A. Yehoshua - A Late Divorce

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.