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Overview
Five powerful stories exploring identity and selfhood. With haunting, Kafkaesque prose, Emanuela Barasch-Rubinstein creates a series of profound, internal narratives. THE STORIES: A Bird Flight: After the death of her father the narrator travels to an academic symposium in Chicago; her host seems fixated on her bereavement as he tries to reach understanding of his own recent loss through her experience. Earrings: The narrator’s choice of earrings becomes symbolic of her desire to establish her own identity separate from the clashing ways of her mother, born in Israel, and her grandmother who emigrated from Europe. The Grammar Teacher: A teacher who believes in the right and proper way to behave and teach, and who achieves the highest standards from her classes, finds everything she believes in challenged by a new, modern teacher. Watch Dog: The consequences of an irrational fear of dogs for a young man seeking to make his way in the world. Aura: A man lies in a hospital bed and experiences an internal world disconnected from his old life.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781909374799 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Holland House Press |
| Publication date: | 02/01/2015 |
| Edition description: | Reprint |
| Pages: | 204 |
| Product dimensions: | 4.90(w) x 7.90(h) x 0.60(d) |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
Five Selves
By Emanuela Barasch-Rubinstein
Holland House Books
Copyright © 2014 Emanuela Barasch-RubinsteinAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-909374-91-1
CHAPTER 1
A Bird Flight
A couple of hours after the death of my father I received an invitation to a conference in Chicago. We took what was left in the locker — some books, blankets, slippers, his watch — and we were about to leave the eighth floor of the hospital with its blinding lights, never to return. We were waiting for the formal arrangements to be completed, and stood forsaken, first in the corridor, then in the elevator, and finally on the ground floor of the hospital, which was somewhat dark and gloomy. At this late night hour the entrance hall was almost empty, and we sat there useless, expecting nothing.
When the documents were ready we drove away, attempting to grasp the death that had taken hold of us. As we arrived at my parents' home, I got a message inviting me to give a lecture in Chicago, at a conference titled 'Life and Death — Representations in Art'. I ignored the message, which normally would have evoked much excitement. We sat silently: my mother's words that 'he lived a long and good life' emphasized the unintelligibility of this absence. We didn't dare enter his study, full of books which seemed so orphaned now.
Many spoke at his funeral, among them a famous writer whose wise words began to make the presence of death more familiar. The announcement of his death at the entrance to the house surprised me. The big, black letters proved that he had died more than his fresh grave did. The crowd of people who came to the house, the concluding ceremony of the Shiva, the Psalms verses we read at the cemetery — all these made me forget the invitation to the conference. But as the mourning week ended, I recalled the possibility of a journey. At first I thought I would cancel my participation, but then I changed — my mind the dark house, his paintings on the walls, my photographs in his study, they all made me wish I was somewhere else. I sent a message that in spite of the death of my father I would be attending the conference.
The organizer of the conference, a young professor of Italian descent, replied immediately. He expressed his condolences politely, didn't forget to add some personal notes to the old clichés, and offered to pick me up at the airport upon my arrival in Chicago. Though I knew him from his visits in Haifa, I felt that meeting him at the airport, something more usual with close friends and family members, would be embarrassing and even irksome. Also, his intentions were unclear. Was this the offer of a young host acting in a punctilious, protective manner, or maybe an implied, more personal suggestion that we would meet again during the conference? When I saw him during his visits in Haifa I always felt there was something unclear about him. He almost never expressed himself unequivocally; between the words there was always an ironic tone, somewhat derisive. There was also something deceptive about his appearance. Though he was a handsome man, always dressed in an elegant and reserved manner, his face bright and clear, as he spoke his upper lip would extend forward, seemingly a deliberate attempt to appear refined, as if he found it hard to talk but he was making an effort for the sake of others. Straight hair, perfect teeth, bright eyes, though somehow turbid, his appearance lacked a flaw that would make its advantages stand out.
When I told my family I intended to participate in the conference they were somewhat surprised. Indeed, my mother kept saying that one has to return to daily routine as soon as possible, and my sister expressed a similar view. However, I felt that they were suppressing a profound condemnation, one that had nothing to do with my journey and therefore should not be articulated in one breath with the mourning customs. My youngest daughter, unlike them, was franker and expressed some resentment. With her typical childish candor, especially when her own desires were at stake, she said she wished I would be present at the Chanukah party in which she had a special part, and added immediately, breathlessly, that it is inappropriate that I travel so soon after my father's death. The way she entwines her childish needs with moral arguments always makes me smile. She hugged me softly, her rosy, rounded cheek close to my face, confessed she would miss me immensely, and retired to her room.
My oldest daughter, with the sparkling eyes, said nothing, but her look suggested contemplation untypical of her age. She watched me as if my journey concealed a secret she wanted to expose. Like most young people she was almost constantly immersed in daily experience; it seemed as if she was reliving certain moments over and over again. But once in a while, not very often, there was a different, almost oppressive, curiosity in her look. Despite my obvious resentment she kept asking me about the purpose of my journey. My explanations of professional interests, the importance of conferences, the need to meet with colleagues, did not satisfy her. She inquired about the weather, about whether I would be staying close to the lake she'd heard of, about the time difference between Chicago and Haifa, and more questions on the travel itself. Finally she got tired and closed her eyes. Her face looked weary. I promised to call her, but the promise was worthless; not because she was afraid I would break it, she was absolutely sure it would be kept, but since she felt it further concealed the secret of my voyage. And so, late at night, we fell asleep one next to the other, in the light of the tiny lamp in her bedroom.
Strangely, Eviatar was indifferent to my traveling. At night, as I told him about my plans, he pretended to be surprised but it was clear that his distracted mind was inattentive to my wanderlust. In a tired voice he began asking about various practical details — the girls' daily routine, food, home arrangements, the cat: it seemed that all these were added to the endless concerns bothering him. His straight hair fell on the pillow and his black, rounded eyelashes, looking as if they were made by an artist, fluttered a bit before they covered his blue eyes. Just before he fell asleep he said something about 'an interesting subject', though I never told him what the conference was about nor the title of my lecture. He turned his back to me, pulled the blanket, and I was left bare and shivering, trying to get back the pleasant warmth of the bedclothes.
And so, a week later, I was standing at the airport with Eviatar and the girls, presenting my passport to a heavily made-up attendant, checking in my suitcase and saying goodbye to my family. In my handbag I had the script of my lecture, which I was hoping to read once again during the flight, some books, a photograph of my father that I decided at the last moment to take with me, and some stationery. After I entered the airplane and found my seat, an older woman sat down next to me, and at once began staring at photographs she took from her bag, and crying. Eagerly she told me that she had left her son in Carmiel and was returning to Argentina, where her daughter awaited her. Her grief made me forget the circumstances of my travel. I found myself absorbed in the figures in the photos: her forty-year-old son, with long, black hair, his wife smiling excessively at the camera; their two young boys; and the older woman in the company of her son and his family, staring amiably at the unknown spectator.
The plane took off and I relaxed in my seat, ready for the long way. Since I traveled by myself I was hoping to take advantage of the flight to examine my lecture. But as the flight progressed I became distracted. I placed the script of the lecture on my knees, after a couple of words I couldn't concentrate anymore. The images of my father's last days surfaced, and their effect was even stronger now. It seemed that every detail existed separately, and was not part of a sequence of events that preceded and followed it. Also, the memories from the last weeks of his life seemed obscure, and in particular I was reminded of a certain event, against my will. During a visit to my parents' place I entered the bedroom to talk to my father, who had lain down to rest. But he fell asleep and was steeped in a dream, apparently experiencing great happiness. He muttered some unclear words, yet it wasn't the words but the overwhelming childish expression of joy that struck me. I stood there motionless, staring at him, immersed in his gaiety, and then I left the room. Now, as during my visit, I knew the source of his happiness would remain unknown, but still I had the feeling that it was a childhood experience that overtook him. From the old face peeked a young boy, cuddling his mother or challenging her. And though I kept trying to ignore the enigma of his dream it emerged again and again, forcing me to try to solve it.
The Argentinian woman sitting next to me also relaxed in her seat. It seemed as if the distress of the separation from the beloved son had somewhat dissipated and now she was preparing for an encounter at the end of her journey. She spoke again of her son, but after a few sentences she began telling me about her daughter, her face revealing the expectation of her return home. The young grandchildren, the toys scattered about her home, the apartment on a high floor over a main avenue, the small car she had left for her daughter and now surely needed some maintenance work — in her spirit she was already there, in the familiar place, so distant from the displaced son in Carmiel. And though she kept looking at the photo of her son and his family she seemed unfocused, and then put the photos back in her wallet.
After a couple of hours I felt sleepy. The lights in the airplane were dim, most passengers took a nap, and so did I. I sank into a deep, dreamless sleep. When I woke up the airplane was fully lit, ready for breakfast before landing. Many passengers were walking restlessly to and fro. I got up and walked to the galley, feeling that I couldn't take the discomfort of the voyage anymore. And indeed, after a light meal, the trays were collected and the plane began to descend, heading towards Chicago.
As soon as we landed everyone hurried to the passport control. Grave-looking officers awaited us, and after a while I approached the counter. As I took my passport out of my purse to hand it to the officer I saw that the photograph of my father had been left in it. In this photo he was still a young man, with a rounded face and dark, heavy-framed glasses, his face full of light that was in his eyes, not in his smile. Quickly I removed the photo from the passport, and since I had to respond rapidly to the officer's requests, I tossed it into my handbag. I passed through passport control, picked up my black suitcase and, rolling it along, walked with hesitant steps towards the exit.
In spite of my decided efforts not to look for the young professor, I couldn't help my wandering gaze, watching the people who waited at the exit. Focused on the passengers coming out, they looked at no one in particular: Men in elegant suits, women carrying children, drivers holding papers with names, staring expectantly, and then with disappointment, at every approaching passenger.
I was relieved as I was certain he was not waiting for me. Already during the flight I had imagined how awkward it would be to meet him. Now I was happy that I could avoid it. I walked briskly towards the taxi station when someone grabbed my arm.
As I turned around I saw again the ridiculing smile, the straight teeth, the bright eyes. He shook my hand, said how happy he was that I had come in spite of being in mourning; he again expressed his condolences, and offered to carry my suitcase. His light, straight hair was a bit out of place; apparently the wild winds outside created some disorder in his tidy haircut. Though he was trying to be sympathetic, he glanced aside in a distracted manner. His fastidious questions about my flight, as if he was envisaging the entire way from Haifa to Chicago, revealed a strange curiosity regarding trivial, unimportant details: What food was served on the way? Why was the flight half an hour late? Did I have to wait a long time before I passed through passport control? While he was engaged in this peculiar interest in my travel, we walked to his car in the parking lot. He put my luggage in the trunk and we began driving towards the city.
We drove fast along a wide highway, surrounded by neon lights and immense colorful billboards. Though I am not used to driving on highways, this one seemed to direct its drivers quickly to their destination; cars joining the road from various directions, everyone rushing simultaneously to the same place, hastening to overtake each other. After about half an hour the skyscrapers of Chicago began to rise in the distance. The twilight glaze illuminated the city in mauve, and an abundance of miniature lights gradually materialized into the outlines of luminous skyscrapers and tall buildings, inviting any stranger to assimilate into their endless lights without questioning him about his life circumstances.
On the way my young host was more focused, keeping his mind on the driving. He told me a bit about the city and its various quarters, explaining that he lives on the north side but that my hotel is in the center of downtown. He seemed surprised when I showed some disappointment that we weren't passing by the lake; he explained that we were arriving from the west side while the lake is in the east, and promising that tomorrow we would drive along its shore. The certainty that we would meet again outside the conference spoiled the moments of pure joy that come from an unfamiliar place. My mind was distracted from the fast drive, which now transformed into a slow ride through narrow streets at the center of the town. Against my wish I couldn't help wondering, again, what his intentions were. The dark streets beneath tall buildings passed before my eyes almost unobserved.
When we arrived at the hotel he hastened to take out the suitcase, hand it to the concierge, hurriedly shake my hand, and drive away. In my room I tried to read my lecture but exhaustion overtook me. I managed to call home to say that I had arrived safely. My youngest daughter answered the phone, and in her childish way told me about her day in detail. Finally we said goodbye and I fell asleep.
When I arrived at the conference hall the next morning, I immediately noticed him. My young host, the organizer of the conference, was dressed in an elegant suit. No doubt he saw me as I came in, but I got the impression that he was trying to avoid me.
After some small talk and an introductory speech, the participants began to discuss their work. I also read my paper, but although I tried to present it in an appealing manner, a new, unfamiliar fatigue overtook me. The arguments that previously seemed fascinating now sounded dull. Throughout the presentation I couldn't help wondering whether my words were coherent. The sentences seemed detached from each other, the grammar bizarre, unusual. And also, my very presence at the conference suddenly seemed so unnecessary, even embarrassing and unclear. During the lecture I suddenly recalled the Rabbi from my father's funeral. His exact, detailed orders regarding the mourning customs had surprised me, but now they were fully comprehensible and justified. My thoughts traveled to the cemetery, and as a result I made several mistakes reading the lecture. Finally, as I concluded, some people in the audience insisted they had questions, so I had to return to the lecture room, whose bare walls were now full of florescent light, and pretend that my arguments made some sense. When the lecture was done everyone thanked me; I was disappointed that the usual relief when concluding a presentation was immediately transformed into deep exhaustion. But as I was about to leave the conference , the young professor appeared, smiling cordially, revealing his straight teeth, with, in his eye, as always, a spark of scorn.
He invited me to join him for lunch with some of his colleagues. Since I couldn't think of a convincing excuse I drifted along with the others. The odors in the large dining room, its wide windows with their view of the Chicago River, the hustle and laughter in the room — they all eased my exhaustion, and I engaged in conversation with people I had never met. However, I was determined to leave immediately after lunch and take a nap at the hotel.
Once the dishes and food residues disappeared from the tables, everyone got up and walked to the lecture rooms. I decided to take advantage of this moment; I slipped to the stairway, went one floor down, and turned quickly to the revolving door. As I stepped out the cold wind hit me. I felt that my coat, which wasn't suitable for this climate, didn't provide any shelter from the cold air. Still, I advanced to the street, directly towards the river. It was a cloudy day; the soft, vague light was comforting. I found myself standing between two bridges, behind one of which was the lake. I stood staring at the flowing water, not sure whether I should go directly to the hotel or take a short walk on the lakeshore. The tall buildings were reflected in the water, slightly trembling, adopting round shapes and then straightening again. I looked up. The skyscrapers' heads disappeared in a thick screen of clouds, and it made them look heavy and graceless. I felt a light touch on my shoulder. Behind me stood the young host, smiling, as if concealing a secret.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Five Selves by Emanuela Barasch-Rubinstein. Copyright © 2014 Emanuela Barasch-Rubinstein. Excerpted by permission of Holland House Books.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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Table of Contents
Contents
A Bird Flight,Earrings,
The Grammar Teacher,
Watch Dog,
Aura,