The windows of the apartment were unlit. It was nearly eleven. Her parents must have taken her home with them. I unlocked the front door. The hallway was dark. The guest room was locked. Not a sound. I opened the living-room door, still clutching my briefcase. The blinds were down but bright light struck my eyes. Something was changed in the room. Had the furniture been rearranged? Pillows were scattered all over. Papers lay about the couch. A haze of cigarette smoke. She sal in her jeans with her shoes kicked off, her hair gathered at the back, wide awake, very pretty, looking as if she’d grown smaller during the day. There were more pages in her lap and pens everywhere. A small rag doll sat on the couch among big cushions.
I stopped in the doorway.
“I tried calling the neighbors but no one answered. I had to wait forever for buses. Did you call Ya’el?”
“No.”
“Don’t get up.” She had made no move to. “I threw up in the station in Jerusalem. I feel like I’m dying. What a day! I’m glad you didn’t come, you would have gone out of your mind. At least I spared you that. I have to wash up, the briefcase is filthy too. I’m sick. I missed you all day. Were you at your parents’?”
She shook her head with a faraway look, remote, self-absorbed, in a world of her own. She had a new secret. Some new role she’d thought up for herself.
“My mother still won’t sign. It’s a whole comedy. You can be thankful that your own parents are sane. Better a sane grocer than a ... what did you do all day long? Wait a minute before you tell me. I want to wash up first.”
But I went to the kitchen instead. More pages on the dining table. Dirty breakfast dishes still in the sink and on the counter. Crumpled pages everywhere in her large, clear hand. Something about a young woman with a baby carriage.
“Stop that immediately!” she hissed behind me. “Go wash up. You look as though you’d been rolling in the gutter.”
“What did you do all day long? Where were you?”
“Right here.”
“Did you go to the bank? Did you take out money?”
“No.”
“So what did you do all day?”
“I was here. I wrote a story ... complete, in one sitting. I was all alone. It felt good to be without you for a change ...”
I went on collecting the dishes, sorting the silverware and the cups.
“Stop that! Go wash.” She raised her voice at me. “You’re a filthy, stinking mess!”
I put down the dishes and went to the bedroom. More papers all over the bed. Piles of clothing, hers, mine, on all the chairs: she must have emptied out the whole closet. She followed me silently, careful not to get too close, her light eyes opened wide. I wandered distractedly about the room before going to the bed. On the night table lay an open history book in English that I had been reading in the morning. Portraits of young Russian revolutionaries in cravats and high collars, a photograph of the Tsar in full military regalia, pictures of ladies in long evening dresses, the date of birth and death under each. The earnest face of Vera Zasulich, a gleam of mischief in her dark, deep-set eyes. A flash of fear ran through me as it dawned on me whose eyes they also were.
I went to the closet and began taking out hangers for her clothes.
“Stop it!” she screamed. “Go wash up. You don’t know what you look like...”
Something happened today. Something will never be the same.
THURSDAY NIGHT
O my love
O my lord
Cherish thou my agony
Lest it be the death of me.
Yehuda Halevi
—Tsvi? Tsvi? Is that you, Tsvi? Tsvi?
—Refa’el. Tsvi?
—Refa’el. It’s me. Tsvi? Open the door a crack.
—Whom did you think it was?
—Nearly two o’clock. I was afraid at first it was your father.
—Nothing. I just thought I’d drop by. Were you really asleep?
—You don’t say! I knocked as lightly as a bird.
—Oh, dear! I’m so sorry. I thought I saw a light.
—There wasn’t a light on in the kitchen? But I saw the kitchen light from the street. I’m absolutely sure I did. It’s been on for at least half an hour. So I came up and knocked. But really lightly, like a bird.
—Are you sure?
—Perhaps your father left it on.
—But how could I be mistaken? It’s weird. Maybe that mouse of yours has been turning the lights on and off. Don’t laugh. Once a mouse got into my aunt in Jerusalem’s electric box and switched the lights on and off each time he ran around.
—Seriously. That’s no joke. They thought the house was haunted until a city repairman caught it. Well, I’ll be on my way. I see you really were sleeping. I’m awfully sorry to have woken you. But how was it you heard me? Are you such a light sleeper? I swear I hardly touched the door, just like a...
—Are you sure?
—Well, only for a minute. Really, only for a minute. I thank you.
—I don’t know what’s happened to me. I couldn’t catch a wink of sleep tonight. I’ve been driving around the streets for the past two hours.
—It beats me.
—Why in the kitchen? Go back to bed and I’ll sit beside you. Get back into bed. I’ll sit by your side and then I’ll go.
—Right. I’ll talk in a whisper. I’m terribly sorry. I’d forgotten all about him.
—Then we’d better sit in the kitchen with the door shut.
—Eh?
—I don’t know.
—What?
—No special reason. I’m just awfully nervous. A total wreck. The bottom’s dropped out of my life. Haven’t I already told you that you’ve made a hash out of me? I’ll live. But believe me, I’ll be a sick man from all this yet.
—No...
—Yes.
—Yes.
—Maybe.
—That too.
—You’re right. Of course you are. Just try not to mind me. I’ll live.
—Tea? No, don’t trouble yourself. Go back to bed. You’re still half asleep. I’ll be on my way...
—Are you sure?
—You really do feel like it?
—Only if you do too. I’ve noticed that you have a thing for tea in the middle of the night. You’re always looking for a chance to drink it. Maybe it’s come down to you from your ancestors in Russia who sat around the samovar.
—What? Yes. With us tea is like medicine. It’s something to drink when you’re sick.
—No, no, tea will be fine. By all means, tea. Tea suits me perfectly now.
—No, no. Honestly. Just tea. I’m as good as sick already.
—Any way that you like it. It doesn’t matter to me. You’re so kind. It pains me to have woken you. I never would have come if I had known you were sleeping. You shouldn’t have let me in. That light misled me.
—No ... never mind ... I’m angry at myself. Lately I’m angry at myself all the time.
—Thank you. Thank you so much. You know, it’s strange to see you without your glasses. I didn’t know you could manage without them.
—No, just a bit different. I have to get used to it. Now I understand your eyes better. I mean I see them. I understand them perfectly. Are those new pajamas?
—Very becoming. Soft. Very becoming. Where did you get them?
—Yes. They have lovely things there. Very becoming.
—How much?
—That isn’t so bad. They’re very becoming. Very handsome on you. So tell me first how your day was. When did he arrive? I phoned three times tonight but got no answer.
—What restaurant?
—Right. How is he? Have there been any new developments? Tell me.
—Just what you suggested to her...
—And what did he decide?
—In what way?
—Then...
—Congratulations! On Sunday ... that’s the day of the seder ...
—Are you sure you won’t want to be there? I can
drive you.
—Never mind, I’ll manage...
—How can you talk about them like that? You slay me ... how can you possibly...?
—Their story fascinates me. Not just on your account. I can’t get over her face. She made a great impression on me. A noble woman. I was very touched by her.
—Really? I’m glad to hear that. Tell me, do you think I could peek in on him for a second?
—Your father. I’m terribly curious.
—Just for a second.
—In your room? Why?
—Right. Of course. It was his bed. That was thoughtful of you. Just for a second. I won’t make a sound.
—Of course, in the dark...
—Just a wee bit of light...
—He looks like you. Why, he looks just like you. It’s astonishing. He’s a handsome old man.
—The spitting image of you. As though I were looking at you twenty or thirty years from now, when I’m already in the grave...
—No, no, he’s a perfect likeness of you. It’s amazing. The little one looks like him too.
—Your brother.
—Really amazing!
—Me? Terrible. Can’t you see for yourself?
—I don’t know. Can’t you see? I’m a complete wreck. This is the third time this week that I haven’t caught any sleep.
—I don’t believe in them. Instead of helping me, they hype me up more. Six hours later they begin to take effect, just when I’m sitting down to the morning conference with Bleicher. Just when we’re trying to size up the trends and I need to be at my sharpest. A mistake then can cost the bank millions.
—At nine o’clock.
—Every morning. With today’s inflation it should be three times a day.
—That’s for sure. And who says a man needs to get seven hours of sleep? Maybe three are enough. Meanwhile I’m getting to know the city by night. There’s a lot going on in it. Tel Aviv’s become a real metropolis. And now that it’s spring and the air is so mild, it’s a pleasure to be out. I went to Sami’s first. I thought I might find you there, even though I reckoned that you’d be staying in with your father. He wanted me to hang around but what with all the young punks and the music and those whores of his—you wouldn’t believe all the whores—I decided that it wasn’t for me. So I stepped into Ma’ariv.
—Ma’ariv, the newspaper. They have a teleprinter there, we get the closing Wall Street averages over it.
—Right. It’s a direct line. We get them first thing in the morning. This way I could already start planning for tomorrow. What?
—Of course ... it’s already today ... I’m in a total fog.
—Does it interest you now? I see you’re really into the market.
—Of course. That’s the only way.
—What do I think? You want to know now?
—Why should I mind? I think that the dollar is in trouble and is about to take a bad beating. We’ve been talking about it at the bank for several days now. The way I read the figures coming over the ticker from New York tonight, it could happen anytime.
—A sharp drop.
—More than that. Much more.
—Anything can happen. It’s a crazy world. In case you haven’t noticed, money is psychology these days.
—What we’re planning to do tomorrow is unload a lot of the D series, which is linked sixty percent to the dollar, and buy a large mix of marks, francs and yen. We’ll do it even if it knocks the bottom out of IDC, which is the bank’s largest money fund. Do you get it?
—Why not? As the dollar drops, so will IDC. Then we’ll buy it back at a lower price. Not all at once, of course. We’ll spread it over a week or two. That will bring Option 8 back up, which is linked to IDC. It’s sort of its weak kid sister.
—The investors? They won’t lose. They simply won’t make the profit that they’re used to.
—Yes. We’ve been thinking about it for a few days now. But this morning we’ll have to decide on the exact amounts. That depends on how we feel about the dollar, and tonight I’ve come away feeling strongly. Bleicher is looking for a big killing, he’s prepared to go all the way. Your water is boiling...
—I’d say up to thirty points. The same thing happened in 77, only now it’s more dangerous, because it could ruin the stock’s credibility and send the market into a nose dive.
—Exactly. Because it’s hooked into so many other stocks and bonds, it’s a key to the whole market. But he doesn’t give a damn.
—Bleicher? Yes. He likes to shake the market up. And the management gives him a free hand. He’s one crazy German Jew, always looking for the biggest opening to put his money in. As soon as be finds it he goes in with all he’s got, even with closed accounts that he has no business touching. He’s perfectly willing to go for broke. Oh, he’s a big, dangerous son of a bitch.
—Not always. And if he didn’t have us three Sephardim, Atias, me and Ronen (whose name used to be Mizrachi, by the way), to keep an eye on him, he’d land us all in big trouble.
—One spoon.
—Yes. Mizrachi. Did you really think he was born Ronen?
—A pure Iraqi. I’m surprised you didn’t sense it. When did you meet him?
—What did he want from you?
—And you didn’t pick up on it? It’s so obvious. A pure-blooded Iraqi, you’d better watch out for him. I’m surprised at you...
—Yes. Terribly nervous, can’t you feel it? I don’t know what’s gotten into me. Maybe it has to do with the theater...
—Yes. The theater. We went to see a play tonight. Uncle Vanya, you may have heard of it. At the Tel Aviv Chamber Theater.
—Yes. Shekhov.
—How?
—Right. Chekhov. I beg your pardon. It’s the first time I’d heard of him. I suppose you must know all about him. I have the playbill at home with his picture and all.
—Yes.
—It was just one of those things. A few days ago the bank offered us tickets at three hundred pounds apiece. What’s three hundred pounds nowadays? The sugar and the water in this glass of tea cost more. But our executive organization is terrific at getting discounts.
—Exactly. Maybe because we work for a bank. They want to bribe us, that’s the only sense I can make of the bargains we get. The other day, I swear, we had an offer of some big two-door refrigerators for less than the wholesale price.
—It’s a shame I didn’t know.
—It’s a shame I didn’t know.
—You should always tell me what you need.
—It really is old and noisy. I’ll check if the offer is still on.
—It’s a shame I didn’t know. It’s the same with the theater tickets, you see, and I usually pass them right on to the secretaries. But this time there was no one to take them because of the holiday. My daughters are away too, so I said to her let’s go see it, it’s been maybe ten years since we saw a play.
—No. I don’t know. I’m not saying that they’re no good, it’s just that I don’t care for all those productions about Hasidim and fiddlers on the roof. I don’t have any patience for them. And she prefers films anyway, especially French ones. Now and then we go see some comic routine, light things like that. I don’t have the nerves for real theater. I always feel embarrassed for the actors, for the crazy kinds of things they’re made to say. Don’t forget, we’re a different generation.
—You know.
—A different generation. It’s a fact.
—Don’t laugh at me, okay?
—I’ve already told you but you’ve forgotten. I wouldn’t hide it from you. I told you long ago. I’m going on fifty-six soon after Passover.
—Thank you. But that’s the truth. There’s nothing to be done about it.
—Because I’m thin and light.
—So I was telling you ... I said to her come on, let’s go and see it, what’s there to lose, if we don’t like it we’ll walk out in the middle, we won’t be chained to our seats, why stay home all night eating your hear
t out over something that God alone is responsible for. Are you listening?
—So she agreed right away and we went.
—Yes. Tonight. A few hours ago. And it was first-rate. I mean the performance. A real surprise. At first I didn’t know what it was driving at, all those Russian names kept confusing me too. But we were right near the stage, fourth row center, and we saw everything the actors did close up—each time they laughed or cried or even breathed. You could hear every word. At first I thought that something special was going to happen. It took me a while to realize that it was happening already. I mean that the whole point was that it mattered to those people in the play ... how should I put it ... You say it’s Chekhov?
—Anton Chekhov. I’ll try to remember. But who was he?
—That’s all? It sounds so simple.
—No. I never heard of him. It isn’t my fault. All we ever learned about in school was that poet who saw God ... you know, in a pond of water...
—Bialik. Right. And a few others like him, that was all. Don’t forget, my dear, that my father pulled me out of school in the tenth grade and put me to work. It was during the World War. Remember, we’re a different generation. Did you learn about Chekhov in school? I’ll buy the book tomorrow—now that I’ve seen the play, I won’t have any trouble reading it. It’s something you should see too. I’ll take you myself if it doesn’t close before the end of the holiday. There wasn’t much of an audience tonight, maybe that’s why they sold us the tickets so cheaply. After your father has gone. You’ll see it for yourself. A really good, natural performance. The main thing was how natural and quiet it was, without any shouting. The actors seemed so real. I have their names at home on the playbill. I must take you to see it. But you’re laughing at me...
—No. She took it hard too. Already in the intermission I noticed how pale she was. And afterwards in the dark I saw tears on her face. I put my hand out to calm her but she didn’t even feel it. And then I started shaking myself. I don’t know what it was about it that grabbed me like that. I thought about you too. About us. About the whole desperate situation...
—What?
—No. You don’t understand. That woman, Helena, Yelena, don’t you remember how Uncle Vanya was hopelessly in love with her?
A Late Divorce Page 21
