A Late Divorce (38 page)

“On Saturday?”

“Then ... when my father was here three years ago ...”

“Oh, no. Now you're really going off the deep end. Don't tell me you're still looking for that day ...”

“Yes. It matters to me that I've forgotten it.”

“God save us all, she's beginning again. What exactly is it that matters?”

“It just does, a great deal. And I feel that you remember what happened and won't tell me.”

“
I
remember? That's a good one! Do you think I have nothing else to do than remember what happened three years ago? I hate to imagine where all this will end. I had thought there was a division of labor in this house whereby you were responsible for the past and I took care of the present, so that when the present became the past there would be something for you to remember. You've gone far enough, my dearest: it's time to get over this obsession of yours.... And she won't vanish into thin air. Nobody does in this country. Before you can finish jumping off a cliff five helicopters are on their way to save you.... Come on, calm down. I still feel like making you a proposal that more than one lady would be happy to get from me at this hour of the night.... Hey, where are you going?”

 

But what did happen on that Saturday? If only I had a clue: a patch of light, a shape of cloud, the way someone looked, a sentence, a few words, a tone of voice, the motion of a child, an item on the radio, one of Kedmi's jokes, the mood I was in, my own face, a single thought. Where are you, day? Where did you get lost? Who made off with you? Somehow I muffed it. And yet there must be a starting point somewhere. Why, that Sunday morning is so hauntingly, so unforgettably, so forever clear in my mind: breakfast in the kitchen ... a fierce blue sky outside ... father drinking coffee in a dark suit, his reading glasses perched on his nose, leafing quickly through some papers in front of him, throwing me a worried glance. But when did he return to Haifa? On Friday afternoon he called from Tel Aviv. Kedmi picked up the receiver, said something rude into it, and threw it down again, signaling me to come. It was raining outside. Father's warm, deep voice sounded far away. “Father,” I asked, “is it raining in Tel Aviv too?” And he answered, “The sky is blue here. Tel Aviv has never been lovelier.” He told me that he was letting her have the apartment, that he had signed it away at the lawyer's a few hours ago. And then he started in on Tsvi. “Watch out for him. He'll take everything. From you too. For those old pederasts of his”—he repeated the phrase several times—“for those old pederasts who hang around him all the time...” But between those two memories a whole day is gone, wrapped in white shrouds deep inside me, a missing montage of quick frames, a blank leaven of time between two fixed points. That Saturday. Something has to strike a spark, if only his coming to Haifa. When did he arrive? When could he have arrived? What happened when he did? To think that I've forgotten. If only I could make myself hear the ring of her phone call that morning. Because she really did call, and I must have heard it, even if I didn't know that I did. If only I could hear the phone ring, or remember myself having heard it, I'd have something to latch on to.... But no answer. Nothing. A gray void, hollow flecks of foam, unreal hours, a page tom from a calendar. Nothing. And yet that can't be. There must be a way to remember. Right now, deep in this armchair. Turn out the light then, Ya'el. I must find that Saturday. If I let it get away from me now, I'll never retrieve it again.

 

—What is it, Gaddi? What's wrong? Can't you fall asleep?

—No. I'm not sleeping here. I'm just sitting up a while.

—No special reason. I turned off the light to help me think. No, please don't sprawl on the sofa now ... go back to bed, it's late...

—What hurts? Your foot? That's nothing. It's because you're growing. It's nothing. Your father's gone again and...

—I don't know. What do you need him for? I don't think he's asleep yet. He's just thinking in bed.

—You're hungry? But how could you be! All right, tell me what you want to eat. But make it quick.

—Bread? In the middle of the night you have to have bread? All right, I'll slice you a piece. What do you want on it?

—Plain bread?

—No. Your dad won't be angry. He's exaggerating. You needn't worry about it.

—But you're not getting fat again at all.

—Never mind him. He forgets that you have to grow too.

—Ever since the two of you went on that diet together, he thinks that you have to watch every bite. You mustn't pay him any attention.

—That's perfectly all right.

—I know very well what you're allowed to eat and what you aren't. Come, let me spread some butter on it for you. Just a bit, so it won't be so dry in your mouth.

 

—His mother? She'll be back soon.

—No. He won't stay with us. Just for a few days.

—She wanted us to see him. He's a sweet little boy, isn't he?

—No. She made him wear a skullcap because she didn't know any better. She thought that everyone in Israel wears them.

—All right, I'll tell her. But he is a lovely child, isn't he?

—That doesn't matter. You and Rakefet can teach him some Hebrew words.

—No, don't call him Moshe. He won't know who you're talking to. Call him Moses. That's what he's used to being called.

—Yes, my love. Moses is his real name.

—What makes you think he stutters? You're just imagining it.

—I didn't notice. That's how Americans talk.

—Well, not all of them. But the children.

—Maybe not all the children either. But don't forget that he's really very small. And he's in a strange house now, after a long trip.

—Like who?

—Like Tsvi, yes. He does look an awful lot like him. Sometime I'll show you a picture of Tsvi when he was a baby and you'll see how alike they look.

 

—Exactly.

—Right. Because he's grandpa's child, even though grandpa never knew him.

—Yes. He died before he was born.

—Here in Israel.

—No. He wasn't that old. He had an accident ... something ran into him ... it knocked him down ... we don't know exactly what...

—Something.

—It was a kind of an accident.

—Yes. Like an automobile accident.

—No. He's not a real uncle of yours like Asi or Tsvi. Your dad was just trying to be funny. But he is a half uncle, even though he's very small.

—Exactly.

—That's right. He's grandpa's son.

—Yes. Like me. Like Asi.

—Yes. A kind of uncle. You could say that he was one.

—That's right. Only grandma wasn't his mother.

 

—Do you still remember grandpa?

—You do? Really? Do you remember him well?

—I'm so glad that you had a chance to meet him. Don't ever forget him.

—You'll remember if you want to. But only if you want to.

—Yes. Rakefet won't remember even if she does want to. But what do you remember?

—Yes, that's right. He slept all day long...

—That was the Sunday he arrived.

—That's right. You were left alone with him.

—Right, right. I remember your bathing Rakefet. He was so impressed by how you helped him.

—He cut his hand? No, I don't remember that. But maybe he did.

—It was before you got sick.

—No. Not so fat. You were very sweet. Sometimes I miss how sweet you were then.

—And afterwards? Do you remember the seder with grandpa?

—You don't? But how can that be? Try to remember it...

—Then you don't. But you do remember going to visit grandma in the hospital with Asi, don't you?

—Not that either?!

—You were seven and a half. How could you not remember?

—Not even how we all went there together and grandma gave you cake to eat? How did you ever forget...?

—And that locomotive that you got ... you don't remember that either?

—A big locomotive that grandpa brought you ... how can that be ... not even that huge man who tried taking it away from you?

—He was a little crazy. You don't remember him?

—Only that day that grandpa slept here? That's all?

—It was right before Passover. And the Saturday before the seder ... do you remember anything about that Saturday?

—Never mind.

—Well, if you've finished eating, you'd better go to sleep. It's late already. Come, I'll cover you...

 

The child is standing up without a sound, bathed in moonlight, leaning on the bars of the crib, rubbing his eyes. In a minute he'll cry and ask for his mother. The look of him staggers me: fl perfect replica, down to the cut of the jaw, a signed copy. How long has he been standing there so quietly? The room is awfully stuffy, I'd better open a window. Rakefet, all ruddy-faced, has slipped off her mattress onto the floor. If Connie is planning to stay with us, I'll have to look for a folding bed in the morning. There's a strong smell of pee in the air. How sweetly the children filled the crib for him with toys...

—Go to sleep, Gaddi. I'll take care of him. Don't worry about it.

Only I can't lift him. The stubborn little thing clings to the bed, regarding me curiously, primed to cry, wondering where in the world he is. My brother. The absurdity of it. Yesterday he spent long hours in the sky. And where has she disappeared to? How can she have done such a thing? Everything is soaking wet: the sheets, the blanket, the whole bed. A copy of father. Incredible. Damned scary too. The identical profile ... And then, as though over some distant mountain peak, a sudden flash of memory: where on earth has it come from, so stormy-sweet? A moonlit winter night in our old apartment in Tel Aviv. A warm rain falling, a huge moon in the sky. Tsvi, a small child in father and mother's big gilded four-postered bed, wearing those heavy pink pajamas that later were handed down to Asi ... Tsvi, standing behind the pile of quilts ... I remember so clearly now ... his face, the look of him ... it must have been the middle of the night. They had called me in the middle of the night, or else it was a morning they slept late. Mother was naked beneath a white nightgown, and pregnant. Yes, I'm sure she was. And then father emerged from beneath the quilts too, laughing. They had called me to take Tsvi back to bed. How old could I have been then, ten? The same age as Gaddi. “He'll only go with you,” they said. Mother had shut her eyes against the light of the bed lamp. Her hair was loose and she was too absorbed in her own burgeoning self to notice me. I felt that there was some secret pact between them, some deep equilibrium that allowed them to think the same thoughts. They gave Tsvi to me. His long, thin face. And then father kissed mother's feet, and a deep burst of fear took me by storm. When was it? A distant memory. The trees of the avenue in the rain, their large wet leaves glistening in the moonlight. Tsvi's face.

 

Gaddi curls up beneath his blanket, watching me with his intelligent look. So somber, so serious, a little Kedmi but without the sense of humor, with only that stubbornly logical mind of his. Always having to defend himself from being crushed by Kedmi's attentions. And here is this sweet addition to our family today standing so seriously too, gripping the bars of the crib, his large eyes looking quietly at the clouds adrift in the winter sky, drenched in his pee. How can she have gone and left him like this? It's too much for me even to think about. “Come, let me pick you up,” I say. He points to something, speaking in an English that I can't begin to understand.

“Say
boy nice
to him,” says Gaddi from under his blanket.

“All right, you go to sleep already.... Come,” I say to the child. “Come,
good boy
”

My ridiculously meager English. I take a blanket and wrap him in it to keep him from getting chilled. Absurdly, though, I can't lift him. Suddenly he's dug his little feet into the mattress.

“Come.” I pluck him up by force and carry him to the living room, where I stand him in the darkness on the rug.
“One moment, ”
I say, going to look for a pair of Rakefet's pajamas. He starts to whimper. Dear God, what should I say to him?
“I change you.”
Lord, was that right? Kedmi, come. “There there.
Nice boy. Good boy.
Kedmi! Are you up?”

All at once the telephone rings. It has to be her.

“Kedmi!” I shout. “Answer it! I'll be there in a minute.”

 

“Are you already done talking? Who was it? Was it her?”

“
Hello, Moses. How do you do?''

“I'm asking you something! Answer me. Was that Connie?”

“Hello, Moses.
Bring him over to the bed here. He really does look like your father. It's amazing...”

“Kedmi! Who was that on the telephone? Was it her?”

“Yes.”

“Then why the hell did you hang up so fast?”

“Let me have him.... You know, your family has this strong, really violent gene in its bloodline. I'm sure glad that Gaddi didn't get it.”

“Kedmi, none of that now. What did she say? Why did you hang up on her?”

“I didn't. She finished talking. Will you hand me that child now?”

“What did she say?”

“Nothing special.”

“Did she ask about the child?”

“Yes. I told her you were changing him and talking to him in English.”

“When is she coming back?”

“She didn't say.”

“What do you mean, she didn't say? Didn't you ask?”

“It doesn't look like she'll be back before tomorrow.”

“Not before tomorrow? But why...?”

“Why not? Would you prefer her to stay away a whole week?”

“Why didn't you let me talk to her?”