A Late Divorce (23 page)

“Is it cold there?”

“Very.”

“Then you should move down here. Further south.” She laid a finger on Brazil.

Father smiled at us uncertainly. But to me it was clear: it was he who brought out the madness in her.

“No, mother. You're already in Brazil.”

“Brazil?” she giggled embarrassedly. “I can't see very well. Dear me, Brazil? My glasses broke last week and no one here seems able to fix them.”

She took out a folded handkerchief from the pocket of her dress, unrolled it, and showed us her glasses. One lens was shattered. Father took them from her solemnly, carefully, with deep concern.

“We'll get them fixed right away,” he told Ya'el. “It's something we must take care of.”

The shattered lens fell apart in his hands. He tried fitting it back together.

“It's unimaginable to leave mother without glasses,” he repeated scoldingly, rewrapping them in the handkerchief and handing them to Ya'el. Mother watched him with that flickering smile of hers that I had always hated. It vanished when her eyes met mine. The only one in the family who ever stood up to her was me.

“Tell me about the winter there, Yehuda. The last time you were here you described the snow so nicely...”

“I did?”

“You don't remember? I was very sick then. I don't remember much, but your description of the snow ... yes, that I do ...”

He turned to us for help, glanced at the mass of faces in the window, looked at his watch, gave me a frightened look, reached for Gaddi, held him tight, stroked his hair: trying to fathom what it was that she wanted. On the table, where the kettle had been, lay some folded sheets of paper. No doubt Kedmi's agreement. He started to pick it up, then stopped and sat down next to mother instead, moving his chair closer to her while beginning to tell her about the snow, glancing at us apologetically, failing to comprehend how he had fallen into such a trap. But he had patience. He still felt sure that all would end well. The need to make one's own mistakes. The struggle to resist the historical process as a historical trap.

Take Rhodesia. Sane, pragmatic, unhysterical Anglo-Saxons with a rational outlook and no national mythology to uphold gradually fall victim to the stubbornly lunatic notion that they can twist history's arm. Their immediate motive is obvious, even natural: the wish to retain their productive farmlands and continue to exploit cheap native labor. Slowly, however, they sink into an ever deeper quagmire. There are only two hundred thousand of them and yet, in a world that boasts nearly as many independent nations as people, they are determined to rule over six million blacks in the heart of Africa. At which point the same practical, down-to-earth folk suddenly decide that they have a great, anti-historical mission to perform—the sole purpose of which in reality is to keep them from understanding what should have been understood long ago. And so
—
sophisticatedly, imaginatively, impetuously, with unbeatable solidarity—they dig in their heels, turning their agricultural acres into a holy land and constructing a global ideology: from now on they are no longer simply white Rhodesians, hardworking farmers who troop off every Sunday to sing sweet hymns in church, they are the vanguard of Freedom, the torchbearers of Truth, stubborn servants of the Lord and of the whole civilized world. Infuriated and embittered, they gaze out through the bars of the cage they have built for themselves, despairing of the world that has condemned them, assuring themselves of the blindness, the pathology, the self-destructiveness, the decline of the West, holding out against embargoes, terrorism, vituperation and ostracization with a military savvy and a messianic passion that are out of all proportion to their true strength,
turning themselves into steel, their isolation into a fortress of Western culture. And yet just when the world has begun to get used to their madness and even to learn to live with it, they crack for no apparent reason; they agree to small compromises that lead to larger and larger ones: and, having entrusted their little pinky to the great hand of history, they find themselves dragged along by it with greater and greater force until they voluntarily hand over their power to the most implacable of their enemies.

“And how much do you earn now, Yehuda?”

Father grinned. “A thousand dollars a month.”

“How much is that in Israeli pounds?”

“A hundred and twenty thousand.”

Mother was staggered. She regarded him with awe.

“That isn't much there. In fact, it's considered a small salary.”

“And are you happy?”

“Oh, well ... happiness ... what actually is it? It's something I had never dreamt of for myself. The concept itself isn't clear to me. But I do feel at peace there ... yes, that I have over there, a kind of peace. Not that I don't miss the children terribly ... all of you...”

He eyed us nervously, seeking to gauge the effect his answer had had and whether it had passed the test.

“And that woman ... did you bring a photograph of her?”

“What woman?”

“That woman of yours ... the one you live with ... whose name you never told me ... maybe...”

“Connie,” said father hopelessly.

“Connie? Because last time you were here he promised to bring me her picture.”

I jumped to my feet but she ignored me. The sudden shift to the third person was always a bad sign. They had to be separated at once. Father looked at us, utterly baffled.

“What do you need a picture of her for, mother? What does it matter?”

“But he promised me last time. I just want to see her picture.”

I turned to him furiously. “Do you have her picture with you?”

He crimsoned, rose, pulled out his wallet, and, lo and behold, produced a small color snapshot. Mother took it and studied it at arm's length with Gaddi, who wanted to see what an American woman looked like: plumpish, blond, standing on a patch of lawn by a garage door. The snapshot fell to the floor. Father hurried to retrieve it. He handed it to mother, who declined to take it. Quickly he put it back in his pocket.

“And do you have a picture of the baby too?”

“The baby???”

Ya'el quailed. “What baby, mother?”

“His baby, the new one...”

“What are you talking about?”

“Why, about that new baby of his.”

“Who said anything about a baby?”

“Tsvi did, yesterday.”

“Tsvi???” The three of us were aghast.

“Yes. They were here.”

“They?”

“He and a friend. An older man who brought him.”

“But what did he come for?”

“To visit me. He hadn't seen me for weeks. He wanted to read those pages that Kedmi brought me ... he wanted to know what ... maybe to show his friend...”

“And what did he say?”

“Nothing. He told me that you had a baby.”

“But he couldn't have!”

“There's no baby, mother,” Ya'el pleaded. “Whatever made you think that?”

“But...” Mother grabbed her head in deep distress.

Father forced a laugh. “Tsvi misunderstood. He always mixes things up.”

“But how...?”

She wrung her hands defensively, blushing, distraught at the unexpected denial.

“And I was so happy that you'd had a baby ... that you still could ... Tsvi told me, ask him ...”

All at once I rose to speak in a clear, dry voice, compelled to put an end to the obscene farce.

“It isn't born yet but it will be...” I turned to her, gripping her lightly by the arm. She was afraid to look at me. “It isn't born yet but it will be.” I ignored the panic seizing father and Ya'el, the commotion by the door, the faces behind the curtain on the window. “Father is telling the truth. Tsvi didn't understand. It isn't born yet but it will be ... that's why father was in such a hurry to get here. It isn't born yet but it will be!” I repeated once more, raising my voice as the deep anger swept over me. “That's why we're here. Because otherwise what would it have mattered ... you're separated anyway ... but because of the child ... the baby ... there's a legal problem there ... according to the law ... legally you need to ... and you yourself wouldn't want him to...”

Only by now I no longer knew what I wanted to say. The word “law” had gotten into it and stuck there. Mother stared at me, the old wild glitter in her eyes, the theatrical colors of her makeup a changed tint.

“We didn't mean to hide it from you ... you know everything now ... father hasn't kept anything back. It isn't born yet but it will be...”

I turned to him in cold fury. “When will it be born?”

“I think”—he could hardly get out the words—“in two months ...”

“In two months, did you hear that? Now you know everything. We're all suffering. You think it's only you but it isn't. It's a disgrace for us all, but what's done is done.... What is it you want to know now?”

She tried saying something but I cut her short, though her Ups continued to move.

“What more do you want? What good does it do to be stubborn? Let him go back to America and we'll all stay here with you. All of us. And you'll be getting out of this hospital soon...”

I snatched the agreement lying on the table. Its pages were already creased and stained.

“What does Tsvi know about it? Kedmi has seen to everything. I've spoken with him. Just sign!”

She retreated from me with a movement of her brown dress. I turned the pages of the document until I came to the black line above her name at the end. I put a light, unsteady hand on her shoulder. Her smell.

“Are you going to sign?”

She shook her head.

“Why not?”

“I have to think.”

“What about?”

“What about?” father exclaimed after me.

She balked stubbornly, staring at us with suspicion.

“What about?” I shouted. “What about?”

Ya'el rose to restrain me.

“You know it's all over with!” I cried, carried away with myself, as though it were my life, not his. “What is there still to think about, mother? But you, you have to know about the snow ... the snow ... he should tell you about the snow! And you”—I turned to father with senseless rage while he hung his arms limply with an embarrassed smile like a swindler caught in the act—“you actually start to tell her. I always knew that the two of you enjoyed it. Yes, enjoyed it! This eternal war of yours gives you pleasure. Knifing him, being sick, all your make-believe—there's hidden pleasure in all of it. And you too, father. That's why it's gone on like this for so long. That's why you keep beating around the bush. And Tsvi eggs you on. But Ya'el and I are sick of it, we're so depressed we could die!” Ya'el, her cheeks burning, tried to stop me. “You used to drag me out of bed at night to judge between you. Well, I'm judging now. End it!”

Father grabbed me. “That will do! That's enough.”

But I pushed him away, hearing my own steadily rising voice.

“What is there still to think about? Tell us. How much longer can you drag it out? Who has the time? Because there isn't any ... the time has run out. You wanted to kill him, what more do you still want from him? Why don't you kill me too! Kill me! Go ahead and kill me!...”

Overcome by sadness. Her twisted face. Anger snagged on pity. My raised arm. A glance at the dirty curtain at the crazy faces there. I shut my eyes and strike my head here it comes I slap my face hard I drum on my chest with my fists a shudder of joy like desire swept up in the rhythm of it a yellowish light in Gaddi's eyes turned quietly on me at last peace descends the dull pain in my chest now father is acting up too he's caught my hysteria he stutters from anger he buries his face in his hands he shouts out loud he grabs hold of mother who's risen from her chair do you see now do you see al! at once he kneels down before her with that terrible hatred of his Ya'el and I both rush to lift him from the bare concrete floor Ya'el shoves me away protecting him from me. Will he hit himself too?

“The child,” whispered mother, stony-faced and composed. “Just take the child outside .. why should he have to see it? You've done this on purpose ... it's all on purpose ...”

Father and Ya'el pushed me outside while I dragged Gaddi after me. At once I was surrounded by the patients waiting by the door. They reached out to touch me, shook my hand, tried grabbing hold of Gaddi, who shrank against me. Had they seen me lay hands on myself and now come to give me their blessing? A washed-out, tormented-looking blonde accosted me and tugged at my shoulders. She stuck a finger in her mouth and shut her eyes. There was a babble of voices.

“A cigarette ... Give her a cigarette...”

I took out a pack, which was snatched from me by the little old fellow. A bundle of energy, he nimbly pulled out the cigarettes and passed them out to the patients. A large gold lighter glittered in their midst. They bent over it, shielding the flame with their hands, getting down on all fours to fight the strong wind. At last a lit cigarette burned in each mouth. I too was given one. I hesitated before sticking its wet tip between my lips. I had no space to move. The old fellow clung to me, devouring me with his eyes.

“Are you taking her away from here?”

“Not today. Some other time.”

“Are you the son from Jerusalem?”

“Yes.”

The wind fanned the glowing cigarettes like little engines. The blonde leaned lightly against me, inhaling greedily.

“They won't let you leave,” whispered a morose young man.

“Who won't?”

The old fellow smiled an apology at me and derisively twirled a finger against his forehead. I noticed dry blood on my hands and felt my head. There was a scratch there that must have been made by my watch. A water faucet stood by the path but the long hose connected to it seemed to end nowhere. I licked the blood clean. Gaddi squeezed my hand, the locomotive still under his arm, his other hand working away inside his shirt.