So that’s what he had wanted to say all along. Perhaps even why he had come. “Who will take them?” I asked, not showing him my feelings, my eyes on the jungle of weeds. And he said, “But that’s our only document of ownership for the house. Perhaps I should put it in my safe-deposit box because legally it’s all we have… so that if we ever should want to…” “Want to what?” I asked. “…It doesn’t matter. Whatever. Father won’t be here, and…” He was breathing heavily, afraid he had said the wrong thing. “It wasn’t my idea. It was Calderon’s. He’s an old hand at these things.” But although I didn’t say so I knew that he was lying and that the idea wasn’t Calderon’s. And then all at once, smiling sadly, he relented. Far away a dog barked. “Did you know,” I said, “that the dog still hasn’t come back?” His arms dangled helplessly. “Yes. I heard. That Kedmi is a bastard. But Horatio has run away before and always returned.” “Never for so long, though,” I said. “Perhaps tomorrow you should look for him.” “All right,” he promised. “We’ll do that.” He hugged me again. “You look wonderful. It’s done you a world of good already.” And he gave me a last kiss. Even in the worst of times he was never afraid to kiss me, to hold me tight, to calm and comfort me.
The gate swung open and I walked back in. Only Musa and Yehezkel, who felt greatly relieved that Tsvi hadn’t taken me, were still waiting. We walked up the path that went past the closed ward and saw the three strange children still playing fearlessly under the stares from behind the bars. We passed the library, whose door was partly open because I hadn’t locked it properly. Something made me want to go inside. A sweet, burned smell hung over the dim room. The reddish light glanced off the rows of books covered with brown wrapping paper and off the dirty teacups and the plate of crackers that still lay on the table. The flowers I had put everywhere this morning were still there too, just softer-looking now, their heads bowed. A hard crust of dried mud covered the floor, which was littered with cigarette butts and a black paper skullcap, while a pair of sunglasses had been forgotten on one of the shelves. I took them and put them on, turning the world a dull brownish gray. This morning the sharp light was as harsh as splinters of broken glass. And since then no one had been in here, everyone was busy preparing for the holiday. I put the flowers on a tray, carried them outside, and handed them to Yehezkel. Then I shut the door, locking it with the key I still had in my pocket, and threw the flowers on the ground with its trampled grass and the tire tracks of the taxi. I had waited by the door for Yehuda to come since early morning. At dawn I was up and around in my white smock, picking flowers and arranging them inside, setting out the teacups and watering around the cottage, which I suddenly noticed was not at all straight but oval with crooked walls. I had my papers in the pocket of my smock and was all there: I never remember feeling so together before. And I was alone because the day nurse, Avigayil, who had been supposed to help me, never appeared for some reason. At eight o’clock the black taxi arrived, cutting like a boat between the lawns, its wheels spraying mud, until Yehuda mistakenly stopped it a hundred meters away. He climbed out of it first, dressed in a dark suit, and led the rabbis to the library, picking his way between the puddles, blinded by the strong sun, sinking into the mud, fording swarms of little insects that flew about newly generated from the light. One of the men, an old Yemenite with a slight limp and a plastic carrying case, rushed spryly ahead, jabbing his cane in the ground and bending now and then to sniff some flower or pluck the leaf of some plant and crush it between his fingers. After him came round, jolly Rabbi Mashash, who had been to see me several times before, carefully guiding a thin old man in black clothes and dark sunglasses, while slowly bringing up the rear was an odd-looking person in a long, tawny army greatcoat and a visored cap. I hurried to greet them, feeling a twinge when I saw how pale Yehuda looked: this was the third time this week that I had seen him, and each time he looked paler than before. The Yemenite bowed as though performing a lively dance step and shook my hand with a smile before darting quickly into the cottage. I followed him inside and Yehuda ushered in the two older rabbis while the younger one — who had a head of golden curls and a complexion that, though red from the warmth of the woolen scarf around his neck, was as smooth as a girl’s — lingered to kiss the mezuzah in the doorway and then entered hesitantly too. I watched the clean floor turn to muck in no time. The men were amazed at how much mud fell from their shoes and made an effort to clean it up. “Never mind,” I said to them while they took off their hats, put on skullcaps, wiped their perspiring faces, and exclaimed at the abundance of flowers in the small room. “Never mind.” Then Rabbi Mashash introduced his companions. The oldest was Rabbi Avraham Avraham; next came the Yemenite scribe, Rabbi Korach; and last was Rabbi Subotnik, a new immigrant from Russia, a scholarly prodigy straight from a forced-labor camp.
“Are you here by yourself?” asked Rabbi Mashash. “Well, no matter. Dr. Ne’eman said he’d try to make it, but we won’t bother waiting for him.” Straightaway they began to rearrange the room, moving about chairs, putting the table in a corner, and seating Rabbi Avraham there by a window. The Yemenite scribe made room on it for his implements, paused to sniff some flowers before placing them on the floor, took out several bundles wrapped in large handkerchiefs from his plastic case, undid the knots, and produced an inkpot and some quills. Yehuda helped while the Russian remained by the door, his large blue eyes scanning the room suspiciously, his hands on the scarf still wound around his neck, as though uncertain whether to remove it. And then all at once he spoke, in a soft, melodic voice, with a terribly thick Russian accent.
“But where is she?”
“Where is who?” asked father.
“Your wife. The woman getting divorced.”
“My wife? She’s right here.”
“Her?” asked the Russian in amazement, pointing at me. He had been sure that I was a nurse and that the real wife would be dragged in any minute screaming and tied to a chair, drooling and letting her head loll. “This is her?” he asked again slowly, with disbelief.
“Of course,” put in Rabbi Mashash quickly, wiping away his perspiration, his cheeks ruddily blotched. “Of course it is. This is Mrs. Kaminka. Who did you think it was?”
He continued to wrestle with the flowers while, still on the threshold, Rabbi Subotnik threw me a sharp, annoyed glance as though he were the victim of a swindle. Yehuda helped the rabbis out of their coats. “Whew… it’s hot in here… a real spring day…” came their low voices while he bowed and scraped before them. When I went to pour the tea, though, he was suddenly in my way, pulling out my glass case from his pocket and murmuring, “Here, Ya’el had them fixed for you. Now you can read again.” He handed me a brown envelope from which he took a typed letter. “And this is the house waiver that you asked for. Everything is signed, exactly as you wished.” He ran a long finger down the printed lines, talking in a heated whisper. “Here.” He took out some more documents. “This is a power of attorney that I’ve given Asa. If there are any problems, he can act in my place.”
“Asa?” I marveled. “Why Asa? Why not Ya’el?”
“Because I didn’t want Kedmi butting in again,” he answered quickly. “Asa is the stablest of them all. The sanest.”
The papers made a rustling sound. I could actually smell his fear. How lucky that she isn’t here now, I thought, if she were she’d have a fit. “Why are you so pale?” I asked. He smiled bitterly. And then suddenly we felt how silent it was and saw the four of them watching us in wonder.