Shira (76 page)

Herbst was holding his notebook, but he wasn’t looking inside it. He was repeating Shira’s address to himself, having erased it the night before. Startled by Weltfremdt’s rebuke, Herbst tucked away the notebook, stared at Weltfremdt, then surveyed the café. A few years earlier, he had been here with Shira. Someone else had owned the place at the time. He had been here another time with Shira and found yet a different owner. Cafés change hands often. A proprietor who serves his customers well, who provides good coffee, ends up selling the business and leaving the country.

All of a sudden, Herbst took Weltfremdt’s hand, looked at him – either at him or through him – and said, “I have to go.” Weltfremdt collected his things and stood up. Herbst remained seated. Weltfremdt noted this and laughed. Herbst said, “Why are you laughing? Is it because I’m sitting down? I really have to go. Yes, I have to go.” Weltfremdt said, “I would assume, dear Herbstlein, that need is determined by desire and desire by need.” Herbst smiled, a confused smile, pretending not to understand, as if he had been about to do something but was interrupted and was now making every effort to recover. Herbst looked down at the table and called out after Weltfremdt, “You forgot your matches.” “It’s an empty box,” Weltfremdt explained. Herbst picked up the matchbox, looked inside, and said, with a confused chuckle, “That’s right, the box is empty. You’re going already?” “Yes,” Weltfremdt answered, “I have to go too.” The two friends took leave of each other and went their separate ways. Weltfremdt went to another café to glance at some newspapers, and Herbst turned toward the bus stop, meaning to go home.

On the way to the bus, he thought: Henrietta isn’t expecting me for lunch, because I told her I was going to Gethsemane. If I come home now, I’ll disrupt her routines. She probably hasn’t prepared lunch, or she has prepared it but plans to serve it for dinner, so she can have time to pursue some of her other interests. I really should stay in town as long as possible. What if I did tell Julian I had to go? Herbst arrived at the corner and stood in the shade of an awning that was shielding a display window from the sun. He looked at his wristwatch and pondered, wondering why he had left the café in full knowledge that, at this hour, there was no better place to be and no better conversationalist than Julian Weltfremdt. He looked at his watch again. No, the French Library wouldn’t be open yet. He suddenly cried out, “Fool! How could you forget …?”

Like a person who remembers something he has to do and regrets every wasted moment, he didn’t say just what he had forgotten. But he directed his steps toward a store that sold foreign books, one of many that sprang up when German immigrants arrived, bringing with them many books but not enough money for spacious apartments with room for bookcases, like the ones they were accustomed to in Germany. Thus, they were compelled to sell their books for next to nothing. Herbst’s interest at that particular moment was not in those books, but in the collection of a certain orange-grove owner from Petah Tikva, which the proprietor had recently purchased from his heirs. True, for the most part these books were German classics, the best of which he already owned, and the lesser ones were unappealing. But these were elegant editions, bound in leather, and Herbst was considering an exchange. He wanted to trade his ordinary editions for these handsome ones, adding to the deal a number of books he was ready to dispose of anyway.

This is how these collectors operate. A wealthy man, of German origin, settled in Petah Tikva, where he owned fields, vineyards, citrus groves, houses – assorted liquid and non-liquid assets. He married a woman from the Hungarian community. They each received a stipend. They didn’t know what to do with these funds, provided by Jews all over the world to support their counterparts in the Holy Land, for they were self-supporting. They decided to order the works of Germany’s great writers, and, since the communities in Germany and Hungary had such ample resources, they were able to include handsome and elegant bindings for the books, beyond anything anywhere else in this country. The couple also ordered various novels for their own pleasure. This was their practice until the outbreak of the Great War. After the war, the English language began to enjoy the respect that had once belonged to German, because the English were now in charge. This man and woman died, leaving their collection of German books to their children. As the number of newcomers grew and apartments became expensive, the heirs began to resent the books their parents had collected. They took up an entire room, and space was worth money. So they decided to call in a book dealer, who appraised the books and gave them what he gave them for their collection of German classics and novels. This is the tale of the books Herbst had in mind to pursue.

Chapter fourteen

H
erbst remembered the books that were brought from Petah Tikva, and he was glad to have remembered them while he was in town, so that he might see them first, before anyone else. At this time of day, most people were occupied and not free to deal with books. He consulted his watch and turned toward Jaffa Road, which he would follow to Hasollel Street. He took one shortcut, then another, from Haneviim Street to Harav Kook Street. He passed the big bakery, as well as the offices of the rabbinate at the beginning of the street, and went as far as the flower garden near the entrance to Doctor Ticho’s eye clinic; then he veered toward Jaffa Road. Remembering that, to the left of Harav Kook Street, there was another cut one could take, he turned back, followed it up three or four steps, and came to a narrow lane. A boy with a basket full of baked goods was coming toward him. Herbst saw the boy and was reassured that he was on the right track, for these streets were not to be trusted. They could have been closed off since the last time you were there, making the route longer rather than shorter, as intended. The boy pressed himself to the wall to let Herbst pass, since the road was too narrow for two bodies moving in opposite directions. Herbst nodded in gratitude and surprise that the boy was so polite as to let him pass first. The boy laughed. Herbst asked him, “Why are you laughing?” The boy answered, “Because.” Herbst said, “‘Because’ is no answer. Tell me, please, why were you laughing?” The boy answered, “I remembered a funny story, so I laughed.” He said, “What funny story did you remember?” He said, “Something I learned last night.” He said, “You go to night school?” The boy nodded, with the basket still on his head. Herbst said, “What are you studying, and what was the story you remembered? Isn’t that basket heavy? I’ll take it down, and you can tell me the story.” The boy said, “Heavy? If I wanted to, I could dance the hora without letting the basket fall, without losing a single cake or one sesame seed.” Herbst said, “Is that so? But don’t you want to tell me the funny story? Tell it, and I’ll listen.” The boy said, “If I want, I can tell it word for word.” Herbst said, “Word for word? Does the teacher expect you to know it word for word?” The boy said, “I wanted to learn it.” “Word for word? How did you arrive at that?” The boy stared at him and said, “It happened, all by itself.” “By itself? How come?” The boy said, “I thought it was such a good story that I read it again and again and again. Meanwhile, the book slipped out of my hand, and the words kept coming out of my mouth, just like in the book. I picked up the book, glanced at it, and saw that every word I said was in the book.” Herbst said, “Meanwhile, you probably forgot half of the story.” The boy said, “If you like, you can test me.” Herbst said, “I’m not a teacher, so I won’t test you. I just want to hear whether you really still remember the whole story.” The boy said, “But if someone comes, we’ll have to get out of the way.” Herbst said, “Then we’ll get out of the way.” The boy said, “I’ll move backward. Which way will you move? Forward or backward?” Herbst said, “What would you suggest?” The boy laughed again. Herbst said, “When the time comes, we’ll worry. Now for your story. But put down the basket. It must be heavy.” The boy shook his head back and forth, studying Herbst’s face to see if he noticed that the cakes in the basket hadn’t stirred at all. He said to him, “I could stick one arm on the ground and stretch the other toward the sky without disturbing the basket. Want to see?” Herbst said, “If you tell the story first.” The boy said, “Good. I’ll tell it.

“There was once a river. There was a bridge over the river so one could cross to the other side. It was such a narrow bridge that only one person could cross at a time. One day, two billy goats approached the bridge, one at each end. Each one of them stood his ground – one on this side of the river, the other on the other side of the river. When they finally got to the middle of the bridge, one goat insisted that he had seniority and should be allowed to pass first, that he was greater and more distinguished than his brother, being descended from a herd that originated on Mount Gilead. The other goat, goaded by his lineage, claimed seniority too. He considered himself especially distinguished because of the verse in Exodus ‘Those women whose hearts were stirred by wisdom spun goat’s hair,’ a reference to the very goats he was descended from, whose hair adorned the tabernacle. They stood confronting each other, making no move to back away. They stood there interminably. One of the goats became enraged and goaded the other goat, trying to provoke him. ‘You haven’t made a move yet. Bestir yourself and get going, before I reduce you to goat dung.’ To which his rival answered, ‘How dare you speak so brazenly?’ They fought, seizing each other’s heads and locking horns, until they both fell into the depths of the river.”

While Herbst stood listening to the tale of the goats, he heard the sound of young legs and saw a courtyard, half-obstructed by boxes and battered crates, half-screened by woven wire that formed a shedlike structure, which was draped with sacks and branches. Inside the shed were six or seven girls in exercise clothes. A woman, wearing a summer dress and a straw hat, seemed to be in charge. With one hand, she issued orders; with the other, she wiped her sweaty brow. An old man in hospital clothes surveyed the scene from a window in the wall that overlooked the shed. Putting these elements together, you realized that the courtyard was next to the hospital and that next to it was a girl’s school with no facilities for calisthenics, so this spot was used for that purpose.

Herbst wiped his eyes and his forehead. Then he turned onto Hasollel Street. He came to the offices of the
Palestine Post
at the head of the street and scanned the newspaper in the display case on the wall, making an effort to avoid the bad news, such as reports of those distressing events known as “riots” that were occurring at the time. He heard the noise of the printing press, which was on the ground floor of the building, duplicating the news. Herbst stood there, his eyes tightly clenched, listening with his feet. He was straining to remember something, but he didn’t know what. He found himself at the window of Bamberger and Wahrmann, the bookstore, where he saw Samuel Karweiss’s book on the history of the Jews in Byzantium and remembered that it had been recommended to him several days earlier. In fact, this is what he had been trying to remember. But he didn’t linger, because he was eager to be the first one to get to see those German classics, and he had wasted too much time on the boy and his story, which wasn’t worth hearing after all, even had he been at leisure, and all the more so when he was in a hurry. At that moment, the barber was stationed outside of his shop, waiting for someone to appear for a haircut or a chat. The barber saw Herbst and said to him, “I see, Dr. Herbst, that you’re in a hurry. You probably don’t want to be detained. Still, it occurs to me to tell you something that pertains to delay. I ask that you listen, not on my behalf, but on behalf of the man who is credited with these remarks. I don’t know if you were already here when Balfour came to this country to celebrate the founding of the university. I don’t imagine you were here yet. The English weren’t allowing Jews from Germany to come in, because they were too German. This doesn’t affect the story itself. As you can imagine, I would have liked to see Balfour; not merely to see him, but to be near him, on the great day of the opening of the Hebrew University in Jerusalem. I wasn’t among the guests. Even in my dreams, I didn’t see a way to get a ticket. But how could I give up? I said, ‘It would be enough for someone like me to stand in proximity to Balfour, who was granted what no king or nobleman since Cyrus was granted. If not in proximity, then in the same territory.’ I put on my best clothes and was ready to go. I say ‘to go’ when I should say ‘to run.’ If someone had come and said, ‘Bernhardt, would you like a mule to ride on?’ I would have given him the very shirt off my back right after the celebration. No such person appeared. But my neighbor did appear, a Breslover Hasid, God-fearing, happy, and innocent. I love all Jews, especially the Hasidim of Breslov, whose manner is so pious, and most of all my neighbor the Hasid, for the very fringes of his coat trail good conduct and righteous ways, not to mention what comes out of his mouth. At any time, on any occasion, for any event, he has a phrase of his
rebbe’s
to offer, or some other pleasantry. Every person has his moment, but not every moment is equivalent for all people. I told him, ‘I can’t stop now, not even for one breath.’ He smiled, a bewildered smile, and said, ‘What’s the hurry?’ I knew that if I told him I was running to see Balfour, he, in his great innocence, would not be able to grasp the importance of the event. I told him I was going on a trip and was in a rush. He smiled broadly, rubbed his hands together, and said, ‘You’re going on a trip. Then let me tell you something relevant. Our holy
rebbe
, may his merit protect us, used to say that when someone is going on a trip, no one should interfere; he should be allowed to fix his attention on it, lest he forget something.’ Now you tell me, Dr. Herbst, wasn’t it worth your while to linger for the sake of that pronouncement?”

As it happened, after he took leave of the barber, it happened that he was needlessly delayed once again. How did this come about? I won’t refrain from telling all about it, though it compounds the delay.