Divorcing

by Susan Taubes

  Dearest, I hang in the sky. The world has come to an endless stop. My head miles from my crotch—this can’t be Amsterdam. How will I ever find you? The conference isn’t at all what I expected—“Conference on Drugs and Extrasensory Perception” it says on the runner. An ad?

  The hall, oppressively monumental. Imitation of what? Somebody said, imitation. Egypt. Rome, itself an imitation. Train station: Death. When you are not going anywhere. Not leaving or arriving. Turmoil. Are those ticket counters? I hear Spinoza speaking. In Latin, of course, translated into American for my benefit. Incredible the service you get in this century. Simultaneous translation into five hundred and seventy-nine languages. It simply awes me.

  •

  There’s a crowd like at the Préfecture de police. So many heads—is one of them mine? If this is really the Last Judgment—not just the latest Franco-Italian production—the real thing, unrehearsed, as it comes, bound to be bedlam. Refuse to be taken in in spite of preponderance of bearded men and Egyptian décor. Even if it should prove—no, refuse to believe it. If God appears I’ll pretend it’s an actor. More people keep coming in. We must wait. For more people? Not crowded enough?

  We have arrived. People spreading the word. Some monks in white praying silently. I didn’t hear the announcement. This the place. America. The next world. Can’t believe we really arrived. Don’t see Statue of Liberty. Empire State Building. Is this America? Must be the waiting room.

  Gypsies sitting on the ground, playing cards. People are grouped by nationalities, not alphabetically. I see they’ve dressed me as a child in high laced shoes and Tyrolean cape. Everybody filling out forms. I don’t remember anything. Mother’s maiden name. Date and place of father’s birth. Former residence. Name of vessel. Good thing I brought along some books to read. Immigration officer still studying my papers.

  “...why weren’t you in Auschwitz?” he repeats, hard to understand: rats have eaten away half of his face, part of the vocal cords; touchy about it, naturally. Now I see yellow star badge around his arm. A delicate situation. Certainly don’t want him to inspect books I brought. People in group I’m with whisper in my ear different answers, trying to help me. Woman’s voice urging, “Kiss his foot.” I see customs officer delicately extending foot in curved pasha slippers. Afraid slipper will fall off. Kiss his foot, woman hisses in my ear, It’s only a dream. I’m careful not to breathe through my nose. Prepared for everything. Worms.

  Matzah being served, I’m told, and jellied fish. Where? Still preparing. Lot of talk about Messianic Banquet. Roast Leviathan. Always lot of talk. Aren’t they ashamed? There are some Dominicans nearby and a group of Irish immigrants. Now I see the little old man—like the ones in Jerusalem selling kerosene on a donkey—he is offering tidbits on a paper plate. Where is his donkey? Looks like leftovers. Or hors d’oeuvre? Offering it so ceremoniously, I can’t refuse. Tastes like—

  A drug, I knew it. Hate this kind of high. Trying to hear Spinoza on a crazy roller coaster. It’s a guided tour. Guides ranting in different languages, “...and now we come to the furthermost reach...a place referred to by many authors...the fall into the past...” Missed the classical reference. And frankly, the sensation—like when I was little, sitting on the round hole of the outdoor privy—the moment I felt I was falling with it...

  • •

  Counting on miracles of technology somehow this will reach you...A trap, as I suspected. My head on the table (they’ve strapped my legs in some gynecological rig-up). I’m to be subjected to trial—not serious, just disgusted by silliness of it all, more delay and afraid of not holding up, losing my temper (must keep my head)—wish you were here to advise me—confusion and intrigue as usual. The charges, I forget how many, filed by different individuals. Particularly worried about what defense has cooked up (Ezra’s doing, can’t decide if he is mad, stupid or a devil) in way of an insanity plea. Been explained it’s standard form in my situation and have nothing to worry about—said something about extraterritorial rights. Don’t understand. And O.K. if I deny it, more vehemently I deny it, more convincing—not legally responsible, that’s the point, lost my head, head on the table to prove it. Pointless to try to convince them my head even if miles away still connected to my crotch...question on my mind is whether my acquittal depends on confessing the truth or making up a story. Difficult either way. Awful feeling everything I say will be turned against me, including my silence, everything, and that when I try to speak, the words carefully formulated (whole paragraphs like in Spinoza—proposition and axioms), it comes out in grunts and screeches. Ultimate fear that I’m being manipulated, psychedelic drugs, nothing more insidious (have resisted ether, hypnosis, etc.), or just surgeon poking with rubber gloves and instruments up my cunt and ass hole, would explain screaming, blood, grunts but mind lucid as you see writing to you. Must resist fear of being manipulated must absolutely disbelieve, only chance, only hope, legitimate like Pascal’s wager you understand—don’t know how much time I have to prepare, they’re still at preliminaries: screening witnesses, interviewing jurors—you would enjoy some of the characters, old Eastern European types. The whole thing very informal, my father’s been called in to serve as judge. Flew in few hours ago; first thing, before even taking off his hat made his ritual speech, wants everyone in court to hear in presence of his daughter oath of impartiality then some anecdote about how Solomon managed to avoid personal discussion, then his “I knew this would happen” look and talking about his accommodations, food at the hotel, some questioning about what I did with trunk, fur coat, where I was staying, if there was telephone, TV in my room; bluffed my way through that somehow but really terrified. I think he really wants me put away in the “fun house,” as they say in New York, because he kept telling me about this wonderful new loony bin they’re building, with private bathroom, wall-to-wall carpeting (some suites for families, an adjunct experimental school), even concert hall that converts into skating rink (Budapest String Quartet, rock groups booked), whole big center dedicated to him—why is he telling me all this?—really believes in cause, that’s what’s so confusing; they’re all mad and believe they’re doing right. Ezra claims they got hold of my notebooks, diary, letters, may be ruse; sometimes suspect whole trial is his invention to keep me under his thumb; even got my father to cooperate. My one hope is that prosecuting attorney will be sane.

  Wish all this would be over and I could come to you. Miss your letters. Wish I could at least send you an address. (Try Morgue on rue Bobillot or Amsterdam poste restante; maybe Bern would forward—no.) Forgive my frenzy. Not really important. You must have enough to cope with in New York. I shouldn’t be writing you all this. Won’t mail this letter. I’ll manage. Just make your film. Feel much better. Quite calm. Bells calling.

  • • •

  They want me to testify. Everything so efficiently organized here. My head far away on the president’s table. Reading paper. Mistake to think God old-fashioned. No difference between inside and outside. Distinction even in the mind based on matter. It’s simple what my world is now, as simple as—

  My name? Don’t confuse me.

  Miles of ticker tape curling from my mouth. Floor littered. A news office? Oh, they’ve plugged my nerve ends in an intercontinental—can’t read label but it’s...it’s lovely, lovely. Messages from all over and under the world—larvae at sea bottom, maggots deep in the earth, a flying seed. God.

  It’s unimportant; still, you could have the courtesy to translate me...

  Coherent discourse? How do you expect me—? Begin to explain now in my present state of decomposition?...Having begun at different points accounts...No, nothing accounts. Totally unjustified. Incomprehensible. Absurd. You can’t imagine how horrible— No, not the pain, not the— Ice water? No thank you. I wasn’t like this before. I won’t say I was perfect, maybe not all of a piece, still, however elliptical, at least I was neat—I managed somehow, as you can see...plurality of parallel existe
nces...not my words...thought I put it in different books—not the case...What do you expect on this planet mud?...all human bumbling programmed billion light years ago in pseudo-substance as predicted in the Pistis Sophia...not my opinion. I have no opinion. Personal what? What personal? Don’t understand the question unless you mean the legal person, but you have all my papers, passport, carte de séjour, insurance policy, my naturalization papers, birth certificate, my grades and medical reports through grammar school, chest X-ray, you have my body—you can assess its condition better than I—almost forgot my publications, of course; college papers, dissertation, etc., on file; have your secretary look up suitcase full of notes left with...Can’t expect me to remember everything. Must repeat have nothing personal to declare, everything about myself is public, you have it. I’m telling you you have all the baggage. What comes to me through this apparatus—whatever you call it, self, ego, brain, don’t know the latest jargon—this is not the moment to split hairs; I can only name you the pieces, already in your possession...for all I know they lie on the dissecting table in their proper place, or side by side like automobile parts: the four limbs together, the skin carefully folded, the glands in a separate bowl—not conversation for the table? Sorry. Didn’t see them bring in the trays...as for the actual memories asked for, the original imprint can’t be removed. Everything I’m telling you, the words, gentlemen, language is your gift, I thank you for it, indebted, your humble daughter, etc. The matter, what my sponges have sucked up? My membranes? The matter...Where my voice comes from? Of body awareness only my cunt curiously, a hole, a nothing, a negativum—it was you who just remarked, waste to give vision drug to women, all they feel is their cunt...I’m only repeating. But who am I talking to? Earphones. The conference, of course. You know what I mean—in any museum with a good Greek section you can see it painted on vases, something in the shape of a winged little man, or bird, or insect, shown flying from the mouth or ear of the deceased—psyche. Perhaps I was never much more ever—

  Gentlemen, why are you so old and ugly? Good grief, if I should need further proof that this whole thing is a fraud, it’s your presence. You who said we’d meet in the next world. Afterlife, soul, Judgment, God, One People, One Law: never believed a word of it. So now. Greatly regret, infinitely sorry, unspeakably ashamed of stupidities I got enmeshed in by some particle of belief in your lies. Enough...The fact that you invade my privacy, sprout in my dreams, however unpleasant, debilitating, more proof that this is not the true death here with you. When I’m truly dead, my friends, I won’t see you standing around me. I will find a way out, I’ll get back my arms and limbs, my head, even my heart, I’ll find it whatever you’ve done with it.

  “I UNDERSTAND it must be very difficult for you,” the man with the drooping walrus moustache murmurs sympathetically.

  “How do you mean?” she asks mistrustfully. The moustache gives him a pleasant bearish aspect and the smell of his cracked leather jacket is positively reassuring. But dare any man presume to fathom just how difficult her life is; can a man know? Does she want him to know?

  “A woman with your potentialities,” he proclaims wide-eyed, his arms outthrown to illustrate her far-flung positions. “You are not one but many women. You’ve got a fantastic problem between Spinoza and being a playgirl in Acapulco,” he exclaims. “How will you resolve this?”

  She senses her peril. In a minute he will make the initial move to resolve this conflict for her which she cannot, which no woman alone can resolve for herself.

  “It’s no problem. I told you I am writing a novel. The truth of the matter is that I’ve never read Spinoza.”

  “Baby, I saw your publications on display in the lobby, but it’s understandable that you should want to deny it; the conflict between your intellectual passion and your femininity, just as I was telling you. It’s obvious you’re worried I’m less attracted to you because you read Spinoza.”

  “I swear to God I’ve never read Spinoza. As for my degrees and publications—ancient history. If you must know, my husband made me do it.”

  “How?”

  “I was in a state of physical bondage.”

  “He screwed you so silly you wrote a dissertation?”

  “That’s right; I didn’t care. I wanted to live in a kibbutz and pick oranges. So he made me read Marx. I didn’t agree with Marx so he made me read Kierkegaard and all the German romantics and mystics—that’s how I got involved in philosophy. I know I was a fool; I should have said Eckhart fits me to a ‘T’ and I would have had my peace. Look, I’ll admit Kant turned my head as a freshman in college, but already in my junior year—”

  “Darling, stop trying so hard. You realize all this talk is very sexy.”

  “The point is I find a woman who can take philosophy seriously after twenty-five pathetic.”

  “Then you’re saying that women are intrinsically superior to men.”

  “Not at all. Men are superior to women in practically any field you can name—philosophy, military science, music. But every sensible woman knows au fond that the things men do are stupid; she can’t take them seriously; part of men’s charm is that they pursue these things seriously, so we encourage them, then men call us a civilizing influence.”

  “Baby, culture stinks. Let’s screw.”

  “No, you’re too cynical.”

  “I hope you know you’re crazy, darling,” he remarks kindly. “I’ve been listening to you for ten hours and it’s obvious from every word you say. Don’t look so unhappy—it’s not your fault,” he continues pleasantly, rolling a cigaret. “My wife is crazy, did I tell you that?”

  “You talk exactly like my father and my husband. It’s the one thing I can’t stand.”

  “Of course, you told me you had a Freudian papa—forgive me darling—that must really be hard. You realize you’ve really had it, baby?”

  “All joking aside, I want to know where I am.”

  “Darling, you’re in a state. You haven’t been screwed in the last ten hours; you’re in a state, that’s all. My dear, it must be this hashish. Suddenly I can’t think of your name. Don’t tell me. I know it. It will come back in a minute. Sarah!”

  “That’s interesting, a few days before I died someone said that ought to be my name.”

  “I told you this hash is fantastic. Let me guess again. Ridiculous. Your husband’s name is Blind—and you’re going to keep it?”

  “A souvenir,” she shrugs, smiling. “Like from the war. Call it a misadventure. Still a ten-year stretch of my life.”

  “Blind. Blind. Miriam. I got it! That’s it, isn’t it Miriam.”

  “No, the name of the heroine of my first novel.”

  “I have one more guess. Of course: Sophie. Sophie Blind.”

  “That’s really strange.”

  “True?”

  “No, but it’s just the right name for the character I want to write about in my new novel.”

  “Listen there is nothing like this hash—I told you. Darling, take me to your room and I’ll screw you.”

  “I can’t. I’m not in love with you. But I’m sure there are a lot of pretty girls who want to be screwed. Why don’t you try the ballroom?”

  “Darling, I’m too tired for that. I can’t be bothered with girls—it’s a whole operation; they want to dance, they want a Big Thing—please stop giving me the old nonsense. I just want to screw you and go to sleep. Look, we got to get out of here, the chars are coming.”

  “I can’t imagine making love the way things are.”

  “I know you’re in a mess. We’re all in a mess,” he sighs, his arm around her shoulder, leaning on her unsteadily as they walk down the thickly carpeted corridor. She stops to look at a bulletin board announcing the events of the week.

  “You’re worried about missing something important?” he asks, drawing her away. “I’m telling you everybody important
will be at the party. We have time to screw—one hour exactly. I need three hours sleep, five hours to wake up, I can prepare my speech on the way. I’ve got to speak to an audience of five thousand; televised, of course. Haven’t even begun to think about it. Stop worrying and take my advice. We go to bed and to the party, O.K.? And don’t tell me you’re tired. I haven’t slept for three nights.”

  “I’m involved in litigations; I have to face a jury,” she protests.

  “You’ll tell me all about it in bed.”

  “How do I know you’re not one of the jury or a witness for the prosecution?”

  “All the more reason you should take me to your room. You realize you’re being very selfish. It doesn’t occur to you to think of the risks I’m running. Don’t you know everything is forgiven a woman?”

  “It’s this room,” she says turning on the light.

  “You don’t mind if I lean my head on you. I must sleep a little.”

  “Johann, listen.”

  “Baby, I’ve been listening eleven hours now.”

  “I don’t care what you think, I want to know what’s going to happen.”

  “If we don’t go to bed, nothing will happen. Darling, you think I’m joking but it’s a very serious matter,” he says flopping on her bed. “You know the story of the Viennese opera singer who couldn’t make the high C unless she was screwed five minutes before. They always had at least three studs prepared for her in the wings. It was public knowledge. Darling, I only want to help you.”

  “Seriously,” she asks, “what’s wrong with me?”

  “Just one thing,” he gurgles under his Nietzsche moustache, pulling her down on the bed, “the simple fact that you were not born in 1890.”