“Where are we turning now?”
“I don’t know. Why are you so worried about the bus?”
“I don’t want to be late. Are you sure he’s going straight to Haifa?”
“Of course.”
“But that’s how I am. That’s my nature. Take me or leave me, as the Americans say. It’s my nature to be frank.”
“Don’t be absurd. Frankness has nothing to do with it. Nobody asked you about it. Don’t you see why I didn’t want you to visit her parents? I was afraid you’d start telling them everything, that you’d stand there and open your shirt…”
“Did you really think I was capable…?”
“Why not? Recently you’ve proven yourself capable of astounding things.”
“That’s Connie. It’s she who gave me new hope. It’s she who saw the potential still in me when I came there a beaten, desperate man… who restored my faith to me. I’d like so much for you to meet her. You’d understand me much better if you did. It would be wonderful if you and Dina could come spend some time with us… if you could see our little Jew-child when it’s born… what a miracle! I still haven’t told you everything… I have grand plans for you… it’s just that… Look, there’s the ocean at last! It will be a chance for you to get out into the world… I’ll arrange something for you at the university… how is your English? You can lecture about your terrorists, or about Judaism and Jewish history — that’s a hot item there now, and they pay well. We’ll live together for a while…. Could you open the window a bit or is it too windy? I’m suddenly gagging… I feel nauseous… you’ve really done a job on me… squelched me completely… you don’t know the meaning of compassion… why can’t you understand what I’ve been going through?”
“That’s enough, father. Never mind. Let’s drop it for now. Close your eyes. Take a deep breath. I’ll try to sleep too.”
And the pale young man so rudely plucked from his work — that thinker of never-before-thought thoughts that were to astound the few intellects of his age that could grasp them — that man shut his eyes. He sat with his head thrown back in the speeding bus that drove one dull spring day through hot dusty winds toward the ridges of the Carmel and the bay that looped at their feet, passed on the left by soundless cars whose drivers, sprawled limply at their black wheels, had not the slightest inkling who it was they had passed sitting at the window by his father, that blurred, concupiscent figure of a man now wiping away tears whose traces too would be stalked one hundred years from now by an eager young biographer, who — if he meant to do the job property — would have to travel all the way to Minneapolis and burrow there through old papers to determine what, if any, had been the paternal influence on that world-shaking, seminal mind. He curled up in his seat, savagely kneading his own silence, upgrading raw libido into intellectual power, contemplating space rushing by upon the face of the historical time that meandered within him. Flowing past borders, shooting white water, navigating the hydra-headed river, crossing the alluvial swamp in the midst of dead cosmic time, there he would find the bottom, the true bed in which it all flowed. The time had come to make order, to gather the defiant facts into one grand system, to bare the underlying laws, the sudden cascades, the disappointing channels that blindly petered out only to burst forth unexpectedly again, the missed, the impossible opportunities.
To understand the pulsing shuttle of the historical grid: with that he was to begin the first of his series of essays, which, appearing one by one at regular intervals, were eagerly snatched up by his few mental compeers… The theoretical approach to history and its laws is still alive. No doubt it has suffered a severe setback in the course of this century, in which certain malignant phenomena in the human organism have revived absurdly chaotic ideologies of a mythical, religious or fatalistic nature that exist side by side with the most banal sociological generalities. Yet the historical process itself has continued; it is inherent in human behavior and has its own laws that render it both predictable and quantifiable. It moves irreversibly forward, never revolving in place, though increasingly complex and tortuous attempts to shortcut it have frequently blurred its clear course. Is it possible to construct a reliable and measurable method that will account for the success or failure of such shortcuts, which are the essence of practical politics, within the readily discernible outlines of the historical process itself? Are even the most chimerical attempts to oppose or circumvent this process governed by laws of their own? In this series of essays I shall attempt to build and verify such a model based on a study of the history of the nineteenth century taken as one homogeneous unit. Undeniably I have taken upon myself a highly ambitious task…
We were exhausted when we got off the bus in Haifa. Father stumbled going down the stairs and had to shut his eyes and lean against one of the big concrete columns of the terminal. I took his valise and he walked slowly on, head down and arms dangling, through the dark wide passageways that echoed with the screeches of the buses. All at once Kedmi popped out of some exit.
“It’s about time! What happened to you? I was about to try the lost-and-found department. The two of you look as depressed as though you’d just landed on the moon.’’
Father looked right through him. He glanced about, then left us without a word and crossed the passageway to the men’s room. Kedmi winked jovially.
“This is his big day. Believe me, though, he never should have come. All I needed was one more time alone with your mother to get her to finish thinking. But who can stand up to you all? Come, there’s another Kaminka-and-a-half eagerly awaiting you.”
He took me to a corner table in the cafeteria. Once again I was struck by the sheer size of Gaddi, who sat there with a big shiny bright toy locomotive. I smiled at him and mussed his hair. He didn’t smile back.
“We’re old phone pals, aren’t we, Gaddi?”
He nodded.
Ya’el sat hunched, soft and pensive, in a big gray windbreaker, her smooth, unlined face looking broader than ever. I dropped into a chair by her side. Should I kiss her? She made a face, then shut her eyes, put her arms around my head, and kissed me. Her so feminine skin.
“Who’s looking after the baby?”
“Kedmi’s mother,” answered Kedmi with a twinkle.
“Dina couldn’t come with you today?”
“No. And it wouldn’t have been a good idea.”
“I don’t suppose it would have. How is she? I haven’t seen her for so long.”
“The same. She’s still working on and off at the same place.”
Kedmi chuckled abruptly at a joke he’d just told himself. Ya’el smiled nebulously. She started to say something but Kedmi beat her to it.
“You’d better hustle, Asa, if you want to eat something. The train is leaving soon. We’ve got our work cut out for us.”
“The train? What train?”
“Surprisingly enough”—he laughed—“there is one. And you’re going to Acre on it. Relax. I promised Gaddi. It will be an experience for you too. The station in Acre is near the rabbinate building. From there you’ll take a cab to the hospital, and I’ll pick you up at five. It’s been all decided. I’ve got to run to see my murderer now. I still have to earn a little money here and there, your father hasn’t put me on a retainer yet…”
Through the plate glass I saw father come out of the men’s room. He halted confusedly, then headed in the wrong direction. Kedmi grinned and roused Gaddi. “Go get your grandpa before we lose him.”
“What’s with him?” asked Ya’el. “How was his visit with you?”