Shira (4 page)

Shira didn’t answer. She sat with her legs crossed. When she crossed her legs, it seemed to Herbst that she began to dwindle. Not as she had dwindled there in the hospital, when he and Henrietta sat as one, and Shira and that beggar merged and were enclosed in whatever place that was. Though it was clear to him that it had all been a dream, he looked around and was surprised that the same beggar, blindman, Turk, wasn’t there now. As soon as he saw that he wasn’t there, he smiled and murmured to himself: In any case, it’s clear that he didn’t disappear in that sandal.

While Herbst was struggling to extricate himself from matters that are inherently impossible to extricate oneself from, a man appeared, dressed in black, elegant, and so closely shaved that there was a blue cast to his cheeks. He bowed and asked if they were pleased to be in his café, if they had received what they ordered, if what was served to them was satisfactory. When they answered that they were pleased with the service, that whatever they were served was good, he went on to say, “I hope that from now on you won’t pass me by.” He then took the opportunity to introduce himself. Actually, he had already introduced himself and told them his name. He had introduced himself earlier so he would be able to talk to them. He was introducing himself now to assert his position.

Now that he had joined them, he thought it would not be inappropriate to say a few words. He began telling about himself: that he was new here in Palestine and in Jerusalem, that it had never occurred to him that he would come here, certainly not to live. “But,” he continued, “having come here, I wanted to set up a café like the one I had in Berlin. At first, I thought I would open a café in Tel Aviv, a dynamic city, teeming with action. But when I saw the cafés there, which are half out-of-doors, I decided against Tel Aviv. For I, dear sir and dear madam, see the café as an enterprise that should offer refuge from the street rather than drag the street along with it. In Tel Aviv, coffee drinkers sit outside, as if they’re drinking soda, not coffee. With your permission, madam, and yours, sir, let me say a few words on the subject of drinks. Every drink has its place. Wine loves a fine room, furnished like a parlor with chandeliers that light the room as well as the wine in the goblet. Your eyes are fixed on the goblet, and its eyes are fixed on you. Being gay and jubilant, you bring the goblets together and sing out, ‘
L’hayim
.’ Tea loves grayish yellow walls and a low ceiling. It inhabits its cup like a mandarin ruling his domain. Cocoa loves a cloth embroidered with roses and butterflies, with cake alongside the cocoa and cream topping them both. Beer loves an old, dusky cellar with oak tables, heavy and bare. A cocktail is at home anywhere, asking nothing of those who drink it. It sits watching with sadistic pleasure as people clamor for an illicit drop whose mother doesn’t know who its forebears were and is even unsure of her own daughter’s genealogy. And so on, with every sort of drink. Each one has its place. Coffee is foremost, with a special place named for it. Whoever comes for a cup of coffee comes to relax, to be refreshed. There, in Tel Aviv, you sit on the street, drinking, without knowing what you are drinking, engaging every passerby, arguing, shouting, contending, though no one can be heard, while a small, dark Yemenite crawls about applying the tools of his trade to the assorted footwear. He alone, I would say, is of any consequence. While he shines a man’s shoes, the fellow’s head could be switched with someone else’s, and neither of them would notice, in the general commotion, that head and shoulders are mismatched. Even here in Jerusalem, all is not well. It’s hard to find a good spot and hard to find waiters. You’re forced to hire waitresses. I don’t deny that waitresses have something waiters lack, but they’re impatient. They don’t have the patience guests deserve. There are guests who don’t know what they want, and a waiter must know what to suggest and how to use hypnosis sometimes to make them think it was their own idea to order as they did. Not only do waitresses fail to help a guest, but their brash manner confuses him. I stand by in silence. If I speak up, the union will be after me. If you will permit me, sir and madam, I would like to tell you what happened to me here in Jerusalem. I once threw a waitress out of my café. I won’t claim I was one hundred percent right, but surely ninety-nine. Picture this: I am standing and talking to her, and she yawns in my face. I yelled at her and said, ‘Take your rag and get out.’ As soon as she left, her friends stopped working and followed her, declaring that they were on strike. I laughed and said, ‘Strike, my girls, strike. Such meager chicks… you’re not even worth the price of slaughtering.’ I tried to find other waitresses, but they all belonged to the union and would have nothing to do with an employer involved in a strike. A gentleman came from the Histadrut, carrying a briefcase, like a lawyer, and began talking to me as if he owned my café. In short, he talks and I answer, I talk and he answers. Meanwhile, the customers rush in, and there is no one to serve them. Having no choice, I decide to negotiate with the waitresses, all except for that brazen one, so they’ll go back to work. Do you know what that man from the Histadrut said? He said to me, ‘If you don’t want her, we don’t want you.’ Ha, ha, ha, ha – I’m the boss, and she’s merely my servant. Yet he has the nerve to say to me, to the one who set up this place, ‘We don’t want you.’ If things hadn’t happened as they did, who knows how it would have ended? Exactly what happened? The sort of thing that happens only in Palestine. That gentleman had his eye on the waitress, and she had her eye on him. They were married, and, believe it or not, I sent them an enormous tart with ‘Mazel Tov’ written on it in chocolate. Which is not to say that we made up. But I did win their hearts, and they are now regular customers. He comes for coffee and she comes for ice cream. It’s the sort of thing that occurs only in Palestine. There are many basics missing here. I won’t mention the ones a cultured person misses all the time. But even some of the things a modern man needs only two or three times a year can’t be found here. There is not a single synagogue with an organ or a choir. I have dealt with one such need by setting up this café. I hope it suits you and that I will have the pleasure of seeing you here again. Good night, dear lady. And a restful night to you, sir. I am at your service.
Au revoir
.”

The conversation with the café owner rescued Herbst from a whirlpool of imagination. When he left the café with Shira, his mood was light. When he went to the hospital with Henrietta, his mood had not been so light. To add to the lightness, he took off his cap, turned to Shira, and said, “What a splendidly grotesque performance.” Shira said, “It’s hard for those
yekkes
to adjust.” Herbst smiled and said, “I’m a
yekke
too.” Shira said, “A
yekke
, but one who came willingly, unlike that lout who never considered leaving Germany and coming here. Such a person could not possibly be comfortable here, apart from the absence of an organ or the presence of the Histadrut. There are other forces undermining him.” Herbst said, “If I had permission, I would ask: What about Miss Shira? Is she comfortable here?” Shira said, “Comfortable or not, wherever I am there are sick people, and what difference does it make if I am with them here or somewhere else? I wear the same white
kittel, the same white uniform
, here as there.” “And apart from the white
kittel
, is there nothing else?” “Apart from the
kittel
, there are the sick, who are sick whether they speak Russian, Yiddish, or Hebrew.” Herbst said, “In that case, I’ll ask no more questions.” Shira said, “I have nothing more to add. Jerusalem is already asleep. There’s not a soul on the streets. Anyone who happens to be out has one thing in mind: to find refuge in his doorway and then inside his home.” Herbst said, “A perfect definition of night in Jerusalem…. Night in Jerusalem, just as it is.” Now what? Herbst pondered. I’ll see Shira to her door, go to my empty house, get into bed, wake up early, and in the morning I’ll go to see Henrietta. When I knock at the hospital gate, they’ll open it and call a clerk, who will talk to me over his shoulder and ask in alarm, “What do you want?” To which I will say, “My name is Herbst –
Herbbbst
– husband of Mrs. Herbst.” To which the clerk will answer, “You mean Mrs. Herbst who came with you for, for – “ I will grab his notebook and show him what she came for. What if I had called Lisbet? Before Herbst could pursue this train of thought, Shira stopped and said, “This is my house.” “This one here?” Herbst asked, somewhat dismayed. When he saw that she was dismayed by his dismay, he added, “Since the walk was short and the company pleasant, I am sorry to be here already.” Shira said simply, “Would Dr. Herbst like to come in?” Herbst looked at his wrist, as if he were consulting the time, and said, “I’ll come in, but I won’t stay long.” He stared at the house in wonder, amazed that such a structure existed. It had been there for several generations. One could tell from the style of the structure. But Shira’s words gave it new vitality, deriving not from the stone, wood, mortar, plaster of which it was constructed, but from its own power, imbued with life and will which, at will, gives life. Vivid thoughts took over, though not yet in full color, showing Herbst more than his eyes could see. In just a few minutes, he might enter that house, for Shira had explicitly said, “Come in, sir,” and he had answered, “With your permission, madam, I will come in.” His legs were suddenly heavy, his knees began to quiver, his entire body was inert, and he was afraid he would be too weak to move. Still, with heavy heart and in high anticipation, he stood peering in and looking to see whether the house had a door and whether it was a door one could enter.

Shira took a bunch of keys from her purse. In the light from the window of the house across the way, she chose a key and opened the door for Herbst. Standing at the entry, she said, “Wait a minute. I’ll go in and turn on a light. Or would it be better to go in while it’s dark and close the door before turning on the light, to keep out mosquitoes and sand flies?” Herbst nodded and said, “Let’s close the door first and then turn on the light.”

They entered the room in darkness. Shira dropped her purse on the bed, along with the keys, and said, “I opened the door with the wrong key.” She groped for a match, then turned on the lamp. “Success! Three cheers for success!” Herbst said – as if it were remarkable to succeed with the first match.

Herbst was now in Shira’s room. There was a bed, a table, a chair, a closet, a chest with five or six books on it, and above it the Böcklin painting with the skull. Two windows overlooked the street and the neighboring houses. There was also a door, covered with a curtain, that led to the kitchen. The scent of coffee mixed with burnt alcohol wafted through the room. Everything was in perfect order, though it didn’t seem as if a guest was expected. Nor did Shira seem to be paying attention to the guest she had brought.

Shira lowered the blinds on both windows, taking her time, as if no one else were there. Finally, she turned toward Herbst and said, “My room is small, but it’s mine.” She sat on the edge of her bed, still wearing the turban, and said to herself: What was I going to do? Try the key and see if it fits the lock…. I’ll leave that for tomorrow. She suddenly looked up at Herbst, gave him a long, searching look, reached out wearily, and pointed to the chair without telling him to sit down. Though she sat down and took off her turban, Herbst remained standing. She waved the turban at him and said, “Why not sit down. Here’s a chair.” Herbst said, “Should the lady wish to change her clothes, I can turn the other way.” Shira said, “That’s a fine idea. If the professor doesn’t mind, I will go and change my clothes.”

She got up from the bed, went to the closet, and stood behind the open door, lingering as long as she lingered, then appeared in dark blue slacks and a thin shirt. Herbst looked at her and was astonished: now that she was in male attaire, her masculine quality seemed to fade. She sat down on the bed again, and he sat on the chair between the table and the bed. His mind remained fixed on this miracle, this miraculous reversal: when she took off her dress, which was womanly attire, her masculinity was dispelled. As that thought became more and more dim and as his mind became vacant, once again everything was concrete and once again he saw Shira as she was, namely, in those particular dark blue slacks and in that particular thin shirt. He saw her, not face to face, but in a vision. He remained in this state of mind but started when he heard Shira say, “One can assume the professor would not like tea, having just had some in the café. If so, I’ll pour us some cognac.” She got up and bent down to get the cognac from the chest. Then, straightening up, she said, “Dr. Herbst is a smoker, right? Here are cigarettes, matches, an ashtray.” She took a box from the table, opened it, and said: “I haven’t tried these yet, but the company that makes them wouldn’t turn out inferior cigarettes. Most important, I trust the source.”

Herbst asked himself: Who is it that gives this woman cigarettes she is so confident about? The question exploded in his mind. He, no doubt, brought the cigarettes to her room. Yes, to her room. And when he brought them to her room, he was obviously in the room, as I am now. And when he was in her room, she sat on the bed as she did a few minutes ago. And he too may have suggested that she change her clothes. And when she changed, she changed into those slacks and that shirt, those blue slacks and that thin shirt. His heart was suddenly heavy, his shoulders drooped, his eyes began to sweat, and he felt as if his head had been hit with a metal pole. He was caught in a muddle of hate and envy, hating the shade of dark blue that enclosed her hips and belly, the shirt that pressed against her heart, and envying the cigarette giver, who had been here in this room in this place with this woman while she changed into those slacks and that shirt. But his envy and hatred were short-lived. They had appeared suddenly and vanished just as suddenly, leaving panic in his heart.

Those familiar with Dr. Manfred Herbst’s character might wonder at this degree of emotion, and even he wondered about himself – how he had suddenly become excited to the point of altered sensibilities. Nonetheless, as if to protest against those cigarettes, he took out a battered pack and lit one of his own.