He shook his head, red-eyed with tears that still wet his cheeks. Suddenly he remembered to say:
“I wanted to wish you a happy Passover. And what lovely spring weather it is ... winter is finally over...”
“Where will you be for the seder?” I asked.
He glanced at Tsvi. “I don’t know yet.”
“At home,” declared Tsvi sharply. “You’ll be at home. Haven’t you gotten that into your head yet?”
“Yes,” he sighed, looking back and forth between the two of us. “I suppose I’ll be at home.” He gripped his book while stealing a glance at mine. And again he recalled something:
“Mr. Kaminka told me that on your mother’s side ... that you ... I mean, that you have a bit of us in you...”
“A bit of who?”
“Of Abrabanel.” He pronounced the name grandly. “That you’re part Abrabanel ... I mean that you have their blood...”
When did they meet and what made Yehuda tell him about Grandmother Abrabanel?
“He was very glad to hear that we’re part Sephardi,” explained Tsvi.
“Does that seem important to you?” I asked softly.
He squirmed redly. “It’s another way of looking at yourselves ... a different bloodline ... the Abrabanels are of very fine stock. Of course, it’s not literally the blood ... I don’t believe in that ... it’s something intangible...”
He glanced at Tsvi with such deep love that it appalled me. Tsvi smiled mockingly back. And just then I saw her pass quickly by above the treetops. I felt a splitting pain in my head and made a face.
“Is anything wrong?” both asked at once.
“No. Nothing.”
“Well, we’d better be off,” said Tsvi. “If you’re not home soon, they really will murder you.”
“Let them,” said Calderon with a wry smile.
Tsvi kissed me warmly and said once more, “I’m glad that it’s over with.” And again I felt that he had left something unsaid. They got into the car, waving goodbye as it turned, and drove off to the east. My clear head was muddled now; it ached all over and things in the distance went fuzzy. The white car headed down the road—and then, by the railroad tracks, in the wet jungle of weeds, someone went flying, a dress shot up in the air, and the car stopped and drove back in reverse. Tsvi jumped out while it was still moving and ran up to me. “Mother, perhaps I should keep those papers that father gave you. It’s better not to leave them in the hospital. Someone might take them and lose them.”
So that’s what he had wanted to say all along. Perhaps even why he had come. “Who will take them?” I asked, not showing him my feelings, my eyes on the jungle of weeds. And he said, “But that’s our only document of ownership for the house. Perhaps I should put it in my safe-deposit box because legally it’s all we have ... so that if we ever should want to...” “Want to what?” I asked. “...It doesn’t matter. Whatever. Father won’t be here, and ...” He was breathing heavily, afraid he had said the wrong thing. “It wasn’t my idea. It was Calderon’s. He’s an old hand at these things.” But although I didn’t say so I knew that he was lying and that the idea wasn’t Calderon’s. And then all at once, smiling sadly, he relented. Far away a dog barked. “Did you know,” I said, “that the dog still hasn’t come back?” His arms dangled helplessly. “Yes. I heard. That Kedmi is a bastard. But Horatio has run away before and always returned.” “Never for so long, though,” I said. “Perhaps tomorrow you should look for him.” “All right,” he promised. “We’ll do that.” He hugged me again. “You look wonderful. It’s done you a world of good already.” And he gave me a last kiss. Even in the worst of times he was never afraid to kiss me, to hold me tight, to calm and comfort me.
The gate swung open and I walked back in. Only Musa and Yehezkel, who felt greatly relieved that Tsvi hadn’t taken me, were still waiting. We walked up the path that went past the closed ward and saw the three strange children still playing fearlessly under the stares from behind the bars. We passed the library, whose door was partly open because I hadn’t locked it properly. Something made me want to go inside. A sweet, burned smell hung over the dim room. The reddish light glanced off the rows of books covered with brown wrapping paper and off the dirty teacups and the plate of crackers that still lay on the table. The flowers I had put everywhere this morning were still there too, just softer-looking now, their heads bowed. A hard crust of dried mud covered the floor, which was littered with cigarette butts and a black paper skullcap, while a pair of sunglasses had been forgotten on one of the shelves. I took them and put them on, turning the world a dull brownish gray. This morning the sharp light was as harsh as splinters of broken glass. And since then no one had been in here, everyone was busy preparing for the holiday. I put the flowers on a tray, carried them outside, and handed them to Yehezkel. Then I shut the door, locking it with the key I still had in my pocket, and threw the flowers on the ground with its trampled grass and the tire tracks of the taxi. I had waited by the door for Yehuda to come since early morning. At dawn I was up and around in my white smock, picking flowers and arranging them inside, setting out the teacups and watering around the cottage, which I suddenly noticed was not at all straight but oval with crooked walls. I had my papers in the pocket of my smock and was all there: I never remember feeling so together before. And I was alone because the day nurse, Avigayil, who had been supposed to help me, never appeared for some reason. At eight o’clock the black taxi arrived, cutting like a boat between the lawns, its wheels spraying mud, until Yehuda mistakenly stopped it a hundred meters away. He climbed out of it first, dressed in a dark suit, and led the rabbis to the library, picking his way between the puddles, blinded by the strong sun, sinking into the mud, fording swarms of little insects that flew about newly generated from the light. One of the men, an old Yemenite with a slight limp and a plastic carrying case, rushed spryly ahead, jabbing his cane in the ground and bending now and then to sniff some flower or pluck the leaf of some plant and crush it between his fingers. After him came round, jolly Rabbi Mashash, who had been to see me several times before, carefully guiding a thin old man in black clothes and dark sunglasses, while slowly bringing up the rear was an odd-looking person in a long, tawny army greatcoat and a visored cap. I hurried to greet them, feeling a twinge when I saw how pale Yehuda looked: this was the third time this week that I had seen him, and each time he looked paler than before. The Yemenite bowed as though performing a lively dance step and shook my hand with a smile before darting quickly into the cottage. I followed him inside and Yehuda ushered in the two older rabbis while the younger one—who had a head of golden curls and a complexion that, though red from the warmth of the woolen scarf around his neck, was as smooth as a girl’s—lingered to kiss the mezuzah in the doorway and then entered hesitantly too. I watched the clean floor turn to muck in no time. The men were amazed at how much mud fell from their shoes and made an effort to clean it up. “Never mind,” I said to them while they took off their hats, put on skullcaps, wiped their perspiring faces, and exclaimed at the abundance of flowers in the small room. “Never mind.” Then Rabbi Mashash introduced his companions. The oldest was Rabbi Avraham Avraham; next came the Yemenite scribe, Rabbi Korach; and last was Rabbi Subotnik, a new immigrant from Russia, a scholarly prodigy straight from a forced-labor camp.
“Are you here by yourself?” asked Rabbi Mashash. “Well, no matter. Dr. Ne’eman said he’d try to make it, but we won’t bother waiting for him.” Straightaway they began to rearrange the room, moving about chairs, putting the table in a corner, and seating Rabbi Avraham there by a window. The Yemenite scribe made room on it for his implements, paused to sniff some flowers before placing them on the floor, took out several bundles wrapped in large handkerchiefs from his plastic case, undid the knots, and produced an inkpot and some quills. Yehuda helped while the Russian remained by the door, his large blue eyes scanning the room suspiciously, his hands on the scarf still wound around his neck, as though uncertain whether
to remove it. And then all at once he spoke, in a soft, melodic voice, with a terribly thick Russian accent.
“But where is she?”
“Where is who?” asked father.
“Your wife. The woman getting divorced.”
“My wife? She’s right here.”
“Her?” asked the Russian in amazement, pointing at me. He had been sure that I was a nurse and that the real wife would be dragged in any minute screaming and tied to a chair, drooling and letting her head loll. “This is her?” he asked again slowly, with disbelief.
“Of course,” put in Rabbi Mashash quickly, wiping away his perspiration, his cheeks ruddily blotched. “Of course it is. This is Mrs. Kaminka. Who did you think it was?”
He continued to wrestle with the flowers while, still on the threshold, Rabbi Subotnik threw me a sharp, annoyed glance as though he were the victim of a swindle. Yehuda helped the rabbis out of their coats. “Whew ... it’s hot in here ... a real spring day ...” came their low voices while he bowed and scraped before them. When I went to pour the tea, though, he was suddenly in my way, pulling out my glass case from his pocket and murmuring, “Here, Ya’el had them fixed for you. Now you can read again.” He handed me a brown envelope from which he took a typed letter. “And this is the house waiver that you asked for. Everything is signed, exactly as you wished.” He ran a long finger down the printed lines, talking in a heated whisper. “Here.” He took out some more documents. “This is a power of attorney that I’ve given Asa. If there are any problems, he can act in my place.”
“Asa?” I marveled. “Why Asa? Why not Ya’el?”
“Because I didn’t want Kedmi butting in again,” he answered quickly. “Asa is the stablest of them all. The sanest.”
The papers made a rustling sound. I could actually smell his fear. How lucky that she isn’t here now, I thought, if she were she’d have a fit. “Why are you so pale?” I asked. He smiled bitterly. And then suddenly we felt how silent it was and saw the four of them watching us in wonder.
A Passover, a pastoral divorce, just a few hours before the seder, in the library of a rustic madhouse purposely garnished by me with flowers and greenery. The Yemenite finished arranging his quills and parchment and rolled himself a cigarette of greenish tobacco while gazing curiously out the window with his shrewd eyes, excited to be in an insane asylum. Rabbi Mashash handed out copies of our file, his jolly roundness filling the room, keen to get through with the ceremony in a hurry. “Professor Kaminka,” he called warmly to Yehuda, who winced at the words, making me wonder whether he had really been promoted in America or was simply trying to impress them. I passed among them pouring the tea while he followed me with spoons and sugar, offering them the crackers as though they were guests in our house. At first they balked, glancing at their watches to see if there was still time to eat leavened food, but in the end they each took a cracker, careful to keep the crumbs off their clothes. The Russian sat in a corner with his coat on, smelling unwashed; he had just taken hold of his teacup between two fingers in the ancient way, blown on it, and broken into a blessing in his slow, melodic voice when the door opened and a young woman I didn’t know, no doubt from the closed ward, came in with a book. I supposed she must have seen that the library door was open and hurried over to exchange it. At a loss, the men looked at me but I said nothing, not even when father rose to stop her. She slipped quickly past him into the room, and I knew at once that she had a double, that there wasn’t one of her but two, and that, though she knew she mustn’t come in, it was her double who had made her, who was now forcing her to simper and circle among us as tiny as a bird, studying the rows of books and touching them lightly while glancing at us over her shoulder. Suddenly she said in a violent whisper, “Get your hands off of me, you infantile jerk!” Everyone froze, except for the Yemenite, whose eyes sparkled with mirth. Yehuda made a move to restrain her but I put a hand on him because I knew that her double wouldn’t stand for it. Finally she took a book down from a shelf, glanced at it, threw it on the floor as though we weren’t there, and fled from the room with an obscene bump and grind.
The Yemenite was enraptured. Like a child he laughed merrily and even went to the window to watch her walk away. Rabbi Mashash, though, was annoyed. “This will never do. Perhaps we had better close the door, because we haven’t much time and we’ll never finish like this. I told Dr. Ne’eman that we needed a quiet place ... well, never mind. Let’s begin. First, gentlemen, we will identify the divorcing couple.”
They opened their files for an identity check. First they asked for our fathers’ and mothers’ names, then for the names of their parents, and then for their dates and places of birth.
“Since everything is in order, Rabbi Korach,” declared Rabbi Mashash, “you can begin to write the divorce.”
But just then the young Russian—who had said nothing so far and had not even opened his file but had simply sat staring at me—rose from his place and said:
“One small moment. Not to rush, please. We must not go against law.”
And turning to Yehuda, he requested him to leave the room.
“But what is the matter?” Rabbi Mashash angrily protested. “What’s wrong?”
“I want to ask something the wife by herself,” said the Russian in his thickly accented, odd, melodious Hebrew. He took father by the arm and opened the door for him. “Please, one moment outside.” Something hard and domineering seemed to emanate from the gently bright-curled figure.
“But what’s wrong?” asked the other rabbis. “What is it you want? Why don’t you ask us first?”
He insisted, though, humming some biblical verse and repeating the name of some rabbinical authority. Yehuda grew alarmed. “All right,” he said. “All right. I’ll leave.” The door shut behind him while Rabbi Mashash and Rabbi Avraham jumped angrily up and glared at the troublemaker, moving back and forth in the room like the black hands of a clock, one big and one small, while he, a thin, light second hand, stood still and stared at me.
“I did not think that she ... that you, madame ... was in condition ... that madame was so normal. I was said no choice in matter. But me, I see choice. In no circumstance ... if mind is free ... madame understands ... she has right too, even in asylum ... if madame says I do not sign ... here is not Russia ... here is no... nu ...coercion...”
By now Rabbi Mashash was furious.
“Coercion? There’s been no coercion here, Rabbi Subotnik. What are you talking about? Mrs. Kaminka signed of her own free will. It was her decision. I beg of you. What are you trying to do? She herself asked him to come from America ... you’re putting us in an impossible position ... an impossible light ... everything has already been seen to ... we’ve given our word of honor ... Rabbi Vital himself gave us his blessing...”
He turned excitedly to old Rabbi Avraham, who, hidden behind his dark sunglasses, had begun to bite his nails worriedly.
But the Russian didn’t turn to look at them. With great dignity he bore down on me in his heavy Red Amy coat whose big copper buttons bore the head of an eagle, his ritual fringes hanging down to his knees underneath it. He couldn’t have been much older than Asi. A smooth, unlined face. A fanatic.
“Is you here ... is you asked ... but why? What difference it makes if she... nu, you, madame ... is in this place anyway ... and not young no more too... nu ...”
He turned red, flustered, his broken, melodious Hebrew tripping him up. Yehuda had talked just like that when he first came to this country.
“But he’s going to have a baby soon,” I said.
“Baby? Where is baby?”
“In America.”
That lit a fire under him. He turned angrily, sarcastically, to the others.
“Nu. So now we have little bastard on our hands.” He thumped the file that he held. “Here says nothing of it...”
“Rabbi Subotnik!” Rabbi Mashash was shouting now, pulling at the heavy greatcoat. “Explain yourself!”
But t
he Russian shook himself free and went on leaning tautly over me, so close I could feel his breath.
“Mrs. Kaminka! Never mind bastard ... are many, will be one more ... everywhere is same big mess ... but marriage is holy ...”
He was crimson now.
“Holy for whom?” I asked calmly.
“For whom?” For a moment he was taken aback. “Nu, for God, of course...” He said the word very gently.
At last. It was time. My anger hummed inside me. I had to force myself not to choke on the torrent of words that poured out of me.
“God what are you talking about who is that?”
“Excuse me?”
“I don’t want to hear another word about it. Not another meaningless word. Please understand that God means less than nothing to me. I don’t want to hear another word about it.”
Old Rabbi Avraham sat up stiffly and buried his face in his hands. As red as a beet now himself, Rabbi Mashash assailed the Russian, who retreated a step with a smile.
“Rabbi Subotnik! That will be enough. How do you think you’re making us look? There’s a procedure to be followed here. There’s a presiding judge. I ask you to keep your philosophy out of it.”
He stepped hastily over to me and steered me to the door. “Mrs. Kaminka, there’s been a small misunderstanding. We’ll continue soon. Please wait outside for a minute.”
He led me out into the strong sunlight, closing the door after me. Father was sitting on a rock to one side, smoking. “What’s going on?” he asked. If only he would have taken me in his arms now. It was too much to ask. And yet he did that first day, and with such unexpected warmth. “What’s going on?” His anxiety was growing. “What do they want?”
The sound of shouts and of someone thumping on the table reached us from behind the door. Father hurried to it just as it opened again.
“Professor Kaminka, come in for a minute. By yourself, please.” It was Rabbi Mashash, who gave me a dirty look as he pulled father inside.
My headache felt like an omen, like the first sign of an approaching illness. The words I had managed to get out at last clung like foam to my lips. Inside the cottage the voices grew dim. The young rabbi was examining father now, fighting to save our marriage.
A Late Divorce Page 33