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PLEASANT DREAMS

Ever since the accident, he and his wife made love a lot less often. They never talked about it, but he had the feeling she thought it was okay too. As if after the accident and everything she was just so glad to have him back that she wasn’t planning to keep score. Whenever they did make love it was nice, just as nice as it had been before, except that now his life had taken on another perspective, one that had to do with that world, a world you can reach only when something falls on you from the top floor, a perspective that seemed to have dwarfed everything else. Not just the sex, but his love for her too, and his love for his daughter, everything.

When he was awake he couldn’t remember exactly what it had felt like to be in the world of the coma, and if he tried to describe it to someone, he couldn’t. He tried only once, with this blind woman to whom he’d been trying to sell life insurance. He wasn’t sure why he’d expected her, of all people, to understand, but after three sentences he realized he was only scaring her, so he stopped. In his dreams, though, he really could go back there. And ever since that day in the cemetery, his coma dreams recurred more often. He felt himself becoming addicted to them. So much so that in the evenings, long before he got into bed, he would begin to tremble in anticipation, like someone who after many years in exile was getting on the flight that would take him home. It’s funny, but sometimes he was so excited that he couldn’t even fall asleep. And then he’d find himself lying in bed, frozen, next to his sleeping wife, trying to lull himself to sleep in all sorts of ways. One of them was masturbation. And ever since that memorial service, whenever he masturbated, he’d think of Maayan, of how she’d touched him on his shoulder. It wasn’t because she was beautiful. And it wasn’t that she wasn’t beautiful, though her beauty was the fragile kind that comes with youth, the kind whose expiration date was coming up very, very soon. As it happened, his wife had once had that same kind of beauty, many years ago, when they first met. But that wasn’t the reason he would think of Maayan. It was because of the connection between her and the man who had helped him reach that world of colors and quiet, and when he’d masturbate over Maayan, it was as if he were masturbating over a world that suddenly, thanks to her, had taken on a woman’s shape.

Meanwhile, he was churning out policies at a dizzying pace. Without even meaning to, he was getting better and better at it. Now, when he tried to sell them, he’d often find himself in tears. It wasn’t a manipulation. It was real crying that came out of nowhere. And it would shorten the meetings. Oshri would cry and then he’d apologize, and right away the clients would say it was okay and sign. It made him feel a little like a swindler, the crying, though it was as genuine as could be.

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