A Late Divorce (16 page)

“Then do what you want. I won't move. I'll let you do anything. Come here a minute. At least let me give you a kiss.”

But he's stubborn belligerent.

“Try me. I know I have to. Just be gentle and slow. Maybe we could work up to it slowly, night by night ... Come, let me kiss you.”

I get out of bed and hug him pressing against him twining my legs about his climbing up him kissing him. The water stops running. His father calls out something. Asi pushes me away. “Set the table this minute!” He leaves the room.

 

The stirred eggs and rice were delicious I couldn't stop praising his father. They've been discussing people I don't know at first I tried listening drowsily lethargically suddenly thinking hopelessly of my story how will I ever manage to explain the girl and her motives. Thinking should I make her a primitive or half crazy to make her more credible. The doorbell rings. Asi goes to answer it. Somebody wants you. Who is it? Somebody. He has a small package. I get up and walk down the hall the little bank teller who took care of me today is standing there with the bag of cheese that I forgot. Crimson frail in love an arrow lodged in his heart he hands me the cheese so choked up I can't understand what he says the stairway light goes off. I try touching him gently but he's scared of his own self he retreats down the stairs hardly waiting to hear me say thank you.

“Who was that?”

“A teller from our bank.”

“That's right, I thought I recognized him. What did he want? What did he bring?”

“Nothing. I forgot a piece of cheese there today that my parents had given me.”

“And that's why he came? There must be something the matter with him.”

“I wouldn't know.'' I smile absentmindedly. “I suppose there must be. I'm not to blame for it, am I?”

He doesn't answer. He's used to such types all the lovesick souls who run after me but the unexpected appearance of this unobtrusive clerk has left him dumbstruck.

I lay the hunk of cheese down in the kitchen and unwrap it. Wrinkled crumbly soft and damp how hard and dry it was on the shelf in the grocery this teller has revived it with the warmth of his feverish hand. I rinse it in a dish of water. Sometimes I'm afraid of my own powers to go running at night with it to a far-off address just so as to see me again. Asi springs tensely into the kitchen and stares at the white hunk immersed in water.

“What are you going to do with that cheese?”

“Paint it, what else is it good for? It certainly can't be eaten.”

“The worst part of it,” he whispers with sudden venom, “is this new smart-alecky style of yours ... the terrible tease you've become. The poor kid had to drag himself all the way out here to bring you this crumbling piece of cheese ... and you actually smile ... you enjoy it ... it's too much, what kind of a person ...”

“What?”

But he's stalked out again.

I serve coffee and cake. His father is smoking heavily looking detachedly at the books on the shelves only half listening. I'm already so used to having him with us.

“When do you think you can see my parents? They'd like so much to meet you.”

“Of course.” He turns to Asi. “Of course I should meet them. But when?”

“Maybe tomorrow evening,” I suggest. “We can have dinner with them. Have you ever eaten Hungarian cuisine?”

“Tomorrow evening? No, tomorrow I'm going back to Haifa... I mean to the hospital ... and from there to Tel Aviv. I haven't been in Tel Aviv yet. I saw Tsvi only briefly at the airport ... he's expecting me ... I really don't know if I'll be in Jerusalem again on this trip.”

“I'm going with you,” says Asi.

“You're going tomorrow?” I'm thunderstruck. “Why?”

“I want to go with my father. Ya'el will come too. I haven't been there for ages.”

“Is something the matter? Don't you teach a class tomorrow at the university?”

“We'll leave after it. It's over at ten.”

“But what's the matter? Why should you want to go all together?”

“Because we do.”

But his father abruptly bursts out:

“Kedmi insisted on going to her with the written agreement! Everything was already decided by mail ... I even phoned several times from America to settle things with Ya'el ... she had promised in so many words ... we had talked with the doctor and invited the rabbi for next Sunday morning ... and I wanted to see her before then ... to say hello ... but Kedmi insisted that she sign first, since she might change her mind if she saw me. Because we need her signature on the document, otherwise it isn't valid ... which means the rabbi won't come ... as it is, he's doing us a favor. So in the end Kedmi went by himself. Ya'el wanted to join him but he insisted on going alone. You know him, don't you? A rare specimen, always telling bad jokes, and sure that he's the world's leading expert on everything. And I was so out of it my first day here that I agreed. Well, it looks like he made a mess of it, because she didn't sign. She told him she wanted to think about it...”

“To think about it?”

“Yes. All of a sudden she has to think. After everything was all settled and I had phoned all those times from America and made this trip. The rabbi even agreed to come especially with his assistants on the eve of the holiday ... it wasn't easy to get him to do it ... and next Tuesday I have to fly back. I don't know. Perhaps her feelings were hurt because I didn't come to see her but sent Kedmi straight off with the agreement. I suppose he made some careless remark—he's a simple man really and from a very uncultured family, even if he does have a glib tongue. So now I'm at my wits' end. I thought that perhaps Asa and I should go see her tomorrow with Ya'el ... my fears may be groundless, but still it's better to see her ... it will be good for her...”

“But must you absolutely divorce her on this trip?” I ask with soft surprise unable to comprehend all this rush.

Asi kicks me hard beneath the table. His father's face falls growing tired and creased there's a silent plea in his eyes.

“Yes, of course. You see, Connie ... it can't go on this way ...” At a loss he looks at Asi who says nothing.

“Then maybe you can see them for a few minutes tomorrow morning.”

“See who?”

“My parents.”

“Right, your parents. I don't know. Tomorrow morning? Will there be time? I had wanted to get something done at the university ... but perhaps...”

“You won't have time,” declares Asi drily sharply head down.

“And you won't be back in Jerusalem?”

“In Jerusalem? I doubt it. I haven't been in Tel Aviv yet. I have so much to do there ... this visit is so short and Tsvi is expecting me. But you'll be at the seder at Ya'el's ... we'll all meet again there ...”

“No. We have to be with my parents. They have no one else.”

Asi wants to say something but doesn't.

“Perhaps the day after then, on the holiday itself ...”

“We could try...”

Silence. I suddenly grasp that I may not see him anymore that he's about to vanish again.

“Maybe I'll come too tomorrow.”

He looks at Asi.

“No. You can't,” says Asi determinedly. “Not tomorrow. There'll be too many people. She won't be able to cope.”

“But I want to see her too.”

“No. It's impossible. Not tomorrow.”

We trade blows via his father.

“What will I tell my parents then? They'll feel so disappointed.”

I fight bravely on for them.

“My father will phone them tomorrow to say hello. He'll apologize and explain.”

All at once such loneliness engulfs me. Asi is casting me vilely aside. He'll always do just what he wants to. His father smokes thoughtfully.

“I really did want to meet them but I don't see how it will work out. This trip's been so rushed ... the time has sped by. I will call them, though. That's a good idea. And I'll tell them that on my next visit ... because I'll come again next year with Connie ... yes. I'll certainly call them. Someone told me that they're very religious. Where do you live?...In Ge'ula? Are they followers of some Hasidic rabbi?...You don't say! How interesting. One could never tell by looking at you, there's not a trace left. How could they have let you? Have you lost faith yourself? I mean ...”

Asi regards me intensely.

“Asi dislikes God. It's that simple. Like someone who can't stand a certain food and won't allow it into the house.” His father smiles and nods. “It's a matter of taste. But sometimes when I'm alone I buy it and cook it and eat it in secret, and wash out my mouth so be won't know. I've lost faith but sometimes I'm still afraid ...”

Asi's eyes glitter with mirth. He's cruelly amused.

“Apart from that, we keep a kosher home: the dishes, the pots, the silver ... so that my parents can eat here with us, although in fact they never do.”

“Over there, this past year, I've begun attending synagogue now and then.”

“I always figured it would come to that someday,” Asi jabs drily still staring down.

His father flushes hard-pressed to explain.

“Simply as an onlooker. As a sociological observer of the vagaries of Jewish history. Besides, the temple has a wonderful choir. All Gentile, of course. You should hear how beautifully it sings. Absolutely professional.”

 

O he knows that he has sinned, he knows that it's no use.
In vain he strums the burst strings of his heart.
He's silent as a shadow and equally elus-
ive, & he shivers when the Sabbath prayers start.

 

Suddenly there's an awkward feeling in the air. Asi projects hostility toward both of us. I clear the table and put the dishes in the sink I soap them and run the water. The two of them sit silently smoking by the table. So what? The distant mother the mortally wounded parents. All that counts is
she. Waiting for me. Where did I leave her? Coming out of the supermarket with the baby in her arms. Twilight. I have to dress her. A skirt or pants? Pants, soft velvety ones. People in the street brush lightly against her, quickly she slips into the stairwell with the broom, yes I see it clearly, there's a dusty old baby carriage there. She puts him in it and begins to wheel him. Her name should be simple, drab, nothing special or too modern. On the stairs she encounters a neighbor. Our banalities are the most incriminating things about us. She pulls down the blinds, she gathers pillows and builds a wall of them on her bed, she puts the child inside it. Make him younger. Four months old. His first fit of crying. Until now he's been quiet. She goes to look for milk. She doesn't have enough? She runs down to the grocery, it's open until late. Another grocery? More objects. Where does the plot go from here? All right, in the end she returns him, but why? A purely internal decision?

Someone's at the door. Who is it now? Telephone for Dina. I wipe my hands and descend to the floor below the door is open the family is eating invisibly in the kitchen where I hear hoarse adolescent voices. The receiver is dangling from a hook. Father and mother each on a different phone. Do not forsake us 0 our darling. They had to install a second phone because each kept grabbing the first from the other. Their voices mingle in the identical accent one finishes the other's sentence one answers the questions asked me by the other.

“So how was supper?”

I astound them with its story. They disapprove. “You should have made it. If you had taken the groceries from us, you would have been spared the embarrassment. What are his plans now?”

“He's heading back north tomorrow. He has to visit her in the hospital. But he'll call you in the morning.”

“He'll call? That's all he'll do, call? He can't come?”

“It seems not. He's leaving early in the morning. The whole visit's very rushed.” (I should have invited them tonight really I'm not ashamed of them.)

There's a long silence on both phones.

“How is he?”

“Fine. Just fine. He's young-looking, likable, friendly. He resembles Tsvi more than Asi. He even goes to synagogue in America.”
(Now what did I tell them that for? To please them? To make them like him? As their consolation prize?)

And indeed they're in seventh heaven. Religion wins the day.

“How do you like that!...You see?...Just a minute, what? ...” (A brief pause while they consult.) “Maybe we'll come over for a few minutes now ... we could even take a taxi ... or is he too tired? ...”

I say nothing. My heart goes out to them so lonely in their old neighborhood. But how can I possibly have them over now? Delicately they probe my silence. “Dina? Are you there? What do you think? We'll take a taxi...” (The ultimate for them in dissipation.)

I still don't answer. I can't tell them not to. In a minute they'll understand by themselves. “Dina?” Father raps on the phone. In the end they give up.

“Perhaps I'll bring him to you for a short while in the morning. We'll see. The main thing is that we'll be with you for the seder.”

I hang up.

Asi and his father are already finishing the dishes in the kitchen putting everything away. No wonder she went mad. The old man's crafty glance alights on me as though asking for help. Asi is getting moodier by the minute their silence percolates between them.

“You really needn't have!” I do my best to sound thrilled. “Asi, why did you?”

He makes a despairing gesture with his hand. I go to the bedroom and look for my pad between the sheets. Where are you my dear sitting moodily in your room shuttered by your growing fear fatigued from listening to the ceaseless crying of the baby. Asi enters after me I snatch the pad and escape with it to the bathroom I undress there and take a long shower blissful in the vaporous spray I slowly advance upon the mirror from time to time kissing a breast nibbling a shoulder with dainty bites licking my fragrant skin. I put on my bathrobe and brush a few droplets of water from the pad where some words have blurred like frail spiders on tiny shelves. I dry them with my breath I return to the bedroom and climb into bed. Away with all inhibition! I begin to write.
Stress my character's fright after the initial steely excitement of the kidnapping itself, which took place with surprising ease and speed. Her modest room? A poster of a dog. The baby cries and cries. She's afraid someone will hear. She boils milk and waits for it to cool. Describe the moment and the quality of the
light. Her violent inner conflict. The telephone rings, it must be her mother. She doesn't answer for fear the cries will be heard.