“Professor? Of what?...America? Where?”
Yehuda’s deep voice answered softly, in that enchanting way of his, while Rabbi Mashash kept intervening and trying to calm the young Russian down. Smoke rose from the hospital kitchen, drifting up into the brightening glare of the sky, and someone stirred in the clump of trees where Yehezkel and his band were watching us. Someone else was there too, a stranger I couldn’t place, someone made of branches and leaves. Was it her again? I couldn’t believe it. A sudden silence came over the library. Even the whispers had stopped. If only Avigayil were with me. I walked around the cottage, through the high weeds, until I came to the open window and saw father without his jacket, his tie loose, baring his chest while Rabbi Mashash pointed something out to the young Russian and Rabbi Korach rose curiously to look too. I shut my eyes and bit my lips, sinking down on a stoop by the path. After a while the door opened and father was sent back outside. He threw me a tense, angry look, keeping away from me, glancing despairingly at his watch, oblivious of the crisp morning, of the sun and the flowering earth.
“Who asked you about a baby? But you, you had to go tell them ...”
A faint smile of contempt flecked his face.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize that ...”
“Never mind,” he interrupted.
“...they didn’t know.”
He turned toward me angrily. “Didn’t know what? I don’t know what baby you’re talking about. Because there isn’t any ... His voice grew shrill, as though he were crying inside. “Can’t you see whom you’re dealing with? Why complicate things even more when I’ve given you everything as it is? Damn it all ... it’s all so humiliating...”
His despair was making him cruel. He was afraid that it would all fall through.
“Maybe I should try explaining to them...” I tried to rise but could not. I felt as though a stone weighed me down.
“Don’t. You’ll only make it worse. That Russian rabbi is a nut. He turns every word against you.”
I said nothing. I sat with my white smock covering the stoop, cradling my knees, listening to the birds and to the sounds of the awakening hospital, to the tenor voice of the Russian striving fiercely in its pathetic Hebrew to rise above the wheedling tones of Rabbi Mashash: a strange, antisocial man, fighting to save our marriage for reasons known only to himself. Father fell silent, a handsome but weak, degenerate intellectual, straining to hear while his hands went through the pockets of his jacket and his pants, taking out and putting back his passport, his plane tickets, his documents, his wads of money, distractedly rummaging through the mountains of paper he had with him. For a moment our eyes met. Inside the library the voice of the vainly battling Russian was losing ground, while that of the Yemenite, who had entered the fray now too, rose in a keen yodel. Yehuda took out a cigarette and lit it nervously, blind to the world, to the trees, to the hospital, to the sky, fumbling aimlessly, buttoning his shirt which he had noticed was still open, drifting ever further away from me. And I thought, this will be my last picture of him.
“You know, I’m probably the only one who’s never seen that scar you show to everyone.”
He heard me unwillingly. “What?” he asked, turning hotly toward me.
“You’re leaving soon and I’ll never see you again. And that scar you have from then ... from me ... I’ve never seen it ...”
He was annoyed. “It doesn’t matter. Why should you want to see it? Let me be, Naomi.”
“I’m the only one who hasn’t seen it. Tsvi said you show everyone. So why shouldn’t I see it too?”
“Please, not now.” His voice was entreating. “Some other time. Just let me be.”
“But when? We’ll never meet again.”
“Of course we will. Why shouldn’t we? I’ll be back ... there are the children ... after all, they belong to us both ...”
But I was tired, impatient. “Show it to me!”
He sensed the threat in my voice, my terrible lust to see it, and debated only briefly before almost gladly yielding. Quickly he unbuttoned his shirt again and showed me in the glaring light the chest I knew so well and had forgotten, with its curly gray hairs and its large, pale mole. Across it ran a hooked line like a reddish beak. A near miss, a swooning memory. Not where I’d meant it to be, he had dodged at the last second.... He stood there looking at me quietly, already rebuttoning his shirt. All at once he focused on me sharply, his face lit by that ironic, knowing smile of his.
“But you really did want to kill me!”
He wasn’t asking. He was simply musing out loud, struck by the thought.
“Yes,” I said quickly, a sweet, dry taste in my mouth.
“But why?”
“Because you disappointed me.”
He ran a hand through his hair, content with my answer as though it had confirmed some deep inner truth of his own. With a start I saw her soar through the smoke above the kitchen roof, a small satchel strapped to her back. But just then the door opened and Rabbi Mashash stepped out in his starched white shirt sleeves and invited us back in with open arms. The room was full of smoke. Steam still rose from the electric kettle and a chair lay on its side. Everyone was on edge. As soon as we entered, the ceremony began. Rabbi Mashash read the bill of divorce out loud while the Yemenite scribe at the table copied the words with his quill at breakneck speed. Then Rabbi Mashash led me to a corner and led father to another one near the Russian, who stood crestfallenly by the window. The text was read back to us, after which it was passed around to be signed and handed to father. And then the Yemenite hastened to cup my two hands, the parchment flew through the air and swooped down into them like a small dove, some prayer was growled loudly, and I was divorced.
The Russian opened the door, letting a burst of bright light flood the room, and fled outside, the tails of his army coat flapping behind him, while the Yemenite scribe retied his implements in bundles, Rabbi Mashash went about collecting papers, old Rabbi Avraham groped his way to the exit, and Yehuda approached me with an anguished look. All at once I felt that he could not bear to part from me.
“Mr. Kaminka,” they called to him. “There’s still a seder to get to today.”
He wavered uncertainly. “Perhaps I’ll stay on for a while.”
“You can’t,” said the Yemenite, plucking him by the sleeve. “It’s forbidden for you two to be together now.”
What a softy he suddenly seemed, a desperate old man trying to shake my hand.
“Did I tell you that I’ve given Asi power of attorney in case any problem comes up?”
He pulled loose from the Yemenite’s grasp, wanting to say more.
“Well, so you had your way in the end ...”
I didn’t answer him. But to myself I thought, why, I’ll never see him again, he’ll really vanish for good now. I was sure that was so. And already they were dragging him swiftly outside, where they sank again into the weeds and wet earth that I had watered in the morning, running into Dr. Ne’eman and Avigayil, who were rushing to get to my divorce. Dr. Ne’eman shook the rabbis’ hands and roared at one of his own jokes, while Avigayil hurried breathlessly into the library to join me.
“I was afraid we wouldn’t make it,” she said.
“It’s already over with,” I answered, tossing her the parchment.
“What’s over with?” she asked. And then all of a sudden she understood and threw her arms around me. “It really is over with? What a crazy day this has been...”
“Come, it’s begun already.”
He tries getting me up lured by my new freedom in the moonlight-silvering dark. Musa too stomps into the ward bumping into all the beds. Yehezkel pulls one of his fainting fits. He falls to the floor he won’t open his eyes he says he won’t move. And Musa begins to groan again that they’re eating already.
I rise from my bed still wearing the white smock over my cotton dress. “All right,” I say, “I’ll walk you as far as the dining room.” They walk on either side as though
carrying me while I glide down the path with my book. There is a fresh chill in the air. We pass by the library. A light is on as though someone were waiting inside. I can feel my heart catch but I must go in. The door I had locked is open again the cups are all gone but the floor is still caked with the hard crust of mud the weak light shining on the rude brown curds. How awfully sad. The last vestige of a marriage that here came to an end. He had wanted to ask me something and they took him away. An overflowing ashtray lies on the table a large ink-stained piece of paper sticking out of it. It’s from the first agreement that Kedmi brought me that father tore to shreds why right here is where Asi stood hitting himself. Behind me Yehezkel and Musa are waiting like statues once more they start to whine that it’s beginning that the singing has started already. Yehezkel turns out the light silhouetting the windows burnished in a glitter of glass-frosted smoke beyond them I see the lights of nearby villages a dog barks far away. Can it be? Already she stands by the hospital gate wrinkled and tanned with her olive green rucksack high hiking boots on her feet neither hunger nor thirst searching for me on her way to me. I want to go hide beneath a blanket but they drag me back to the path that leads to the lit-up dining room joining us on it is a large group of doctors and nurses Dr. Ne’eman too with his great bellylaugh and demoniacally the visored cap of the young Russian rabbi that Subotnik he’s back again there’s no mistaking his voice he’s still in his heavy Red Army coat. They hurry past us and disappear through the large door of the dining room that’s as far as I want to go. “Leave me here,” I murmur but Yehezkel won’t hear of it if I don’t come to the seder he’ll faint again he’ll drop dead right here on the floor. Musa is drawn to the smell of the food but he’s bound to Yehezkel too he doesn’t dare enter without him. And so I’m swept inside with them into the singing the noise the confusion the tables arranged in a large square and covered with stiffly laundered sheets turned blue from too much starch the stacks of matzos flaking plumily at their browned edges and crackling quietly to themselves the large labelless bottles filled not with wine but with some yellowish glowing freshly-squeezed-looking liquid the patients the nurses the office personnel sitting in groups and making a noise like the sea. At one table dressed in their holiday best are the three children who played today on the lawn their hair slicked and combed. Beside them sits their mother a young rather pretty woman looking bewilderedly around her while her American doctor husband a newcomer to the staff converses gaily this may be their first seder in Israel. And now everyone stands up as though in my honor in my cotton everyday dress beneath my white smock holding my book in one hand the divorcee the divorcer. But it’s only the rabbi signaling them to rise he’s risen too his glance resting tensely on me his bright blue eyes know who I am. He balances his cup between two fingers as he did this morning all at once his strong mellow tenor voice rings out in the blessing over the wine.
“Blessed art thou O Lord our God, King of the Universe...”
But now a nurse hurries up to big portly Dr. Ne’eman who stops the rabbi and whispers into his ear. A side panel opens and into the dining room come the patients from the closed ward nearly a dozen of them I’ve never seen before escorted by a young doctor and two nurses. Tense and bowed they move in a diagonal line led by a short very squinty-eyed redhead of maybe forty a fireball on his feet dragging the others heavily after him how awfully depressed they seem looking over their shoulders halting in a daze and lurching forward again their skullcaps in their hands the dining hall electric with their invisible split selves all packed into one room as though not twelve but a hundred of them had marched in rattling their chains. The staff helps seat them at a table and fills their glasses. Again the signal is given and the Russian raptly shuts his eyes he too is moved by the occasion perhaps it’s his first seder here too. Once more his strong tenor voice rings out.
“Blessed art thou 0 Lord our God, King of the Universe, who hath chosen us among the nations, and exalted us above all tongues, and sanctified us with His commandments ...”
Someone screams. The redhead has slipped away from his restrainers and jumped on a table squinting at us all with a beaming festive cross-eyed ecstasy. In no time he’s pulled down and dragged outside a sparking shrieking fireball his harsh muffled sobs like the grunts of some wild beast can still be heard. Rabbi Subotnik has turned pale. He starts the blessing all over the kiddush cup poised between his fingers while everyone rises again. Except me. I stay seated and open my book how I hate the words of the blessing I won’t wait for it to be done before I drink the sweetish juice in my cup has some wine mixed in with it after all. Now everyone sits and the little boy gets up. He faces his family and recites the Four Questions in a heavy American accent as though the words were stones in his mouth but with blind confidence not knowing what they mean pulled through in one almost show-offy breath by the anxious love of his brother and sister without a single mistake while the dining room gasps in amazement and breaks into applause when he’s done. He makes a loathsome rehearsed bow and the Russian tenor rings out again hushing the babble of voices. “For slaves were we to Pharaoh in Egypt, and God redeemed us from there with a strong hand and outstretched arm...” But at once the murmurs and laughter resume I see her face now by the window how thirsty she suddenly is. Overcome with longing I rise Yehezkel rising with me. I try making him sit again but the thirst is too much for me I take the bottle and put it to my lips I guzzle from it greedily while the rabbi goes on ranting we were slaves...
He stood on the watered earth, amidst the rotting leaves, by a strip of growing grass, bathed in the sharp, splintery light of the violent spring’s flaming sun, the cuffs of his pants stained with mud, too occupied with himself to notice the world all around him, shifting papers from pocket to pocket, his tie loose, the soft curly gray hairs showing through the slit of his shirt by the large pale mole that once I kissed and the small reddish seam that resembled a hooked beak. Did you really want to kill me? With such naive curiosity, yet that wise smile of his lighting his face. As though it had been simply a mistake or a dream. He couldn’t believe that that morning ... only it wasn’t morning yet, it was a muggy, lingering summer dawn with the sea showing through far away like steamy gunmetal. The kitchen light was still on when I found him at the table in his undershirt and pajama bottoms, a tall, skinny, unshaven bird wearing a small apron. He had eaten an early breakfast on the sly and his plate now lay on a yellowed newspaper beside the lock that he had removed from his door, the key to which hung from a string around his neck. He pouted wearily, a cold, withheld man, shut up in the circle of his own self-involved thoughts, his little pots simmering on the stove, full of things he had cooked for himself, while the dog lay under the table, wagging his tail and sniffing at my food that he had thrown him.
He was startled to see me. “How come you got up? Gaddi finally fell asleep again. He sure can scream, he’s a loudmouth just like his father.... But why don’t you go back to bed? We’ll have to bring him back to Ya’el. Perhaps you’ll take him, and I’ll stay here and try to get organized. I haven’t read a single line this whole month.” Quickly he rose to clear away his plate and hide his pots from me. He brought me my medicine, measured it into a glass with a tablespoon, and handed it to me mechanically, without a word. He was on the verge of collapse. And I thought, what he’ll organize is his own despair so that he can get rid of me. I went to the stove to see what he was cooking. He smiled awkwardly but removed the lid to show me a piece of boiled, blackened meat. I lowered the flame, stirred the water with a spoon and stuck a fork in the meat. It was hard as a rock.
“Come, let me help you,” I said. “That’s not how to do it. Let me have a knife.” He looked in the drawer and handed me a large one, which he tried snatching back as soon as he saw how eagerly her hand grabbed the moist handle. He’s noticed that there’s someone else, I thought, filled with new hope. He recognizes her. He knows who she is. He understands that I’m not just pretending.
The knife was wre
nched free from him now. He beat a retreat toward the door.
“I think we’d better wake up Tsvi...’’
The singing rocks the dining room. Ve’hi she’amda ve’hi she’amda everyone happily picks up the tune the personnel the nurses even some of the patients shouting it flinging down the words again with unfathomable delight. Next to me Yehezkel is letting himself go too nudging my arm to make me join in. The rabbi regards the singers with a faint smile on his lips seeking to follow the unfamiliar Israeli melody. I bury myself in my book my head pounding loathing the words the melody thinking of her behind the door in a bathrobe shaking out the drops of water from her loose hair listening happily to the music wanting to join in but too hungry her mouth waters. She notices the stack of matzos and reaches out to them. Go ahead I whisper take one. As though inadvertently she does breaking off a piece and sticking it in her mouth. People are staring at me. I bend over my book and pretend not to see them while I eat reaching for more matzo quickly breaking and chewing it I’ve hardly eaten all day. The dry flat bread makes a loud crunchy sound in my mouth. And slowly nervously the singing dies down. The rabbi catches my eye and signals me not to but I go right on eating breaking off piece after piece now Musa reaches out and does the same so do the patients from the closed ward across from us all taking their cue from me. “Just a minute there!” somebody shouts trying to retrieve the filched matzos the doctors’ table buzzes excitedly. The rabbi turns to it in a whisper he bangs his fist on the table. “One minute, friends! Please wait for the blessing.” But calmly spitefully I go on eating cramming matzo into my mouth and chewing it swiftly piece by piece the crumbs raining down on my dress. Dr. Ne’eman smiles and comes over to me big and portly he bends down and hugs me warmly pinning my hands. “Mrs. Kaminka! My dear Naomi. Let’s just wait until the blessing. That’s all he asks, because it’s annoying.”
A Late Divorce Page 34