The Others by Sarah Blau (best ereader for academics TXT) 📗

idea, and I realize that everything that has just transpired between us barely touched her, not really, because she doesn’t care, don’t you get it? She never did, you’re the one whose soul has been scorched by every article she published, and you kept waging this ancient battle inside you, always saying one day, one day… but the day has come, and here she is, sitting in front of you, arse planted in the armchair, and you, as always, a flat-out loser, the kind that keeps her mouth shut while letting the Dina Kaminers of the world piss on her head.

“So you’re going to teach me the Bible now, Dina?”

My voice sounds wet and ugly even to me. “Maybe it’s time I teach you something? Something for you to steal for your new article? And I’m saying here and now that you can keep all the credit, happily, are you listening?” Oh, yes, she’s definitely listening. “So my idea for essences imprinted in the DNA goes something like this – just like they went and fucked our biblical Dina, you went and fucked me, deep and hard, how do you like that analogy?”

No, it wasn’t easy for me to come out with the “fucked,” but it was worth it. Her mouth was agape with surprise. I knew my vulgarity would shut her up. Vulgarity always had that effect on her. That’s just how it is; when little religious girls hear the word “fuck,” they clam up real fast. Even I need a moment to compose myself.

Dina is still silent, then she gets up, goes to the fridge, pours herself a glass of water and gulps it down, then comes back into the living room and takes another Oreo, licks her lips and bites into it peacefully, her gaze resting on the picture on the wall, and the corners of her mouth start curling into a smile. That smile!

“You know what, Dina? I hope you drop dead.”

My voice is hushed, but it doesn’t take more than that. That old fear sparks in her eyes.

5

I RUSH BY the wax pavilion, following my conversation with Eli, ignoring the figurines’ inquisitive eyes. I’m not in the mood.

Last night I tossed and turned in bed, replaying my meeting with Dina, knowing there was something that eluded me there, something important. Some word that was said, a clue suspended mid-air, something deep and dark, impalpable, like BO.

A moment before falling asleep, my body already cold and slack, I felt the answer teetering on the edge of my consciousness, like when you’re about to sneeze, but the fleeting moment passes, it’s right under your nose, silly!

The figurines lock their wax eyes on me, none of them smiling.

The collection was donated by one of our bigger benefactors abroad. At first there were a few who tried to object on the grounds of “Thou shalt not make unto thee any graven image,” and there was a vociferous article in the local paper and an attempt to organize a protest against “blasphemous” sculptures “in the Bible museum no less!” But as always in such cases, when it comes to a serious benefactor, the collection stayed right where it was. Normally, I actually like walking along the pavilion, but these days are anything but normal, and the figurines look especially grouchy.

Our mother Leah seems grouchiest of all, with those dead eyes of hers, placed next to a figurine of our father Jacob, and her big brood of kids are all slung from her arms like cherries on melting ice cream. The artist obviously took his interpretation of “tender eyes” a little too far, rendering her expression a unique combination of cross-eyed and blind.

Our mother Sarah, standing by the figurine of our father Abraham, also frowns at me, looking old and more wrinkled than ever, especially since she’s holding the little wax hand of baby Isaac. Sarah’s Egyptian slave Hagar, of course, has been sculpted as young and beautiful, “too beautiful,” a visitor once remarked disapprovingly. I agreed with her, finding her generous and perky wax breasts annoying as well.

As usual, I pick up my pace as I pass by the figurine of Miriam the prophetess, feeling that same old peevishness over the fact that they chose to immortalize her in her famous scene, as a little girl peeking through the reeds, looking over baby Moses, who, for some reason, was shaped as a pig in a blanket. At least he got another figurine as an adult, while Miriam has been frozen in time as an anxious child. What about the powerful prophetess she grew up to be? What about it, indeed.

Today I rush past her even faster than usual, a few more figurines and I’ll be out of the pavilion. Here’s David and his wives, a smug redhead surrounded by a group of beautiful women, and next to them, at some distance, sits a proud, sad woman, her small crown atilt. All the other women are carrying a chubby wax toddler in their arms, while she settles for the crown and a hungry expression. It’s Michal, daughter of Saul, the only one among King David’s wives I was ever partial to. But the lecture about her is in scarce demand, or as some instructional coordinator from the South once commented to me, “Who wants to hear about that barren hag?” before asking to sign up for the lecture “Four Mothers – Birthing a Proud Nation.”

Adam and Eve are waiting for me near the exit, clad head to toe in fig leaves.

Efraim saw to that, brought kids over for a special arts and crafts workshop to churn out dozens of ornate fig leaves, and glued them on himself. I remember watching him, gluing on one leaf after another in silent wrath. By the time he was finished, Adam and Eve looked as if they were wearing dark green scuba suits.

At least he was spared the sculpture of Lilith. A few years back the girlfriend of one