A Late Divorce (25 page)

Father laid a protective hand on me. My hitting myself had left him one up, he could pity me now. “Well, now you understand me better, don't you? Don't worry, though, I'll let her have her way in the end. Do you want me to give you any money?...When will we meet again?...You'll have to come on the holiday to say goodbye.... We'll be in touch ...”

Suddenly I was putty in his hands. A burst string. And yet deep down a feeling of tranquillity.

The large concrete station was already dark and silent. In the cafeteria where we had eaten lunch the lights were out and the chairs were stacked on the tables. I boarded the Tel Aviv bus, and it backed slowly out of its stall. A lit-up train traveled parallel to it until it vanished into thin air. The driver turned on the news. The bus was full of sleeping soldiers. A narrow, shrunken patch of sea flickered in the wind. To take some distant period and discuss it in trivial terms—to find a neglected document or manuscript that has yet to be written about and blow up its significance—to burrow through old newspapers in search of unknown facts about some second-rate statesman who lived in a forgotten age—let that be for the rest of them. But I would find the cryptograph, the secret code. The old age has died, the new one has yet to be born, and meanwhile there are morbid pustules everywhere, a bad case of adolescent acne. An age of nostalgia, confusion, anticipation and fear, a twilight zone, an eve of great upheavals, a jumbled time of contradictory processes. Who will find the right cipher, who will see thirty years into the future, not by means of his fallible intuition but clearly and with scientific certainty...?

In Tel Aviv the hard dry wind still blew. A low, orange sky. The bus let us off in a dark, deserted street near the central station. Used ticket stubs swirled through the darkness. Grains of sand from the Sahara turned to grit between one's teeth. The passengers scattered quickly and were gone. I walked down a street lined with shoe stores, their darkened display windows full of thin, cross-strapped ladies' models, and emerged in the dimly lit square of the station, by felafel stands with their mountains of colorful salads and shuwarma joints with their glowing grills of spitted lamb. On the opposite sidewalk, at platform number three, a small line of travelers waited to board the Jerusalem bus, which was almost full. A short, middle-aged man wearing a striped jacket, elevator heels and a linked chain around his neck stood by a public phone booth, eyeing me with a warm, penetrating glance. May I? I asked. At once he moved aside with a show of deference, measuring me with his eyes. I dialed Tsvi. An unfamiliar, Levantine voice answered politely. Tsvi had stepped out for a moment. Did I wish to leave a message? No, I said, there was nothing special. But who was calling? I told him.

“Ah, you're Dr. Asa Kaminka. How do you do? I'm Tsvi's friend, Refa'el Calderon. Your sister and father telephoned a while ago from Haifa with the latest news. Can I be of any assistance to you? Would you care to stop by and rest up here before going on to Jerusalem?”

The same man who brought Tsvi to see mother yesterday. One more finger in the pie. I hung up.

A dark-complexioned girl in short pants and high-heeled clogs, apparently a whore, was talking in low tones on the street corner to the man from the phone booth, who kept looking at me with a friendly smile. The Jerusalem bus had already left. Waiting for the next one was a lone traveler, a thick-bearded religious man holding a suitcase tied with string. I went to get something to eat and bought myself a felafel and a glass of juice. The short man went on smiling deferentially, never taking his eyes from me. Two grotesquely madeup girls wearing Nite-Glo jerseys and swinging luminescent bags came up to join him. I stood at the felafel stand, garbage cans all around me, sauerkraut dribbling steadily from the overfilled pocket bread, eating savagely, my briefcase between my legs, getting sesame dip all over myself. It was eight o'clock. I hadn't been in Tel Aviv for weeks; why not seize the opportunity to get in touch with some friend, someone I could talk to, bounce ideas off? Suddenly I was in no hurry to get home. I wiped my face with a paper napkin and bought a new pack of cigarettes, hungry for human contact here in this no-man's-land, in this no-time and no-place. In my ever-further-away-from-me native town. I thought for a moment of the lunatics I had braved today, of my newly discovered sangfroid in their presence, of the horribly sweet feeling of that soft blonde spilling over me. Perhaps I should give Stem a ring. An old friend who once had studied with me and was now teaching the same period as I was at the University of Tel Aviv: I could never enjoy a relaxed talk with him when calling long-distance from Jerusalem. I searched for another phone token in my pockets but couldn't find one. Still regarding me cordially, the short man with the link chain took out a handful of tokens and offered me one, firmly refusing to let me pay him for it.

“But that would be an insult...”

He spoke in a low, quiet, knowing voice. A pusher or a pimp? Well, that wasn't my lookout. I went back to the phone and opened the thick, tattered directory that was attached by a heavy chain to the wall. Its back pages were tom or missing. The letter
S
was gone entirely. I let it drop, the chain creaking loudly, took out a cigarette, and fumbled for a match. At once he stepped up to me, whipped out a small lighter, and lit it for me with a bluish flame.

“Are you looking for something? Perhaps I can be of help.”

“No, thanks. The phone book is tom.”

“If it's a girl...”

“Excuse me?”

“I said if it's a girl ...”

“No. It isn't a girl.”

“Because I have another one for you. She's waiting for you there. She's taken a liking to you.”

He pointed to the two whores restlessly swinging their bags.

“No, thank you.”

“She asked me to tell you ... it's just that she's bashful...”

“Thanks anyway.” I smiled. He talked about the two of them as though they were one person.

“If you think she's too tall for you ... or too strong ... if that's it ... then there are other options ...”

He spoke quickly, deftly, in a reasonable, businesslike tone.

“It's not a question of that. At the moment I'm ...”

“Because I have others too. Just tell me what you're looking for ... explain your wish to me ... I've got a big selection around here. I know a sweet,
very
classy young girl who lives right next door ... you might like her ... she's practically still a child ... she may even still be a virgin ... yes, I believe she is ... real class...”

He laid a warm, friendly hand on my shoulder. I gave a start.

“There was something I liked about you as soon as I saw you walk into the station. You only have to say the word to me. Just tell me what you want. Everything is available. Why don't you have a quiet cup of coffee and see what I have to show you?...Where did you say you were going?...The buses run late, I know because I'm always here. And if you miss the last one, I'll bring you home in my own car. Come on ... you only have to look ... let me show you what real service is. There's something about you I like. Don't be scared ... it's all aboveboard ... no obligation, no money down ... I just show you the goods, it doesn't cost you a cent...”

He was quiet, reassuring, trustable. And I was out of time, out of place, plain out of it. Let her wait up for me. She's probably gone to sleep at her parents' anyway.

“At least you'll join me for some coffee?”

“But I'll pay for it.” The words tumbled out by themselves.

He smiled, highly satisfied.

“But of course ... it's your treat ... you're the boss. Don't let me pressure you. I never pressure anyone. It's like window-shopping ... just pretend that you're window-shopping...”

The coffee was served, us at once. I gripped my cup hard, in need of the hot pick-me-up. A small teen-ager ran up to my new friend with some message. Everyone in the café knew him. Bazouki music blared over a radio. He lit a king-sized cigarette and offered me one. I declined. His face was furrowed, with wrinkles. An unplaceable accent. He managed the conversation with me tactfully, reliably.

“Many people can't explain what they want and end up being disappointed. It's not something that can be done just like that, automatically. You have to find the right combo. That's my business. Every dream has its answer. Its fulfillment. Take yourself. You're an intellectual type, I can see that right away. But you're pressed for time. You're in a rush, and so are your thoughts. If you'd just say the word to me ...”

“What's the price nowadays?” My voice sounded foreign to me, squeaky.

“That depends on how long it's for.”

“No, I mean just the usual ...”

“It depends ... whatever you feel like paying...''

“But what's the going rate?”

“Some people give five ...”

“Hundred?”

“Thousand. What's a hundred these days?”

“Five
thousand?”

“But not for you. For you there's no charge. It's on the house. And I have this feeling that she'll go for you ... that you'll make it with her big ...”

And supposing just this once. To prove to myself. Not against her but to realize to help us both. For our future. Our child. Another Jerusalem bus pulled out across the street. A new one pulled in after it and was boarded by a crowd of religious Jews. Whenever I want I simply pay for the coffee, cross the street, and get on it.

A couple entered the café and came over to say hello, a chubby girl dressed in white with short-cropped hair and smiling, mischievous eyes and a tall young man whose hand rested on her shoulder. The girl glanced at me inquisitively, her pants stretched tight over her thighs. The little pimp pulled her toward him and she bent down to kiss him, baring for a moment the dark ivory globes of her breasts, before being led by her partner to a table in the corner. Something about her eyes and short hair sent a stab of pain through me. The young man came back to us and whispered a few words to my companion, who listened judiciously.

“She'll be here soon.... Would you like to drink something stronger in the meantime?”

“No, thanks. I have to be on my way. I'm in a hurry ... I'm afraid you've wasted your time on me...”

“Why worry about it? It's my time. And I've enjoyed spending it with you...''

I noticed him follow my glance to the girl in the corner, who sat smilingly holding her friend's hand and bobbing her head pertly.

“Maybe you like her? Just say the word ... let me know...”

“Who?”

“The one who just said hello to us ... in the corner ...”

“Who?” I tried acting innocent. “Oh, her. Yes, I think she's nice ... but why do you ask?”

His face lit up all at once.

“Very nice! A real personality ... she's a student, you know.” He grasped my hand. “Allow me. You won't regret it. Now I see what your taste is ... you won't 1‹ disappointed ...”

He rose, crossed the room to the chatting couple, made a sign to the girl, and whispered something in her ear. She blushed, taken aback, then glanced my way with her large, gleaming brown eyes and ducked her head shyly. She was gentle, not at all hardened. And yet she was pleased. I caught my breath, the blood pounding away in my heart. My hand shook. I'll punish her. It's my right to. For two years I've begged and gotten nowhere. The pimp came slowly back to me, sat down without a word, and offered me a cigarette. I glanced down and when I looked up again the girl had already slipped out the back door. Her friend had opened an evening paper and was reading it. Across the street the bus was still waiting. Two teen-agers boarded it and then got off again.

Home. She's probably having a fit. Who needs this insanity. And all the money too.

“Come.” He touched me lightly.

I still played innocent. “Where to?”

He threw me a hard look.

“You're just like a child. A stubborn one. Come on, it's only to say hello to her. Just to say hello. To get to know her.”

“Not now ... some other time,” I murmured, rising and putting a friendly arm around him. We stepped outside, pausing in the doorway for him to regard me with a despairing smile.

“Just come say hello to her. She's waiting for you. You can arrange to meet her some other time ... it isn't nice to stand her up ...”

And patiently, expertly, without losing his calm, he steered me into a narrow side street. All at once I was back among the shoe stores, only on the opposite sidewalk. Boots and sneakers filled the dark display windows. In the back of one of the stores a small bulb still burned. We stepped into the hallway of an apartment house. The man pressed the handle of the first door and opened it. “Just say hello to her. Act your age! What are you afraid of? This is strictly on the up-and-up.”

I was in the lit store. I could see myself reflected in its mirrors, thin and gray, the scratch on my face like a string of tiny pearls, my tie over one shoulder, my jacket badly creased. Next to a divan were some inclined stools for trying on shoes and shelves with samples of ladies' footwear. Empty shoe boxes and white tissue paper lay scattered on the floor. Shoes had been sold here a short while ago, there was still a human smell about the place. She stood at the back of it, near the cash register, examining a shoe with a spiked heel. Close up she was not so pretty; her perfume was cheap and there was a small scar by the side of her mouth; but the special charm of her eyes, that humorous gleam, was still there. No choking up this time. Which thought turned to slow desire. She looked at me calmly, tossing her head with a deep, natural grace so unlike the manner of a whore. She sat on the divan, about my age, perhaps a year or two older, and placed one leg on the stool in front of her, her pant bottom rolled up to reveal a plump, smooth, creamy-white foot. I stepped toward her, still holding my black briefcase. She glanced at it with a bright, intelligent look, waiting smilingly for me to put it down. I laid it on the carpet and sat on the stool like a salesman.