Shira (33 page)

Herbst took out his notebook to see when the review was due and realized he hadn’t been given much time. Tomorrow he would probably be tired from the trip, and after that is Shabbat, when guests usually come. When do religious people have time to write their books? On Shabbat, they waste the day walking to a synagogue. “Personally, I don’t like religious people,” Shira said when we were walking on the new road to Beit Yisrael. “Fred,” Henrietta was saying, “get your things. This is our stop.”

Chapter four

W
hen Herbst was in bed that night, he took out the book the National Library had asked him to review. After getting an overview of the book he read the jacket and noted: This book is right up my alley. It’s about Theodora, the empress described by Procopius as the whore who ruled Byzantium.

Herbst moved the lamp closer to his bed, adjusted the wick, and began reading. He found nothing new, but still he was interested. Because there was no new material, the task was not demanding. But something about it irritated him. He didn’t know what, which was all the more irritating. He mused: The author is certainly an expert and knows how to present his views convincingly. But…But…I’ll sleep on it, and tomorrow I’ll read more and find out.

The “but” that he couldn’t identify kept him from sleeping. Herbst was not short on imagination; he was not one to get stuck on details, unable to see the whole. Nor was he one of those who drown the truth in some hypothesis, who appear to be reviving forgotten times, whose words have the aura of poetry, but, since they are not poets, their books are neither poetry nor truth. In addition to these negative virtues, Herbst knew how to clarify the material he dealt with and how to make a concrete picture for himself, certainly in the field of Byzantine history, to which he had devoted considerable thought.

Herbst lay in bed picturing Theodora in action. This woman, whose early years were spent in a circus, was empress for twenty-one years, assigning tasks to her lieutenants as a director assigns roles to actors. She seated and deposed popes, patriarchs, viziers, and generals; arranged divorces and marriages; had total command of her subjects. She committed scores of murders. Her victims were almost all male. One would suppose that, having been degraded by men in her youth, she was determined to avenge herself when she achieved high position. The most violent ruler of her time, she intended to exercise her power over these men, as they had done when she was the inferior. In any case, late in life she behaved charitably, freeing young girls from the circus masters who owned them and maintaining homes for them.

After reviewing her behavior, he compared it with the behavior of her husband, Emperor Justinian. Justinian enacted laws of chastity, which she overruled. He forbade women to bathe with strange men, to go to circuses at night without an escort, or to spend the night away from home. Theodora, on the other hand, supported adulterous women, and her rulings favored them over their faithful husbands. As someone has rightly said, women should be grateful to Theodora. She secured many rights for them and should be regarded as an early champion of emancipation. If women were historians, they would recognize her as the first patron of women’s rights.

His thoughts about Theodora put other thoughts out of his mind. On the face of it, the author conveyed the essence of the subject, even analyzed it adequately. But, because of that undefined deficiency, Herbst decided to review the book at length, to the extent that space would allow. He didn’t know yet what he would write, but he considered it his duty as a scholar to write about this book. Not because of its significance, but because of similar books that take a historic period, a scholar, a poet, an emperor, or a pope as their subject. One who is not an expert finds in them a mix of history and poetry, but in truth they are neither history nor poetry. As for this particular book, although it provided an adequate picture of the period, it was no different from all the others.

Upon concluding that the author was among those who approach history as if it were polite conversation, Herbst recognized the flaw he couldn’t at first identify. He now realized that the book wasn’t worth reviewing, since it wasn’t a scholarly work. If one were to review it, it would certainly be adequate to write two or three lines indicating that, since it was not a scholarly work, it was not relevant to us.

He reached for his watch, which was on the table beside the bed. As he groped for it, it occurred to him that he could put a nail in the wall and hang the watch on it, so he wouldn’t have to take his hand out from under the blanket to look at it. He was surprised that something so simple had not occurred to him before. He was so involved in the fact that this simple thought had never occurred to him that he forgot to look at the watch and found himself back where he started – with the book he planned to dismiss in two or three lines. For what reason? This was something Herbst preferred to hide from himself. Yet he was already beginning to scheme, and this is roughly what he was thinking: Now that they’re going to promote me, I’ll prove that they’re not wrong.

He considered each professor and which of them was likely to oppose him. First of all, the one who hates me. Why does he hate me? Because I don’t like him. But the real issue is, Why does he have the power to make trouble? Not because he is wise, for wise men are reluctant to take charge, knowing that there are people who are still wiser and that it is they who should rule the world. Meanwhile, fools and villains leap into the breach, take charge of the world, and conduct it willfully and foolishly. This is how it happens that wise men allow idiots and criminals to destroy the world. Since the wise men are wise and growing ever wiser, what they regarded yesterday as ultimate wisdom they realize, a day later, is not wise after all. They seldom maintain a position or remain committed to anything, because wisdom keeps leading them a step further. Not so with fools. Whatever they fix their eyes on, they stick with, never letting go; should they let go, they’d have nothing. Their entire life is a strategy, a way to keep the world in their hands. When Herbst arrived at this insight, he laughed and said to himself: Now that I’ve achieved such wisdom, I’ll act as those fools do and take charge of my world. If I’m unacceptable to someone, I’ll call on him and be friendly. I don’t expect him to fall in love with me; I don’t want him to fall in love with me. What do I expect of him? I expect him to keep his mouth shut, rather than indulge in hostile chatter about me.

Chapter five

A
lthough he didn’t sleep very much that night, he woke up healthy and refreshed. The trip of the previous day and his decision about his job soothed his soul and gave him strength. He put on his robe. In his youth, it had been his favorite garment, and he used to wear it from the moment he woke up until he left home. He had done his favorite work in it, the writing that became the great book for which he was known in the world. Now that the robe is tattered, he wears it only to go from his bed to the bathroom. He glanced at the desk and saw the book he was assigned to review. He opened it and looked it over. Again, he was drawn to read it and yet irritated, not by the things that had irritated him the day before, but by other things. To support his position, the author leans on a certain scholar, without acknowledging that he had changed his mind and wrote, “I was mistaken, I changed my mind.” More disturbing is the fact that the author quoted from a secondary source without verifying it. Even more disturbing is the fact that he contradicts himself. In one chapter, he went along with Ranke, who disputes Procopius and contends that what Procopius wrote about Theodora is sheer nonsense and vicious fabrication; however, in another chapter, the author described Theodora’s actions when she was empress as a consequence of her wanton youth. So the author admits that in her youth she behaved wildly and improperly. In another context, he wrote that religion was remote from her heart, that all her actions were directed toward the welfare of the state, while, in yet another context, he wrote that, being Syrian, she was attracted to the priests, for in Syria everyone adhered to one of the many religious sects. How does the author explain her interest in the Syrian priest Maras? True, she was Syrian and priests were highly respected in Syria; but this was not her reason. It was because she had noticed how vulgar this priest was, in all his ways, and wanted to make him into some sort of priestly court jester. In summary, although the author appears to be an expert in Byzantine history, he has no clear theory and no overview. He included in his book every trivial detail that crossed his path and gave it prominence. Coming upon some further detail, even if it contradicts a previous one, he would add it to the book and highlight it, like a ferret that forages everywhere, making no distinctions. Still and all, Herbst saw a need to review the book – not to display his erudition to the trustees of the university, but because it was written in a vigorous style, engaging the reader and deluding him into thinking of it as a scholarly work, when in fact it was a compilation of details that the author had skillfully molded into a single essay.

Herbst was suddenly enraged. Some years back, he had put together a Byzantine anthology for a foreign publisher. Five or six months later, he happened on an essay by a renowned scholar. He read it and saw that its entire substance was taken from that anthology, except for the conjunctive clauses: “Hence, one can arrive at a conclusion that provides definitive support for this hypothesis…It becomes clear that…Though at first it appears otherwise, one could argue…” This entire essay, which had nothing original in it but its scholarly jargon, was widely acclaimed, although the anthology itself was barely noticed. He recalled a similar incident involving a scholar who wrote an introduction to a book by a friend that was being published posthumously, about codification of the liturgy in the proto-Slavic church. All the material on Byzantium presented in this introduction was lifted from Herbst’s anthology, except for the conjunctive jargon. Neither of these authors bothered to mention the anthology from which they copied their material, typographical errors and all.

He could hear Henrietta’s footsteps, light and jaunty, as she prepared breakfast, then the sound of coffee being ground. That good, dry smell, pervasive and stimulating, began to filter through and cling to the veins of his throat. Body and soul craved the brew – its appealing taste, aroma, and sight – so invigorating that it erodes the boundary between ability and will. Herbst put down the book and went to wash up and shave, so he would be ready to drink the coffee while it was hot and fresh. On the way, he stopped to say good morning to Henrietta and added, “Don’t bother about me, Henriett, I’ll have coffee alone today, and I’ll have breakfast later, after I’m into my work.”

A little later, Henrietta brought the coffee to his room. She was pleased to see him with the open book before him and said, “Drink a little at a time. I won’t give you more than one cup, because I made your coffee strong today. You didn’t shave.” “No,” Manfred answered. He lowered his eyes, looked at the book, and took a sip, thinking: I’m drinking now and enjoying it, but suddenly all the coffee will be gone, and there I’ll be, my mouth open, looking for another sip and not finding it. Henrietta left quietly. At the door, she turned toward her husband and said, “You could say thank you.” Manfred looked up from his book, cup in hand, and said, “Thanks, Henrietta. Thanks. Also, thank you for breakfast. Whether I eat it or not, I thank you for it. The coffee’s good.”

Henrietta left, and Manfred went back to work. He picked up a pencil and reviewed yesterday’s notes. He lit a cigarette, then looked in the cup to be sure there wasn’t another drop. Though not a single drop was left, the cup still smelled of coffee. Herbst took two or three puffs of his cigarette, like a winemaker drawing liquid through a tube, and went back to the book. He stared at the pencil marks, took some books from the shelf, and began reading, checking up on the author. As it happened, they happened to lead him to conclusions that were different from the author’s. In some cases, this occurred because the author had a superficial understanding of the text; in others, because he had copied fragments of the data rather than the whole, either out of sloppiness or for some other reason, such as political motives of the sort that prevailed in Germany after its defeat. Herbst, who detested scholarship that was being used as a means to a political end, was appalled by this diligent author who had used old texts so cleverly. But he decided to ignore these motives and consider the book in purely scholarly terms.

The house was quiet. Not a voice was heard, not Sarah’s, not Sarini’s, not anyone’s. Sensing that Manfred was preparing to do important work that required concentration, Henrietta took charge of the silence. After a while she came back and asked Manfred when he would like some food. Manfred was startled and said, “Food, what a monstrous thought! But a cup of coffee would be nice. I beg you, Henrietta, be so kind as to forgo your principles and make me coffee. Just one more cup, and I promise that, as soon as I’m done with this book and with the article I’m writing, not a drop of coffee will cross my lips until you invite me to drink it.” Henrietta said, “Coffee again. You think I’m running a café here, that I’m sitting and waiting for customers like you. You’d do better to eat something, instead of drinking coffee. Tell me, how many cigarettes have you smoked today? One, two, three. All before breakfast. Not another drop of coffee for you today.” As she spoke, she made an about-face; then she left the room and came back carrying a cup of coffee that had been ready and waiting. Manfred leaped up to take it from her, leaned over, and kissed her hand, saying, “Many thanks, Henriett, for the coffee and many thanks for the timing. Now, Henriett, give me your hand and let’s say farewell until the third cup. Then I won’t drink any more until the government drives the dragons out of the Salt Sea, so they won’t swallow up the herrings. Incidentally, tell me, Henriett, why is it that we don’t see salt herrings anymore? Did you tell them I’ve become a vegetarian? As you can see, Henriett, this cup will guarantee a good job – if not good, then halfway good, for sure. In any case, this book and this author are getting more than they deserve. If you bring me breakfast now, I’ll eat it.” Henrietta said, “Tomorrow you’ll get herring for breakfast. May I ask what you’re writing?” Manfred said, “Why not? I already told you that the National Library was so kind as to send me a new book to review. So I am being so kind as to review it. Now you understand why I wanted coffee. As for the herring, I didn’t mention it with any ulterior motive. Still and all, if you mean to get a herring, I won’t keep you from getting a nice fat one. I myself certainly don’t need herring. I mentioned it only by way of association. Since we mentioned the Salt Sea, I mentioned salt herring. What did we drink at that inn near the Salt Sea? Was it tea or coffee? Even if you made me read one of Bachlam’s books as a penalty, I wouldn’t be able to remember.”