He was supposed to come to Paris in a week to sign the divorce papers. How convenient for him.
—An act of God, Ezra says. In the eyes of God, eternally married. Could be no other woman for me.
—She loved you, Nicholas muses.
—She loved you, Ezra echoes significantly.
Five years ago, the winter I was in New York and he wrote to me from Palermo, I thought I was in love with him.
—She is dead, Ezra says with gusto, now we can talk truth. You knew her, Nicholas. I want to know what you think—your image of the woman I married. You knew her, biblically I mean. I know all about it.
—She told you?
—Her postcard from Delphi. “Spent Sunday with Nicholas at Delphi. The gods descended.” I know what that means when my wife says, “The gods descended.”
Meant the gods. Incorrigibly carnal Israelites. Will never understand.
—And what did you do? Nicholas asks sternly, his lips compressed. What did you do?
Afraid Ezra beat me? Was terribly upset when I spanked Joshua. Little boys so delicate. Remember poor Kafka, he said.
—Sent her the postcard from the Cathedral of Chartres of “The Woman Taken in Adultery.”
Sent it from Heidelberg. Bought a supply of that picture when we passed through on our honeymoon trip.
—I forgive you, he says magnanimously to Nicholas.
Nicholas frowns, stamps out his cigaret with suppressed fury.
Should have beat me but didn’t. Him he loves. Was only go-between in romance between master and disciple. Exalted for their purpose. A beautiful feeling to be their symbolic object. The bastards. Would like these mortal remains to decay all over them. Smother them in my carcass.
—How do you find life in Heidelberg? Nicholas asks. They’ve just created a new department for comparative mysticism in Lima. Old Beelzebub has gone to Tokyo, has he heard? Tokyo may be the place. Only for two years. Returning to Jerusalem. They talk through the night. Heard all this before. X’s review of Y’s critique of Z’s book on the ——. It’s turning into an endless Passover service.
A dog’s life alone, Ezra complains. There is Irmele in Heidelberg and Bettina in Paris, an extraordinary woman but getting old, has asthma too. Then Frau X in Frankfurt takes care of his laundry, excellent woman, Ph.D. in Roman history. A delightful girl in London, only eighteen, a Renoir, speaks Latin fluently. But in the end one is alone.
He dozes off on Nicholas’ shoulder. He is awakened by an attack of diarrhea. Nicholas holds the pot. She is dead, he howls. Who will take care of me?
—Did you observe, Nicholas asks, the number of corpses that have been brought in between midnight and dawn?
Another batch is being brought in. Nicholas wants to know if this is usual. —Ah oui, Monsieur, the night watchman whispers excitedly, flushed with pride. C’est la fête.
It’s almost noon when the inspector arrives. Ezra is frantic. Burial arrangements must be made at the latest by Thursday, according to Jewish Law. Even with extenuating circumstances. There are complications. City regulations require burial in the eighth arrondissement; he shows cemetery on the map. Or Ezra can file an application for a permit to release the body at the Préfecture, open between eight and six o’clock. It will take another day to get customs clearance. Transport by plane expensive. He tries to persuade secretary to postdate death certificate. Rages against French bureaucracy, medieval laws. Required to bury his wife within forty-eight hours according to Jewish Law. Why this comedy? Wants body—body of his wife, mother of his children; recites my genealogy to the seventh generation, raves about resurrection and Judgment.
Wonder myself why the comedy. Always this embarrassing business of the body. Should be possible to disappear clean and simple. Whisk one’s self out of the world whole—dress, shoes, gloves, purse and all. So heavy-handed, the way God—
Nicholas has returned from coffin maker. Delivery promised by six. Fear journey ahead. French Railways on slowdown strike. Nicholas suggests cremation. Tries to persuade Ezra that fire is my element. —All signs indicate, he pursues with smile and clownish shrug, that the gods are opposed to her being committed to dust. Earth is not her element. It will cost two thousand francs to ship the coffin by air freight. Old or new francs? Ezra is considering. A friend of Nicholas’ is driving to Naples tomorrow. Could share expenses...Easy to smuggle coffin across Italian border. Scatter her ashes over Aegean Sea. Ezra rushes out to make long-distance calls before the post office closes. Nicholas is studying timetables of ships going out of Naples. The Grimani, with stops at Palermo, Piraeus, Cyprus—departure Saturday, too late. Ferry boats out of Naples three times a week to Capri, to Stromboli Thursday morning.
Always wanted to see the volcano.
THE RABBI has agreed. It seems I shall have a Jewish funeral after all. Ezra’s family is holding a reception at his sister’s house in Vienna.
All the silver—trays, bowls, goblets, platters, candlesticks—shines festively like at Passover in Renata’s apartment; only now the big table is pushed up against the wall to make room for the coffin, the chairs have been taken out and the mirrors are covered. There is a happy bustle near the hall leading to the nursery—the little round woman with the long red hair surrounded by children. I’m sure it’s Ezra’s mother giving chocolates to the children—but I thought the poor soul died; remember going to the unveiling of the stone on our way to Paris; on a beautiful summer day in the cemetery: didn’t believe it. Her smug, slit-eyed cat face beams, of course it’s she, chocolates in her palm; clucking as if she were feeding chicks. Dear old Sosie—one hand passing sweets, the other fumbling in the back, resticking the pins in her hair that won’t stay up, or groping for a buttonhole, grabbing the arm of someone who’s trying to pass to convey a compliment. Ezra’s father, with dandy rabbi beard and proudly displaying his belly, is trying discreetly to brush
