A. Yehoshua: A Late Divorce

“Don’t… don’t… please…”

I walk to the door the giant is standing there limply holding his pitchfork listening. Cars keep coming down the road now Asi rushes up too. I run back to hide in the corner the woman watching every move white-faced falling apart eyes sputtering in the dark. Asi steps inside and gropes for the light switch. History as closure? No children there is always a way out. I freeze in my corner the hem of the dress flutters slightly while he steps warily into the dark room and finds my jacket on the bed.

“Father?” He halts calling softly. “Father…”

He senses me for sure but doesn’t dare come closer he stops I’m ready now. Murder me. I am that I am. Let her rip. I’ve done all I could. Suddenly I dart from my place I spin around and race to the kitchen and out the back door. In the open again. I have plenty of time my ticket my passport my money. Plenty of it. And half the house mine again. The taxi is waiting. I hurry down the path by cars unloading patients more depressed than ever after a day with their families. In female garb I slip past them an unaccustomed draft around my ankles suddenly a flood of lunar light. The dogs are still barking faintly but the howling has stopped. ’Ratio must have been freed he’s galloping toward me I mustn’t miss the hole in the fence.

I head straight for it the outline of my plump woman’s shadow trailing clearly after me. A cool wind. Scudding clouds. All symbols. I know and smile to myself. And supposing that the pleasure that it gives me does destroy my very self?

All at once I see him before me the giant mute colossus of a man just standing there moving in slow motion as though remote-controlled he faces me on the little path blocking my way staring at me hard. They call him by some Arab name Musa I think that must be it but I’m sure that he’s a Jew. Well what’s on your mind? Have I disappointed you too? “Naomi…” he mutters. “Naomi…” Meaning you or trying to warn her? Can he really have confused us? He mutters some more or rather groans it’s all too much for him I’d better calm him down he’s humorless that’s your original your unilateral your unadulterated form of madness. I take off the shawl and toss it on the ground I unbutton the dress but it just puts him into a Neanderthal rage. He’s actually growling now. The main thing’s not to panic not to touch them they’re like dogs fear only makes it worse. Perhaps he needs to be scolded. A fateful man. Better to humor him. But now he’s waving his arms he doesn’t even know he’s got a pitchfork in them. What a predicament. Suddenly you’re in a dreadful mess.

A. B. YEHOSHUA is one of Israel’s preeminent writers. His novels include Journey to the End of the Millenium, The Liberated Bride, and A Woman in Jerusalem, which was awarded the Los Angeles Times Book Prize in 2007. He lives in Haifa.