jangling one could almost hear.

  “She’s pretty,” said the doctor, handing him back the phone. “Margie, can you hear me? This is Dr. Julia Englander. You can just answer yes or no, that’s fine.” They waited quietly again. (“It’s pointless, we’re pointlessly waiting,” Matti thought gloomily, and the thought slid into a corner of his mind, then bounced back to another corner, like a bowling ball in an empty, windowless room.)

  From behind the door there came a feeble, strange bleating sound. They looked at each other and tilted their heads. Something bleated again, almost singing, in a mechanical voice that sounded like a baby’s whimper, or an imitation of a whimper: “Ye . . . es,” and after a moment or two, “No . . . oo.”

  “Is that Margie’s voice?” the doctor asked dubiously. Matti shook his head. “I don’t think so. She’s never made a sound like that.” There was silence for a moment (Mattie secretly placed his thumb on the pulse throbbing in his wrist), then the voice bleated again: “Ye . . . es,” and then, “No . . . oo.” It sounded wobbly and withering, like a radio with its battery running out. (That’s it—the realization struck him—a battery.) “It’s a doll,” Matti said, “it’s not Margie at all, it’s a doll. You know, one of those dolls that talk when you turn them over.” “Does she have a doll?” the doctor asked curiously. “No, of course not!” he retorted, and his panic turned over and mounted into terrible fury, almost hatred. “Margie!” he pounded on the door and kicked it. “You’ve had it if you don’t open up right now, this minute, and quit all these games, do you hear me? You’ve had it!”

  The doctor looked at him without saying a word, her gaze gleaming from behind her glasses, and went back to the living room.

  “I don’t think I can be of much help without seeing her. I have to see her,” the doctor informed Peninit.

  “Then we’ll break down the door, there’s no choice,” said Arieh, avoiding the menacing look on Peninit’s face, which passed over him and roamed around in search of Matti.

  “Don’t look at me. You can take your eyes off me. Do whatever you like, break down the door, don’t break it down, I don’t care,” Matti said and went into the kitchen.

  The parents looked at each other helplessly. “We have one hour, tops, to let Mano Dvir know if we’re canceling. One hour tops,” Arieh said. Peninit went over to the large window, opened the glass door and then the blinds, leaned over the railing with her whole upper body hanging out, and looked down at the street.

  “What are you doing?” Arieh hurried over to her, grabbed her arm and pulled her back. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “What’s the matter with you?” She pushed him toward the recliner, rubbing her arm. “What’s got into you? Did you think I was going to jump? Is that what you thought? I needed some fresh air, that’s all.”

  Nadia reappeared. Her coiffed blond bangs were drooping on her forehead, almost covering her eyes. “Did you hear anything from Margie’s room?” she asked distractedly. “I thought I heard something. There was something in there, someone crying. It sounded like a baby’s voice.”

  The doctor considered her words. “It was apparently some sort of doll,” she said finally.

  “A doll .
. .” Nadia echoed. “Which doll was talking?” she wondered, blinking, while Ilan stood behind her, rubbing her neck. “It’s okay, Nadia, come on, don’t get into that again now. It’s okay, Margie just found that doll in there that belonged to . . . ” (he hesitated, articulating her name with some difficulty) “ . . . to Natalie. She just happened to find it there.” He took Nadia over to Gramsy, sat her down, and arranged their hands together, clasping each other. “Look after her, Gramsy, the way you know how. Look after her well, this whirling dervish of ours, this sweetheart, so she doesn’t go whirling around again and getting into mischief,” he urged Gramsy, whose face lit up with her wonderful, inscrutable smile.

  “I have an idea of how you can maybe see her,” Ilan told the doctor in a purposeful voice.

  “How?” asked three voices at once. “How?” They gathered around him (Matti was back from the kitchen), full of expectation, like Boy Scouts about to set off on a night trek.

  “We bring one of those ladder vehicles—either a fire truck or a cherry picker, with a ladder that goes up to the third floor,” Ilan began self-importantly, but then stopped.

  Peninit’s face fell. “What are you talking about? A vehicle with a ladder? Well, honestly! It’s like we’re in kindergarten. A vehicle with a ladder! What about a sandbox—do you want one of those, too?” she dismissed him impatiently.

  “He does have a point, actually,” Arieh mused. “If we had that sort of ladder on a truck, the doctor could maybe see her through the window. She could just stand there outside the window and talk to Margie.”

  “Have you lost your minds?” Matti burst out. “Have you gone completely insane? Are you seriously going to listen to this nutcase?” (He waved his hand at Ilan.) “Is Margie some sort of terrorist barricaded in that room, threatening to massacre us all? Next thing you’ll be saying the doctor has to dress up as an old Arab lady or something. Good God,” he said, wiping his brow.