A Late Divorce (17 page)

I let the bed warm me rereading what I've written. So thin and lifeless. I turn to the poetry side. How different.

Soft venomous bald skull old snake napping on Jerusalem rock. Frail spring

Hot air.

I close my eyes. Asi calls from the next room. Just a minute I answer without opening them. The TV is on. Light glares on me something is snatched from my hands. My bathrobe slips freezingly off of me. Asi stands by the bed holding the pad thumbing it reading it. I must have fallen asleep what time is it?

“Put that down!” I jump naked out of bed shivering with cold but he goes on reading with cold eyes. Put it down! He shuts it and puts it on the table the pen slips from beneath my legs to the floor he bends down to pick it up and lays it by the pad.

“Stop snooping, I tell you!”

“I'm sorry,” he whispers. “I didn't know what it was. You never had a pad like this.”

“What time is it?”

“After eleven. How could you have fallen asleep like that?”

“Where's your father?”

“Watching the news. I'm looking for some sheets.”

“I'll give them to you. Just close the door.”

I put on a skirt and blouse. “What have you been doing?”

“Talking and watching TV. But what's with you today?”

“I don't know.”

“Where are the pillowcases?”

“In a minute. I'll make his bed. Let me do it.”

But Asi won't leave he wants to say something he's terribly upset he paces the room restlessly.

“Is something the matter? Did he tell you anything?”

He stares at me a thin smile on his lips he exclaims:

“It turns out that ... you won't believe this ... he's going to have a baby over there. That's why he's in such a hurry to get divorced. That woman of his ... that Connie ... is pregnant ...”

“Pregnant? How old is she?”

“I don't know. What difference does it make? He's going to have a baby, just imagine...”

“Asa?” The musical voice drifts in from the living room. “How do you turn off this television?”

“I'll be right there.”

Asi goes out followed by me carrying sheets and a blanket. In the smoke-filled living room are dirty teacups and a small bottle of brandy. It's as though I haven't been here for days. Asi's father stands tall and upright by the flickering white screen his fingers sliding over the buttons. Asi turns off the set and takes the cushions from the sofa.

“I'll take care of it, Asi. Go wash up. I'm so sorry I fell asleep like that.”

“Never mind. You needn't have bothered to get up.” Asi's father reaches out to take the sheets from me but I hug them tight not letting them go.

My conking out like that must have hurt his feelings he gives me a remote look. He smells sharply of sweat again. Didn't he just shower a few hours ago? And yet again this sour masculine odor. What is he secreting all the time it's as if his body wished to tell us something. A strong a very vital man he's going to have a baby well why not?

He helps me move the sofa he catches the end of the sheet and tucks it under the mattress. He looks at me fondly.

“You needn't have bothered to get up.”

“I have this way of collapsing when I'm emotionally excited ... because of your coming ... I was all worked up ... because of that meeting this morning too ...”

“This morning?” he wanders his arm around me.

“With that author. Your old student.”

“Ah, him.” His grip on me weakens. “Were you afraid of him? What did he talk to you about?”

“It's hard to explain. About what I showed him, about literature in general...”

“He was a loudmouth back when I taught him, so sure of himself, so ... doctrinaire. Every few months he'd come up with some new theory and make a religion out of it. What was it this time?”

“That one has to work from the concrete, from immediate physical objects, to find significance in them ... if there is any ...”

“From the concrete? What is he talking about? What does he know about it? Don't set him up as an authority. He's a fellow who loves to have disciples, to have a court full of followers—I've heard all about him. Listen only to your own self! You know, I'd also like to read what you've written ... that is, if you'd have the confidence in me to let me ... I know a bit about these things too. Maybe you'll show me something now ... or better yet, mail it to me. I can feel that I'll like it, especially now that we've gotten to know each other.... Don't pay attention to Asa. He's a cynic. There's so much to see in the world—me, I'm always curious for more. I've told him that the two of you should come stay with us for a while in America. I'll find him some work there, some postgraduate position. After all, I am his father. And you too, my dear child ... as soon as the pressure lets up ... as soon as I'm rid of this bane of my life...”

His eyes glow fiercely he flushes and grabs my hand pushing me against the wall whispering excitedly carried away with himself.

“I don't know what Asa has told you, and he doesn't know everything himself. Not that it's his fault. It was I who decided to wait patiently until he grew up and left home ... but now that I see him with a home of his own, with a wife, with all the makings of a serious, creative, successful career ... I can't tell you how happy I am that I came to Jerusalem today even for these few hours. At last I'm at peace and can think of myself. Do you know what all that I want is? Simply to have and to give a little happiness. Even a small apartment like this would be big enough for me if it were inhabited by sane people. You have no idea how hard it's been ... and I honestly tried my very best until she stuck that knife into me.”

His hand gropes again for his shirt buttons.

All at once I feel terror. Standing pressed against the wall with him looming over me his eyes full of tears a gusty night outside and Asi locked in the bathroom.

“I don't blame them. She's their mother. But did they really think that I would live out the rest of my life chained to her ... to the long twilight of a mad glob of living matter, to put it concretely, as our dear author advises us to ... and there is no significance here, it's simply a concrete, physical fact, the sum of its own physicality. I, to whom things of the spirit ... and I'm not that old, you can see for yourself, I'm only sixty-four ... people realize who I am, they make contact with me, love me ... I still have the strength, the potential ... Asi can tell you...”

Unnoticed Asi stands listening palely in the doorway in his pajamas. His father smiles at him the tears gone.

“We've been waiting for you to say good night.”

He kisses me very gently on the forehead.

“Open the window a bit, Yehuda, to air out the room. It's full of smoke.”

He hesitates. I'm surprised at myself for calling him by his first name.

“Afterwards you can close it again.”

“All right.”

“If we're up early tomorrow we'll leave here with Asi and the two of us can go say hello to my parents. They were so disappointed when they heard you were leaving already.”

I want to say more but he's heard the entreaty in my voice.

“That's fine. That's perfectly all right. I'll get up early. You'll wake me.”

I open the window and look out at the dark blocks of apartment houses. A strong half-wintry half-springlike wind is blowing outside. I collect the cups from the living room and glide out of it. What matters most more than anything is my heroine for whom the time has come she demands it to be given a name. Sarah plain Sarah it's an awful one but exotic-sounding like a character's on TV. And if the story is ever translated it won't b‹ a problem. Where are you my dear? Wretchedly cooped up in her room with that baby whom she is slowly discovering is retarded slightly brain-damaged his mother was probably glad to get rid of him. What an incredible idea a whole new slant the ironic possibilities! It will help make it credible. I can stay with the absurdly tragic and not have to get so deeply personal.

Asi is already in bed with his head on the pillow looking at some book he has to lecture on tomorrow. My little orange pad is on the night table by the bed. He's touched it it's fouled I want to pick it up but I can't. I close the door soundlessly turning the key and switch off the light. Light from the living room creeps under the door. I strip off my clothes I lift the blanket from him and whisper:

“Call off the punishment. I'm ready now. I promised you...”

He smiles stroking my face and neck distractedly.

“Not now, we can't. He's in the next room. Tomorrow.”

“You mean you can't.”

“Of course I can. You know that perfectly well. Watch it ... but why now when he's practically on top of us? You know you'll scream the way you always do. Think about it, do you really want him to hear you ... is that what you want...?''

“I won't scream this time. I promise.”

“Yes, you will. It's not up to you. But never mind.” He hugs me powerfully. “Tomorrow. If we've waited this long, we can wait another day.”

“Then I want you to know that means you can't.''

He's furious now. “Don't start that again. You know what the real truth is ... all right then, come on! I'll prove it to you.”

All of a sudden he throws himself on me savagely spread-eagling me mounting me right away I contract as hard as I can locking the little door he's a frail snake gliding groping slithering drily away.

“You crazy woman, now do you see?”

All at once my anger melts I have to force myself not to cry. I get out of bed and put on a nightgown.

“All right then, tomorrow. But call off the punishment.”

“Do me a favor, stop talking idiotically.”

“Tell me it's called off.”

“There's nothing to call off.”

“There is. You know how you've behaved toward me these last two weeks. You've picked on me, you haven't touched me...”

“All right, all right...”

I kiss his face I get into bed I turn my back to him and snuggle up like a fetus asking him to put his hand on my belly. The warmth of it in that deep pit of tiredness. The mind's last gasps. My heroine Sarah she's stuck in her room without moving. Where will she sleep? She won't talk she won't think. A flop of a character. The whole story's a washout. Where can it go from here? A dead end. And now I don't know what to do with her. Tomorrow I'll try to breathe some life into her I'll give her of my own flesh and blood. The light goes out in the living room. Fatigue courses through her like a river wave after wave of it rocking over soft bottomless depths a towering dull blue wall of water beneath her the quiet hum of the traffic in the wind. But someone keeps bothering her there's no quiet a murmured sob blankets are tugged back and forth he moves her about lifts a hand or a leg the light keeps going on and off. Asi are you up? What time is it? It's already three o'clock what's the matter with you? I can't sleep he sobs. Put your arms around me That won't help I'm boiling mad inside. What's wrong? Everything everything. Is it me? It's you and it's him. He has to go have another child hasn't he done enough harm already? Goddamn him ... where does he get the strength ... the man has no sense of shame ... he'll make a laughingstock of us all. I'm finally beginning to understand. Ya'el suspected all along. But sleep is getting the better of her. What will she do? An old a prolonged cough pierces the silence from the other room. She's so sleepy she's sleeping but he keeps bothering her. Stop thinking you think too much if you don't think you can't go mad she says it without knowing if she really has said it or if she only has slept it...

Family, I hate you!

André Gide

 

“... so that as consistently as these youngsters rejected the idea of the state, and of all public bodies and institutions, they also rejected, at least initially, the idea of organized terror. Their terror was individual, and so they wished it to remain. A private rather than a collective act. Authority could reside only in the individual acting by himself and flowed from his great sense of inner freedom that sought to bestow itself upon the nation as a whole. The decision to commit a terrorist act could not be made by any organized forum proceeding by majority vote or some other resolution-passing process. Thus, despite their enormous feeling of camaraderie for each other, their marvelous sense of shared humanity that made up in part for their lack of contact with a sympathetic public, the terrorists remained radically isolated. In the first place, you must remember that they were very young—much younger than you yourselves. Pisarev, the leading theoretician of Russian nihilism, once remarked that children and teen-agers made the greatest fanatics. Russia was at this time a youthful nation that had been essentially reconstituted barely one hundred years before, and its terrorists were youthful too. ‘A proletariat of high-school graduates,' they were called. And yet it was they who held high the torch of freedom and took a stand against a brutal dictatorial regime in order to liberate a people that was far from eager to collaborate with them. Nearly every one of these youngsters paid the price of suicide, public execution, imprisonment or insanity. A handful of intellectuals struggled alone while an entire nation kept silent. On the twenty-seventh of January 1878, what is called the First Wave of Russian Terror began. A young woman named Vera Zasulich shot General Tarpov, the vicious head of the St. Petersburg police. She had received orders from no one and was acting completely on her own, impelled by her own moral conscience. Ideologically, however, she was well prepared for what she did. She had read many underground writings, among them an essay called
Murder
by the German Karl Heinsen that was published as early as 1849 and was well known in her circles. She was also familiar with Mikhail Bakunin's famous treatise
Revolution, Terrorism and Gangsterism,
which appeared in Geneva in 1856. These were the two selections that I asked you to read for today in Walter Laqueur's anthology...”