The Retrospective: Translated From the Hebrew by Stuart Schoffman (23 page)

“A fine wish for you, but hard to fulfill. If my brother were here, he would be happy to be your confessor.”

“Then why not you, Manuel? You strike me as trustworthy and attentive, and besides, there's little chance we'll ever meet again. So let's do a confession in Hebrew, as in the early days of Christianity, and I'll concentrate on my professional sins so as not to interfere with our friendship.”

“Ah, my friend,” Manuel says with a clap of his hands, “I am a monk, not a priest, and I cannot grant absolution to anyone.”

“Absolution?” Moses is taken by surprise. “I don't need absolution, nor do I believe in absolution that does not follow an act of atonement—which no one else can perform in my place.”

“If you want just confession”—Manuel smiles—“let's sit down at the table, and please, speak slowly.”

“No, no, not here,” objects Moses, “what I want is a confession in a real booth, tiny and dark, with a curtain and grille, opposite a hidden face that enables total freedom. But now, as I walked through the church, I saw that the booths were full and the lines were long.”

Manuel promises to try to find a suitable confessional on the lower floor, for everyone who comes to Santiago is something of a pilgrim, and it would be a shame if Moses returned to his homeland with an empty soul.

Manuel goes out to look, and Moses regrets embroiling such an amiable fellow in his scheme, a man of goodwill, if a tad disorganized. The flight to Barcelona is four hours from now, and the airport is not far away, but because the bags are ticketed to Israel, they are suspect by definition and must be checked well in advance. Meanwhile, Ruth will return to the hotel and be worried by his absence, so he decides to wait for only ten minutes, and if Manuel has not returned, he will leave him a note of apology next to the open book.

It is a volume in Latin, printed in the early nineteenth century. Its text is minimal and illustrations plentiful, some in bright colors and others in black-and-white. Portraits of priests and bishops and cardinals in decorative vestments, each according to his role and rank—apparently clergymen who served in the cathedral, which appears in faint outline in the background of each picture. Inserted at times among the men of the cloth is a man of temporal power—a patron or prince, or a tall gaunt knight wearing a helmet and sword with a small goatee, perhaps a distant relative of Don Quixote. And now and then, a band of armed soldiers, clad in billowy riding pants, preceded by a handsome young man tooting a hunting horn. Less often, he happens upon a well-fed noblewoman reclining in the parlor of her home, or a thin, sad young woman sitting on a horse, and on the next page a portrait of just the horse, and beside it a tall dog, gazing purposefully into the distance. Moses turns the pages drowsily, looks again at his watch. The desire to sit in the confession booth seems childish and unnecessary. Really, why bother with reality? In his next film, he can stick a confession scene in the script and tell the set designer to reproduce a booth, with a curtain and grille, so that during production, between takes, the director can enter it at will and confess to someone he deems worthy.

The sound of rapid footsteps. The door opens and the radiant face of the monk appears. A confessional has been located on the lower floor, actually the personal booth of the local bishop, intended for visiting priests and monks who wish to confess to him. Manuel has received permission to admit the foreign confessant, but so as not to provoke a theological controversy, he has not disclosed his non-Christian identity, though he does not fear its exposure, since his life's mission is to be a subversive monk: this is the new word he uses to guide his actions. In Madrid he received a special dispensation to assist immigrants and refugees of dubious identity and illegal foreign workers, among them even pagans. His heart is gladdened by the mere possibility of taking confession in Hebrew from a Jew who denies the existence of any God, so he has now decided, on his own authority, to violate another principle: though he is not a priest but just a monk, he is prepared to grant absolution, and he announces this so Moses will feel free to confess with complete openness.

Moses laughs. He doesn't need absolution.

And why not? It will be given even if not urgently needed now. Moses can save it for the afterlife. Dominican absolution in a bishop's booth in the historic cathedral may come in handy in the World to Come, should he discover that it exists.

They descend more stairs, passing the tomb of Saint James, where pilgrims crowd for a touch of the sacred stone, and continue through a maze of hallways to a quiet chapel with a dark booth in the corner. But Manuel's subversion is not complete. Because he is unwilling to have the aged confessant kneel before him, he turns the tables—he opens the booth, moves aside the red leather curtain, and gently seats Moses on the chair of the priest, while he kneels to hear the confession from behind the lattice.

T
O CONFESS FOR
the first time in his life in the depths of a magnificent cathedral just prior to a flight back to Israel is very naughty, downright anarchic. What's not yet clear is what to confess to.

He decides on a brief, symbolic confession, a training confession, so that if he ever wants to stage such a scene in a movie, say a detective flick or a comedy, he can boast to the actors that he's directing from personal experience.

The booth in the bishop's chapel is unlike the booths Moses has seen in churches. This one is plush, almost luxurious. The curtain is made of leather and not cloth, and the inside walls are also upholstered in leather, as in a recording studio, to muffle the voices as much as possible. On the seat lies a plump leather pillow, and, remarkably enough, the screen separating the confessor and confessant is not metal but is also made of leather, punched through with holes, so it seems as if myriad eyes are peering from the other side. The overbearing scent of the leather, redolent of the sweat and tears of generations of sinners, makes Moses a bit nauseated, as if he were trapped inside a hippopotamus. But Manuel's voice is soft and courteous.

“Here I am listening to you, Moses, you may say whatever comes to mind.”

“Thank you, Manuel. My confession will be short and to the point. Also, I don't want to keep you too long in that uncomfortable position.”

“Please don't think about me. Think about yourself.”

“Do you remember the film screened this morning at the municipality before the ceremony?”

“A most interesting film.”

“Do you know what your mother said about it?”

“Verily, she praised it.”

“In fine words, but noncommittal, and she had strong reservations about the ending, thought it was vague and meaningless.”

The darkness of the chapel intensifies that of the confessional, and the eyes of the monk disappear intermittently from the grille, but his voice expresses regret. In recent years his mother has been disappointed by all endings of films, plays, and novels; she even rejects the final scenes of older, classic films, surely for a personal reason: her own approaching end. Moses is in the company of respected directors and screenwriters and should not take her words personally.

Moses smiles and pauses before continuing.

“But this time, Manuel, your mother is right. This morning, having seen the film for the first time in many years, I understood the weakness of the final scene—it does not relieve any of the tensions that have built up.”

“If so,” says the voice behind the screen, with relief, “you are not angry with my mother?”

“Rather than getting angry over justifiable criticism, a serious artist should be angry with himself.”

“But in those days you were a young beginner, so why be angry with yourself?”

“Because the evasive ending of the film did not come from inexperience. The film had a different ending, a truer one, but I rejected it.”

“Ah . . .”

What am I doing in this grotesque and suffocating darkness?
Moses asks himself.
Maybe I should leave it at what's been said and go back to Ruth?

Except the Dominican, yearning to grant absolution, holds on to the confession so as not to lose the confessant.

“And if you had the right ending, why did you give it up?”

“The actress was frightened, and I, instead of calming her and letting the screenwriter, her lover, convince her to play the part he wrote for her—I supported her refusal. You probably want to know what the original ending was.”

“But of course!” replies Manuel, excited.

“You remember the film: the heroine hands her baby to a social worker, who hurries off so the mother will not have time to regret her action and change her mind. And instead of aimlessly walking, lost in thought, to the beach, the heroine was to have left the clinic and wandered the streets—then, lost and guilt-stricken and exhausted, she would spot an old beggar on the street corner, approach him, toss him a few coins, and ask him to forgive her for what she had done. When she realizes the old man has no idea what she wants of him, she would suddenly throw open her coat, unbutton her blouse, take out her breast, and compel or seduce the beggar to suck the milk intended for her infant child. That was the scene I canceled.”

“Alas,” murmurs Manuel, but he regains his composure and consoles Moses, tells him not to flagellate himself. Sometimes life is more important than art.

“What makes you think I'm flagellating myself?”

“Is it not the regret over canceling that scene that makes you seek confession?”

“No, I have no regret, only a desire to understand. And in this retrospective, I've come to understand that I didn't cancel the scene out of consideration for the actress but because of the opportunity to sever the connection with the one who conceived of it. I did it in order to distance myself once and for all from this strange and alien spirit that had hypnotized my work in the early years.”

“Señor Trigano . . .” Manuel pronounces the name.

Moses is alarmed. “You know him?”

“Only his name.”

“How?”

“My brother spoke his name.”

“And what did Juan say about him?”

“Not much . . .”

A long silence.

“And?”

“He depicted him as a private person trapped in his own thoughts . . . a unique soul, but hardened by pride.”

“What else?”

“My brother admitted to you that it was Trigano who initiated the retrospective in your honor. If, as you say, he is now an alien spirit for you, why do you feel guilty about severing your partnership with him?”

“And why,” Moses says half seriously, “is it necessary to talk about guilt in every confession?”

“There always needs to be a little guilt,” replies the monk apologetically, “a minor sin, a tiny error . . . because if not, why have absolution?”

“But I told you, I have no need for absolution. Your brother Juan has a keen eye for people. If I had succumbed to the ideas and fantasies of that man, I would have slid to a place of no return.”

“Slid?” The Spaniard tastes the Hebrew word.

“Slipped . . . sunk . . . descended . . . entangled myself in revolutionary, pretentious stories intelligible only to the cognoscenti, which would have brought me to the point of surrendering my directing to Trigano too.”

But the Dominican, troubled that his confessant shows no regret, now tries cautiously to cross the thin line between the professional and the personal, to deepen the confession.

“If you wished to distance him,” he ventures, “perhaps it was because you wished to get closer to the woman so she would be under your wing alone?”

“The opposite . . . the exact opposite,” Moses answers, after a brief silence. “Like everyone in my crew, I had strong feelings for her, but we all knew that she and Trigano were soul mates. So when he broke with me, I was sure he would take her with him. I wanted him to, but he punished her and me, left her to me as a character for whom I had to take responsibility.”

“A character?”

“I mean, not as a woman, but as a character.”

“As a character?” The monk strains to understand. “A figure that resembles another figure?”

“Yes, a character.”

“As a character of whom?”

“Like a character in a book, a novel, or a character in art,” fumbles the confessant, “characters you see in a stained-glass window. A character who is herself, but not only herself.”

“You mean symbolic? Who symbolizes others?”

“Not necessarily. Not always others. Also not an archetype. A real person, an individual, but one who has something else around her . . . a frame of sorts . . . a halo . . . an emotional aura . . . as in a dream. After all, Trigano also brought her to us as a character. A character from whose very existence a story flows. So when she rebelled against him, and he gave her up and left her to others, to me, he handed her over not as an actual woman but as the character of a woman.”

Deep silence from beyond the grille. Just the muffled moan of organ music drifting from above.

“Yet when he left her, he punished himself more than he punished you,” the monk suggests to his confessant.

“His art was more important to him than his loved one.”

“And she?”

“She?”

“Or you?”

“I?”

“Has she stayed with you since then as a character alone?”

“As a woman, she had friends, and still does.”

“Just friends?”

“I mean, also lovers . . . they come and go. She even had a son by one of them.”

“And you?” Manuel dares to step over the fence that has utterly collapsed.

“Not to be tempted by her solitude, I hurried to get married. Besides, her spirit isn't a good fit with mine, she comes from a wilder place. But I couldn't abandon a character who sought a place in my work.”