A Late Divorce (47 page)

“That's enough of your wisecracks,” he said, dragging Kedmi to the door. “Move!”

Kedmi went wild. “Just a minute, you nut, I'm the lawyer! Why don't you read that note through to the end...”

Tsvi let out a loud, strange guffaw while the rest of us crowded around the sergeant. Next to me Gaddi was biting his lips. The murderer grabbed the policeman and said calmly:

“Hey, it's me. I'm the one.”

But imperturbably, stubbornly, the sergeant refused to admit his mistake. He stood there slow and stolid, his humorous eyes the only sign that he was enjoying the scene he had caused.

“What do you mean, it's you?”

“I'm the one who escaped.”

“Are you Yisra'el Kedmi?”

“No, I'm Yoram Miller.”

“Who the hell is that?”

“That's me.”

“No one said anything to me about any Miller. But if you care to join us, come along.”

Kedmi went totally beserk, rattling his handcuffs and screaming, “You let me out of these at once, you moron, I'm his lawyer!”

The sergeant gave him a sharp yank, twisting his cuffed wrists savagely. “Stop calling me names, you! I've got Yisra'el Kedmi written here. Is that you?...It is? That's all I want to know.”

At which point I approached him, gripped him lightly by the arm, and set him straight simply and clearly. He listened to me, beginning to comprehend, while Kedmi watched pale with anger, his eyes darting hatefully back and forth. The sergeant took a walkie-talkie from his belt and tried to get headquarters. There was a crackle of static. He asked Ya'el for a glass of water, laid the set on the table, took the glass with his free hand and gulped it down. A young woman's voice spoke. “What did you say the name of the apprehended party was?”

The sergeant told her. A brief silence ensued while Kedmi stared hard at the set. “Is there a Yoram Miller there?” asked the voice.

“Yes,” said the sergeant.

“Then apprehend him. He's the escapee. And be advised that he's dangerous.”

With a smile the sergeant let Kedmi go and handcuffed the murderer. “Sorry about that,” he said.

Kedmi sprang away from him, massaging his freed hand. “If anyone should be sorry, it's the parents who gave birth to you. Now please sign this statement that I'm turning him over to you of his own free will.”

The sergeant didn't even look at the paper extended to him. “I'm not signing anything. The last statement I signed cost me two more years of waiting for my sergeant's stripes. If you want, you can come with me to the precinct.” He smiled genially again. “I really am sorry, but all I had written here was Yisra'el Kedmi.”

“Why be sorry?” reiterated Kedmi in a quiet, hate-filled, profoundly injured voice. “It's not your fault. Your parents should be sorry. The police force should be sorry. You're not to blame that you were born a cretin.”

“I'd watch it if I were you, Mr. Kedmi,” said the sergeant, still smiling unflappably.

But Kedmi wasn't through with his tantrum. “
I
should watch it?
I?
It's you who better watch it.... If you think you've seen the last of me, I've got news for you! But enough of this clowning around ... I'm coming with you. You too, mother. And the rest of you ...”

He was in a white heat. How quick the man was to take offense. But I was less mindful of him than I was of the boy, who had taken the sight of his handcuffed father hard and was clinging to me in confusion, his hand in mine, in search of support. You're going to miss him, I thought. When you first saw him the night you arrived and they woke him to show you, you were almost frightened by how fat he was. A miniature Kedmi, but without Kedmi's manic spirits, so somber and strange. And then when he woke you that overcast afternoon with rain streaming down the window you were scared again by the sight of him standing there in a black trenchcoat with an old leather hat jammed down on his head, holding a pair of sugar tongs. You were sure that the boy was retarded or at least emotionally disturbed. But in the end you came to understand him, to appreciate his clarity of mind. Oh he was somber all right, seldom smiling, a little pessimist squelched by a father to whom he was very attached and yet whom he judged all the time. It amazed you to hear him talk about his parents, whom he saw so complexly, so accurately. And all along, in that brooding silence of his, he must have been judging you too. How foolish it was to take him with us to the hospital. We must have seemed ridiculous to him—and yet even when he saw Asa hit himself, even when you went down on your knees, he didn't bat an eyelash—no, not even when that giant snatched his toy away. Will he at least remember you and this hectic crazy week until you come again? Only when will that be?

 

The shadow beside me sticks steadfastly to the wall a dark ragged strip of gauze that will dissolve in the morning light. Behind you before you the darkness deepens over the sea. Already a dull feeling of fatigue but better a tired day than a flight without sleep. Distractedly my fingers knead the scar Connie calls it my psychosomatic itch and takes my hand away tonguing it with a kiss. With such American goodness such bold givingness. All at once Dina wanted to see it. Good and scared I was. No fantasy then. The need to show everyone. The compulsion. Even you found it odd the way you opened your shirt for her in that crowded cafe. Asa was furious he couldn't understand the petty mind. Why did you have to go tell her? What a luminous smile. She was happy you did though not frightened at all even secretly made a note in her little pad maybe you and your scar will turn up in some story of hers. No more than a child. A beauty unaware of her own power but she liked you. The joy of seeing her again. Coming especially to say goodbye. The slow trickle of time what surprises has it in store for you today? What time is it?

The sleepers tossed in their rooms. Soft morning stirrings. A warm, cozy hour. Everyone had gone to sleep late. Tsvi made up his mind to go to the police station. Kedmi took his mother and the murderer's parents home. Ya'el went to put Gaddi to bed. And so I was left by myself at the head of the deserted table while, as though materialized by magic, across from me sat a young reporter from a local newspaper who had tiptoed in the open door. Never one to miss a trick, Kedmi had gotten him to cover the story in order to get some free publicity. “They're all gone,” I said, “but I'll tell you exactly what happened.” And I sat him across from me like a student and gave him his scoop.

A heavy shuffle of feet. Gaddi emerged drowsily from his room and walked blindly to the bathroom, his shadow trailing after him on the floor until swallowed up by the rug.

“Gaddi,” I whispered.

He paused for a second as though hearing voices and continued to the bathroom. The water was flushed and he came back the other way.

“Gaddi,” I whispered again without getting up.

He paused again, scanning the darkness with shut eyes as though called by a ghost. Slipping his hand through his pajama tops like a little Napoleon, he laid it on his chest and went back to bed without a word.

My heart went out to him. I followed him into his room. Curled up beneath his blanket, he opened one eye and regarded me. Would he remember me? How delve deep enough into him to keep him from forgetting? I sat on his bed, feeling his warm body, smelling a faint odor of pee. “Do you know that I'm leaving today?”

He nodded.

“Will you remember your grandpa?”

He considered and nodded again.

“Didn't you hear me calling you before?”

He didn't answer. Calmly he observed me with his big eyes, realizing now that the ghost was only grandpa. Beneath the blanket his hand groped back toward his chest.

“Where does it hurt you? Your mother said she'd take you to the doctor tomorrow and that you'd write me what he said. You're just not active enough. You don't exercise. You don't walk.”

“Where to?” he asked.

“I mean in general.”

“No, that won't help,” he answered hopelessly, with a maturity that seemed beyond his years. “It's because of my glands. They have to be taken out.”

“That's nonsense. Nothing has to be taken out. You're a fine, healthy boy. You just have to do more with yourself. Come on, get up. Maybe you'd like to take a walk with me now.”

“Where to?”

“Just out in the morning air. We'll be the only ones out at this hour.”

“All right,” he said, still making no move to rise.

I went to get dressed, watching the thinning, gauzy shadow that had breezed in through the blinds turn to a flap of sky blue. Parting. Only eighteen more hours. The knot was cut. The border sealed and receding the wounds that would quickly heal. No more of her and her other. No more lunacy. I washed and shaved with slow movements. And out there the darkness was moving behind before the slowly revolving light. I peeked in on Gaddi, who was still in bed with his eyes shut. Asleep. I went to the small kitchen and shut the door behind me. The washed dishes were stacked in the drying rack, the leftovers were all neatly covered. I put up water to boil. Opening a closet, I found a hidden cache of bread that Kedmi had put away for the holiday. Alongside it lay the long bread knife. What had I promised that disappointed her so?

I was drinking my coffee when the door opened and in walked Gaddi in his school uniform, rubbing his eyes.

“So you're up! That's great. Would you like something to eat?...No? Are you sure?”

He debated with himself.

“No. Then how about a glass of milk at least?”

He consented. I poured it for him. He drained it quickly, reaching out without thinking for some matzo, breaking off a piece and sticking it silently into his mouth.

“Eat,” I said. “You don't want to be hungry.”

He ate the rest of the matzo. I put the dirty dishes in the sink and we left, passing by Ya'el's bedroom, through whose slightly open door I saw Kedmi's great bulk sprawled on its back, one hand on Ya'el's face.

“We'd better leave a note,” I said. I found a piece of paper and wrote:
We've gone for a morning walk. We'll be back soon. Grandpa.
“You sign too,” I said to Gaddi. He wrote his name gladly.

It was already full morning outside, but still very chilly. Spring was having a hard time deciding. What time could it be?

Gaddi seemed pleased to find the street so still. “Everyone is sleeping off the seder,” he said. “What time is it?”

“I left my watch in my valise. I'll spend the day without it.”

“How come?”

“Because I don't want to see time running to the finish line of my visit.”

He smiled.

“You don't have a watch of your own? I'll leave you some money and tomorrow you can buy one with it.”

He wanted to show me his school. We walked down the hill and entered a large, rectangular yard that was caked with a layer of well-trodden mud. On the wall of the school building hung a large clock that said eight.

“It always says that,” said Gaddi, who was full of life now. He was searching for something around him, bending to dig in the hard mud. Suddenly he kneeled and scooped up a big colored marble that he put into his pocket.

“I found it!” he murmured under his breath.

He went on looking, enjoying the unfamiliar quiet in this familiar place, feeling at home. At one end of the yard was a small stone platform on which he jumped and walked about importantly.

“Where's your classroom?” I asked.

He pointed up at it and after unsuccessfully trying several locks found a door at the back of the building that swung open. We stepped inside, walking down long corridors whose walls were decked with portraits of national heroes, dried flowers, slogans and verses from the Bible, maps of a post-1967 Israel. A homeland still struggling to be a homeland. A squashed-banana, public-school smell. I hadn't set foot in such a place since the children grew up. I began to tell Gaddi that I too was a teacher, but a teacher who taught teachers to teach. He nodded, satisfied with the information, and led me up some stairs to his second-floor classroom, whose door was disappointingly locked. Through its glass pane we saw desks and chairs stacked against the wall. He led me back down to the yard, trying all the doors on the way. The sun was shining brightly. The blinds on the houses across the street were still drawn. He jumped happily on the stone platform, ruddy and fat, excitedly talking to himself, playing at being the principal or some teacher. From afar I watched the sunrays glance off his face that resembled an overfed boxer's.

“Who's your principal?” I asked when he rejoined me.

“It's a woman,” he murmured shyly.

“Your heart doesn't hurt anymore?”

“No.”

Less than a thought. We left the schoolyard and he proposed showing me his old kindergarten. We walked back up the street until we came to a small stone building tucked into the side of a ravine. Stone stairs descended to it. He hurried down them, cutting across the play area with its seesaw and sandbox and trying the door. It was open. I followed him.

“Someone's in there,” he whispered.

We entered, hearing voices, and found that the kindergarten had been converted into a makeshift synagogue.

“Excuse us,” I said to the small group of men who were standing inside and stretching a rope across the room to mark off the women's section.

“Please come in,” said one of them. “There'll be enough of us to start the service soon.”

“Oh, no,” I stammered. “We had no idea ... my grandson just wanted to show me his old kindergarten ... we didn't come prepared for prayer...”

But they wouldn't relinquish us, they had everything we needed, from a cardboard box they produced, all brand-new, prayer shawls and prayer books and skullcaps. “Come on in, sit down, if you don't mind waiting. This is the first time that we're holding services here. The municipality let us have the building for the holiday ... there's a need for it in the neighborhood ... we'll be starting soon ...”