“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 p
ad 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.
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.
A Late Divorce Page 13