A. Yehoshua - A Late Divorce

— 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.