A. Yehoshua - A Late Divorce

The woman quickly paid for two liters of milk and went to the checkroom, by the counter of which stood the baby carriage. With one motion she lifted the infant and hurried outside to the bus stop, where she boarded the first bus. A description of the sky. She changed buses, got off again, and climbed the stairs to her apartment. A thorough description of a stairwell, on which stood a bucket and a mop. She laid the kidnapped baby in her bed. More straightforward narrative, the pace quickened. But what a weird plot!

I sat down again in the chair. A small tuft of absorbent cotton lay on the floor and I picked it up absentmindedly and rolled it between my fingers. Strange as it was, Dina’s story moved me. She continued to read, her blue eyes deepening a shade, her soft breast rising and falling with her breath, her cheeks rosy with color, her voice growing stronger and more intense. A description of the night passed by the woman in her apartment with the crying, kidnapped child. Suddenly a knock on the door. An unexpected visit from her father, an old pest in a fedora, a slightly bohemian type. With a start I realized that he was partly modeled on me. The woman hid the baby in the bathtub. She turned the radio on full blast and finally managed to get rid of the old man.

My fingers were coated with slime. I stared at them. The absorbent cotton oozed a living, sticky jelly that might have been a squashed butterfly or a worm. I shuddered. One of Gaddi’s cocoons must have fallen on the floor and was now crushed between my fingers. I hurried to throw it in the wastebasket and to wipe my hand on a piece of paper.

But Dina hadn’t even noticed. She went on with her obstinate narration, continuing the story. Days went by and the woman remained imprisoned in her little apartment, afraid to leave it for anything. Only at night did she venture out to get food. Time passed, no one came to look for the child, and little by little the suspicion dawned on her that it might be slightly retarded. An odd, messy denouement. Possibly symbolic. An ending that didn’t really end.

It was getting darker out. The day had turned. The pages rustled in Dina’s hands as she collected them, still avoiding my glance. She took off her glasses and stretched herself, a feverish glow in her cheeks.

“You were bored.”

“I most certainly was not!”

“Then talk!”

Confusedly I began to relate my impressions, analyzing the story like a student before a professor, telling her what I thought of it. She listened tensely, hanging silently on every word, her fingers playing with the edge of the blanket. I tried to be honest while also being careful what I said. “I’m overwhelmed…. Awfully moved…. You have great power…. I need to read it again…. The end isn’t clear…. Still unresolved….It needs more thought…. A slightly childish fantasy, but complex…. It’s true that there are repetitive passages, but there are also unforgettable descriptions, such as the one of the bucket and mop at the bottom of the stairs…And at the same time there’s something frightening about it…That moment when the father arrives and she puts the child in the bathtub….I was scared of her then, of what she might do…”

She looked up, intrigued. “You were scared of her? How odd!”

“Yes. For a moment I thought that she was going to kill the child.”

“Kill it?” She seemed amused. “And you never once felt sorry for her during the entire story?”

“Sorry? No… something else… I’ll have to think about it…”

All at once she stood up radiantly, very satisfied, even blissful. She hugged and kissed me, pressing herself against me.

“And I was so afraid of what you would say…”

“You were afraid of me? But why, silly girl?”

“We’ll miss you a lot… Tsvi was right…”

I stood there distractedly stroking her cropped hair. Yes, parting was going to be harder than I’d thought. You’ve made a happy man of me today.

“The only one who doesn’t care is Asi…”

“Oh, no, he does too. He’s just too proud to admit it.”

All of a sudden she let go of me, ran to her bag, pulled out her pad, leafed through it, and wrote something down. So infantile. I looked down at my stained fingers, on which was smeared something shaped like a wing. I went to the bathroom to wash my hands. A few more hours. And I had let Naomi have my share. Soon she would be free, might even remarry. Where does the thought keep coming from? On again off again. I washed my hands thoroughly, looking at myself in the dark mirror: the tired face, the dry, gray hair, the bloodshot eyes. I took my toothbrush and cleaned my teeth. Phantasmagoric. A few more hours. Perhaps I should shave, the flight would be a long one. And there dawn had broken by now. Connie was counting the hours. Not a young woman anymore and soon to have a child. And me with my bridges burned. Disinherited. Homeland why weren’t you a homeland. I left the bathroom and passed down the hall, peeking in on Gaddi, who lay open-eyed in bed with a suffering look on his face. I kissed him without a word and returned to my room. Dina was still on the bed in stockinged feet, her glasses back on, rereading her story, pleased as punch with it. An ambitious little thing. One of your do-nothing won’t-work don’t-want-children scribblers. He’d have his hands full with her. Fantasies. I went to the living room. The house like the still echo of a no longer thrumming bowstring. Outside it really was gray now. Maybe it would rain. I went to the bathroom to pee. My face shook and was gone in the dim toilet. What really do you want? Five million just like that as though it weren’t mine. Back in the hallway I bumped into Kedmi in his undershirt, drowsy, sour-smelling, sleep-disheveled, smiling to himself as he stepped into the bathroom.

I returned to my room. Dina was still too absorbed in herself to notice me. I bent over my valise and took out my passport and ticket, putting them in my pocket. I took out my last dollars too and stuck them in my wallet. I put on my jacket and hat.

“I’ll be right back. Tell Asa and Tsvi that I won’t be long.”

Some boys and girls in the blue shirts of a youth movement were drifting slowly down the street below. By the newsstand on the corner was a taxi stand. I jumped into the first cab, whose driver was a sullen-looking, middle-aged man. What time was it?

“Take me to Acre. I’ll direct you from there.”

He started the motor.

“Wait a minute.” I tapped him on the shoulder. “Will you take dollars?”

“Don’t you have any pounds?”

“I’m afraid not. But we’ll check the exchange rate in the paper. You won’t lose a cent.”

The taxi’s shadow bolted ahead of it. It headed downhill toward the bay and then took the main road running east. The traffic picked up. The city itself had been quiet but the roads were full of vacationers. At the old British checkpost outside of town we turned north to follow the curve of the bay, passing through its industrial zone and suburbs, the traffic lights slowing us up. The driver kept silent, and I was thankful that he didn’t turn on the radio. To my left, in the west, I caught sight of the sea, the last sunlight glinting off the foam of its strong, steady surf. Clearly visible behind us was Mount Carmel, massive and lush, a large cloud sinking over it. Pinkish light. The same now here as in Minneapolis. The cab picked up speed. Northward toward the minarets of Acre. We approached them and crossed some railroad tracks. The traffic kept getting thicker.

“Don’t drive through the town. Bypass it to the right”

“But where do you want to go?”

“I’ll guide you. Keep heading north past the town.”

“But where to?”

I told him the name of the hospital.