the first time, did Joseph know he would not return to that life, even without Yoel.
“Leave, Father,” he said to the wall.
“I am certain I did not hear you properly,” Manfred answered, his German consonants slicing the Hebrew words into sharp, neat cubes.
Joseph sat up in a mangle of sheets and faced his father. His hair was slick and matted, his mouth coated and foul smelling. His shirt twisted sideways, the third button sacrificed to the bedclothes. Anger raged from his every pore, and Joseph spoke with a clear and controlled menace through gritted teeth. “I said leave my home. Go back to your moshav and do not bother me here again.” He stared into his father’s face through wide-open eyes and neither blinked nor swallowed.
Manfred opened his mouth to speak, then closed it. His bearded jaw quivered and Joseph detected a tic flickering lightly under his left eye. But his father said nothing. Instead he turned his back and left the flat, closing the door as lightly as if he were parting from a sleeping infant.
“No!” Joseph yelled. “That’s not how you do it!” He bounded out of bed, threw open the door, and shouted into the empty hall, “I’ll show you.” And he slammed the door shut, again and again and again, until the hinges rattled, and the doorknob came loose, and the ringing in his ears matched the shouts and moans and sobs that wrenched themselves free from his throat.
Joseph experienced the weather as an internal phenomenon that spring as he stumbled from home to work and back each day. He mistook the raging heat for the aftermath of an explosion he had detonated in the middle of his life, felt it shrink and shrivel the lobes of his brain until there was nothing left in his head but a few dried peas and a lot of swirling hot dust. He woke up parched each morning with a pain in his throat that felt like a fish bone caught sideways. His eyes stung and his nose bled often. Joseph’s sense of loss was so great that sometimes he would pinch himself in the leg or arm, surprised to find all his organs and appendages intact.
Between the hamsins there were days of great beauty and clarity that spring. Crocuses blossomed along the banks of the Yarkon River in festive quantities and a fresh sea breeze blew gently across Tel Aviv, fanning away the smog and the grime, but Joseph was oblivious to the change. There is nothing redeeming about me, he thought as he plucked blackened bread from his ancient toaster. I deserve this punishment, he told himself in an office at the university, when a shelf of books loosened itself from the wall and tumbled onto his head. The pain was a welcome relief, a diversion.
He had been hired as an associate professor at Tel Aviv University and was assigned to teach two introductory literature courses and an upper-level tutorial on the English romantics that semester. He had prepared his lectures in the preceding months, had sounded out ideas on Yoel. Now he was walking through them in a daze. He found he could suffer the time in front of the class if he just concentrated on reading his notes. He was aware of the need to clear his throat often, as though a layer of fine sand and dust had settled there. Attendance flagged as his voice flattened to a monotone, his range as thin as parchment.
Joseph declined all invitations. The department head requested his company for a home-cooked meal; colleagues offered coffee, a movie, even a weekend in the Galilee. His only social engagements consisted of meetings with lawyers, his and hers. He agreed to everything, all conditions. When Rebecca’s lawyer insisted that Joseph be forbidden from meeting with more than three of his sons at a time, his own lawyer tried to rally him to protest, but the Rabbinical Court had stipulated no visitation rights until the divorce was settled so Joseph consented and consented. By the time her lawyer was pushing a clause that would bar the boys from ever sleeping over at Joseph’s home, neither
“Leave, Father,” he said to the wall.
“I am certain I did not hear you properly,” Manfred answered, his German consonants slicing the Hebrew words into sharp, neat cubes.
Joseph sat up in a mangle of sheets and faced his father. His hair was slick and matted, his mouth coated and foul smelling. His shirt twisted sideways, the third button sacrificed to the bedclothes. Anger raged from his every pore, and Joseph spoke with a clear and controlled menace through gritted teeth. “I said leave my home. Go back to your moshav and do not bother me here again.” He stared into his father’s face through wide-open eyes and neither blinked nor swallowed.
Manfred opened his mouth to speak, then closed it. His bearded jaw quivered and Joseph detected a tic flickering lightly under his left eye. But his father said nothing. Instead he turned his back and left the flat, closing the door as lightly as if he were parting from a sleeping infant.
“No!” Joseph yelled. “That’s not how you do it!” He bounded out of bed, threw open the door, and shouted into the empty hall, “I’ll show you.” And he slammed the door shut, again and again and again, until the hinges rattled, and the doorknob came loose, and the ringing in his ears matched the shouts and moans and sobs that wrenched themselves free from his throat.
Joseph experienced the weather as an internal phenomenon that spring as he stumbled from home to work and back each day. He mistook the raging heat for the aftermath of an explosion he had detonated in the middle of his life, felt it shrink and shrivel the lobes of his brain until there was nothing left in his head but a few dried peas and a lot of swirling hot dust. He woke up parched each morning with a pain in his throat that felt like a fish bone caught sideways. His eyes stung and his nose bled often. Joseph’s sense of loss was so great that sometimes he would pinch himself in the leg or arm, surprised to find all his organs and appendages intact.
Between the hamsins there were days of great beauty and clarity that spring. Crocuses blossomed along the banks of the Yarkon River in festive quantities and a fresh sea breeze blew gently across Tel Aviv, fanning away the smog and the grime, but Joseph was oblivious to the change. There is nothing redeeming about me, he thought as he plucked blackened bread from his ancient toaster. I deserve this punishment, he told himself in an office at the university, when a shelf of books loosened itself from the wall and tumbled onto his head. The pain was a welcome relief, a diversion.
He had been hired as an associate professor at Tel Aviv University and was assigned to teach two introductory literature courses and an upper-level tutorial on the English romantics that semester. He had prepared his lectures in the preceding months, had sounded out ideas on Yoel. Now he was walking through them in a daze. He found he could suffer the time in front of the class if he just concentrated on reading his notes. He was aware of the need to clear his throat often, as though a layer of fine sand and dust had settled there. Attendance flagged as his voice flattened to a monotone, his range as thin as parchment.
Joseph declined all invitations. The department head requested his company for a home-cooked meal; colleagues offered coffee, a movie, even a weekend in the Galilee. His only social engagements consisted of meetings with lawyers, his and hers. He agreed to everything, all conditions. When Rebecca’s lawyer insisted that Joseph be forbidden from meeting with more than three of his sons at a time, his own lawyer tried to rally him to protest, but the Rabbinical Court had stipulated no visitation rights until the divorce was settled so Joseph consented and consented. By the time her lawyer was pushing a clause that would bar the boys from ever sleeping over at Joseph’s home, neither
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