A. Yehoshua - A Late Divorce

In Tel Aviv the hard dry wind still blew. A low, orange sky. The bus let us off in a dark, deserted street near the central station. Used ticket stubs swirled through the darkness. Grains of sand from the Sahara turned to grit between one’s teeth. The passengers scattered quickly and were gone. I walked down a street lined with shoe stores, their darkened display windows full of thin, cross-strapped ladies’ models, and emerged in the dimly lit square of the station, by felafel stands with their mountains of colorful salads and shuwarma joints with their glowing grills of spitted lamb. On the opposite sidewalk, at platform number three, a small line of travelers waited to board the Jerusalem bus, which was almost full. A short, middle-aged man wearing a striped jacket, elevator heels and a linked chain around his neck stood by a public phone booth, eyeing me with a warm, penetrating glance. May I? I asked. At once he moved aside with a show of deference, measuring me with his eyes. I dialed Tsvi. An unfamiliar, Levantine voice answered politely. Tsvi had stepped out for a moment. Did I wish to leave a message? No, I said, there was nothing special. But who was calling? I told him.

“Ah, you’re Dr. Asa Kaminka. How do you do? I’m Tsvi’s friend, Refa’el Calderon. Your sister and father telephoned a while ago from Haifa with the latest news. Can I be of any assistance to you? Would you care to stop by and rest up here before going on to Jerusalem?”

The same man who brought Tsvi to see mother yesterday. One more finger in the pie. I hung up.

A dark-complexioned girl in short pants and high-heeled clogs, apparently a whore, was talking in low tones on the street corner to the man from the phone booth, who kept looking at me with a friendly smile. The Jerusalem bus had already left. Waiting for the next one was a lone traveler, a thick-bearded religious man holding a suitcase tied with string. I went to get something to eat and bought myself a felafel and a glass of juice. The short man went on smiling deferentially, never taking his eyes from me. Two grotesquely madeup girls wearing Nite-Glo jerseys and swinging luminescent bags came up to join him. I stood at the felafel stand, garbage cans all around me, sauerkraut dribbling steadily from the overfilled pocket bread, eating savagely, my briefcase between my legs, getting sesame dip all over myself. It was eight o’clock. I hadn’t been in Tel Aviv for weeks; why not seize the opportunity to get in touch with some friend, someone I could talk to, bounce ideas off? Suddenly I was in no hurry to get home. I wiped my face with a paper napkin and bought a new pack of cigarettes, hungry for human contact here in this no-man’s-land, in this no-time and no-place. In my ever-further-away-from-me native town. I thought for a moment of the lunatics I had braved today, of my newly discovered sangfroid in their presence, of the horribly sweet feeling of that soft blonde spilling over me. Perhaps I should give Stem a ring. An old friend who once had studied with me and was now teaching the same period as I was at the University of Tel Aviv: I could never enjoy a relaxed talk with him when calling long-distance from Jerusalem. I searched for another phone token in my pockets but couldn’t find one. Still regarding me cordially, the short man with the link chain took out a handful of tokens and offered me one, firmly refusing to let me pay him for it.

“But that would be an insult…”

He spoke in a low, quiet, knowing voice. A pusher or a pimp? Well, that wasn’t my lookout. I went back to the phone and opened the thick, tattered directory that was attached by a heavy chain to the wall. Its back pages were tom or missing. The letter S was gone entirely. I let it drop, the chain creaking loudly, took out a cigarette, and fumbled for a match. At once he stepped up to me, whipped out a small lighter, and lit it for me with a bluish flame.

“Are you looking for something? Perhaps I can be of help.”

“No, thanks. The phone book is tom.”

“If it’s a girl…”

“Excuse me?”

“I said if it’s a girl…”

“No. It isn’t a girl.”

“Because I have another one for you. She’s waiting for you there. She’s taken a liking to you.”

He pointed to the two whores restlessly swinging their bags.

“No, thank you.”

“She asked me to tell you… it’s just that she’s bashful…”

“Thanks anyway.” I smiled. He talked about the two of them as though they were one person.

“If you think she’s too tall for you… or too strong… if that’s it… then there are other options…”

He spoke quickly, deftly, in a reasonable, businesslike tone.

“It’s not a question of that. At the moment I’m…”

“Because I have others too. Just tell me what you’re looking for… explain your wish to me… I’ve got a big selection around here. I know a sweet, very classy young girl who lives right next door… you might like her… she’s practically still a child… she may even still be a virgin… yes, I believe she is… real class…”

He laid a warm, friendly hand on my shoulder. I gave a start.

“There was something I liked about you as soon as I saw you walk into the station. You only have to say the word to me. Just tell me what you want. Everything is available. Why don’t you have a quiet cup of coffee and see what I have to show you?…Where did you say you were going?…The buses run late, I know because I’m always here. And if you miss the last one, I’ll bring you home in my own car. Come on… you only have to look… let me show you what real service is. There’s something about you I like. Don’t be scared… it’s all aboveboard… no obligation, no money down… I just show you the goods, it doesn’t cost you a cent…”

He was quiet, reassuring, trustable. And I was out of time, out of place, plain out of it. Let her wait up for me. She’s probably gone to sleep at her parents’ anyway.

“At least you’ll join me for some coffee?”

“But I’ll pay for it.” The words tumbled out by themselves.

He smiled, highly satisfied.

“But of course… it’s your treat… you’re the boss. Don’t let me pressure you. I never pressure anyone. It’s like window-shopping… just pretend that you’re window-shopping…”

The coffee was served, us at once. I gripped my cup hard, in need of the hot pick-me-up. A small teen-ager ran up to my new friend with some message. Everyone in the café knew him. Bazouki music blared over a radio. He lit a king-sized cigarette and offered me one. I declined. His face was furrowed, with wrinkles. An unplaceable accent. He managed the conversation with me tactfully, reliably.

“Many people can’t explain what they want and end up being disappointed. It’s not something that can be done just like that, automatically. You have to find the right combo. That’s my business. Every dream has its answer. Its fulfillment. Take yourself. You’re an intellectual type, I can see that right away. But you’re pressed for time. You’re in a rush, and so are your thoughts. If you’d just say the word to me…”

“What’s the price nowadays?” My voice sounded foreign to me, squeaky.

“That depends on how long it’s for.”

“No, I mean just the usual…”

“It depends… whatever you feel like paying…’’

“But what’s the going rate?”

“Some people give five…”

“Hundred?”

“Thousand. What’s a hundred these days?”

“Five thousand?”

“But not for you. For you there’s no charge. It’s on the house. And I have this feeling that she’ll go for you… that you’ll make it with her big…”

And supposing just this once. To prove to myself. Not against her but to realize to help us both. For our future. Our child. Another Jerusalem bus pulled out across the street. A new one pulled in after it and was boarded by a crowd of religious Jews. Whenever I want I simply pay for the coffee, cross the street, and get on it.