The Retrospective: Translated From the Hebrew by Stuart Schoffman (3 page)

The very first showing of the aforementioned film was at three in the afternoon. A few viewers walked out in the middle, but a man with a hat planted firmly on his head watched attentively till the end. He came back for the first evening show, the hat again conspicuous as the lights went down. At somebody's request, he removed it, revealing a big and shiny pate. Moses and Toledano were determined to find out what drew this man to watch the film twice in a single day, but he slipped out of the hall in darkness before the film was over. To their astonishment, he turned up at the third showing, at nine that night, and sat down in the back row. This time the director and cinematographer blocked his path before the lights went up and asked what compelled him to watch so unpolished a film three times in a single day.

He was evasive at first but then quickly complied, introducing himself as a painter. He thoroughly analyzed scene after scene, listing its strengths and weaknesses, and though his reservations were substantial, he also offered encouragement. The filmmakers were intrigued: If the film had so many flaws, why see it three times in one day? The painter hemmed and hawed, but finally admitted that it was because of the young actress, who had so moved him that he came back to engrave her image in his mind, for who knew when he would again see her on the screen? Strange words of praise, as he had not spared criticism of her acting, yet he came back, drawn by her charms. The cinematographer asked for a fuller explanation, if only to know how to capture that magic in the future. Whereupon, with precise professionalism, the painter proceeded to describe the nature of the sensuality that had spoken to him, sketched her facial structure in the air with his hand, detailed the shifts of expression in her eyes, marveled at the lightness of her gait, her ease as she sat down, and, above all, the perfect form of her “heavenly legs.” Those were the very words he spoke in the darkness as the last lights went out in the lobby of the movie theater. Moses was disgusted by the libidinal enthusiasm of the old, foul-smelling man. But the cinematographer hung on every word, as if in the future he would be able to translate the artist's professional lust into perfect lighting and camera angles.

Was that the moment that sparked Toledano's secret love for the actress who was bound body and soul to the scriptwriter? For even after Toledano married, he would often remind Moses, half seriously, of the keen observations of the “man with the hat,” to guide him in the staging of scenes that preserved the magic. Years later, when Trigano abandoned Ruth, the cinematographer remained faithful, and if there were no jobs for her in films by Moses or others, he would find work for her in commercials, where he was free to film the fading magic from every conceivable angle. One day, when he attempted to film her from a cliff as she lay nearly naked on the beach below, he carelessly lost his footing and crashed to an untimely death.

T
HE BLACK VELVET
curtain grows lighter, and hunger too makes its demands. Ruth is an inveterate night owl, late to bed and late to rise. But since this retrospective will require long hours of attendance, it would be good to hurry up and use the morning to explore the city of pilgrimage. Moses is careful not to touch the sleeping woman, but he draws the curtain back and opens the window too, so that light and air will wake her. And when he emerges from the bathroom, fragrant with cologne supplied by the hotel, he finds her curled under the covers with smiling eyes, and since she knows how addicted he is to sumptuous hotel breakfasts, which in recent years have become the most satisfying benefit of his travels, she urges him to go to the dining room and not wait for her. Lately, Yair Moses often imagines his meals in advance, and in his pursuit of a precise naturalistic style, he prolongs the eating scenes in his films, insisting that real food be served, colorful and appealing, not sterile replicas, and he instructs the cameramen to shoot close-ups of full plates and wineglasses, not just long shots of the dining table. Within scenes he sometimes has actors cut short the dialogue and improvise personal reactions to the food. You are not dogs, unable to express opinions of what they eat, he likes to tease the actors, but intelligent beings who need to understand not only what comes out of your mouths but also what goes in.

He himself, though, prefers to eat in silence. As the years have gone by, he has become increasingly convinced of the value of being alone and keeping to a daily schedule. He is content to embark on flights of imagination and planning, especially at a sumptuous breakfast, a feast for the eyes and palate, such as he has discovered in the dining room on the ground floor of the historic hotel. A small sign by the entrance informs guests that this same dining hall was in operation during the Renaissance, serving the weary pilgrims who lodged at the royal hospice and those who cared for them. The waitresses' traditional attire arouses interest along with appetite. He looks around for a table suitable for a lavish but introverted meal, and then a woman, thin as a bird and not young, approaches him tentatively and informs him that she has been sent by the film archive and institute to be his guide for the day.

If he asks her to wait for him in the lobby, his meal will be hasty and unsatisfying. But neither does he want her to watch as he gorges himself alone, so he urges her to join him. “Before my companion arrives,” he tells her, “come advise me on the fine points of Galician cuisine, so I won't miss the best or be tempted by the worst.” She is embarrassed by the invitation, but since the flimsiness of her physique enables Moses to steer her with a light touch to the multi-tiered buffet and shove a big plate into her hand, she cooperates, naming the local dishes, listing their pros and cons. And as Moses, acting on her recommendations, piles his plate with tiny pigeon eggs and pickled fish in bluish brine and golden pastries shaped like shells, she too talks herself into an ample plateful of the same. The name of the birdlike adviser is Pilar Carballo, who identifies herself as a teacher of animation at the film institute. Despite her tiny frame, or because of it, she turns out to be an energetic eater, or maybe she arrived at the hotel especially hungry. In shared pleasure, they eat their fill, and to ensure orderly consumption, he asks many brief general questions about the institute and its personnel, the city and its residents, so his guest may reply at length and in detail while he continues to eat. Pilar is happy to oblige and also spells out the plan for the day.

The schedule, as promised, is jam-packed: First, a visit to the cathedral, which considering its importance is worth additional visits. From there, a courtesy call on the mayor, who has promised to attend one of the films at the Israeli's retrospective. From the mayor's office, back to the cathedral to see its museum, and then, time permitting, a taste of the Old Town. At noon, a lunch-and-study session with teachers from the institute and employees of the archive. At three, the screening of the first film, followed by discussion; at six, the second film and discussion; at nine, the third film, plus discussion. Around midnight, top off the day with a meal at a superb restaurant.

“No, that's enough.” Moses touches the little bird's hand. “Did you all forget how old I am?”

“How could we forget?” she counters with a cheerful smile. “We studied your biography.” As proof she produces from her handbag a folded sheet of paper with an old photo of Moses, along with his resumé in Spanish.

“No,” protests Moses, “midnight is much too late for a gourmet meal. Let's work it in between the second and third screenings.”

“Impossible. In a restaurant like this, the break between the two films would barely be enough for a first course.”

“So there'll be only a first course, and maybe a quick dessert. What can I do, Pilar? It's how I was brought up. Nights are for sleeping, not eating.”

She shrugs, as if to say the nights in Spain are long enough for both eating and sleeping. Suddenly she shifts her gaze, eyes flashing, and rises to invite Ruth, wandering among the tables, to join them. “Here's your companion,” she says, in keeping with his resumé. “How charming to meet such a lovable character in person and not just on the screen.”

The two hug and kiss as if they were childhood friends. Moses has observed in recent years that Ruth is quick to throw her arms around anyone still excited to meet her, maybe to seize the connection before she is forever forgotten. Moses puts his napkin on his plate and hangs his scarf on the chair to indicate imminent return, and hurries back to the room, which Ruth has tidied up. He inspects
Roman Charity,
still hoping to discover the name of the artist, but to no avail.

Before returning to the dining room, he inquires at the reception desk about the reproduction of the painting hanging by his bed. Who was the artist, when was it originally painted, and in what museum may it be found? The desk clerk writes down his room number and the location of the picture and asks him to describe it, and Moses obliges.

“If the picture is disturbing to you, sir, we can replace it by this afternoon—”

“No, on the contrary, I like it, it's very nice, but also quite intriguing.”

It will be difficult to find a quick answer, but the desk clerk promises to forward the question to the director of the cathedral's museum.

On his way back to the table, Moses asks the waitress for another cup of coffee. At the table, the two women are deep in conversation. “All right, then,” says Moses, “let's get going and see the cathedral.”

“But wait,” insists Ruth, “which films were picked for our retrospective?” Linking herself, as usual, to Moses.

“What's the difference,” Moses says in Hebrew, “we know our own films.”

“But if we have to explain, or defend them . . .”

“Defend?” Moses pats her arm affectionately. “You mean discuss them. But even if we need to defend them, so what? We won't know how to defend what we created?”

Pilar pulls out a piece of paper with the titles in Spanish of the three films to be screened that day, improvising their translation into English, and the visitors do not recognize a single one. “You're sure these are ours?” asks Moses with a laugh. “Or did you bring someone else's films by mistake?”

It turns out that here in Spain, foreign films are freely assigned titles that appeal to the local audience. It takes a bit of wit and ingenuity to excavate the old titles hiding behind the new. There has been no mistake. These are indeed Moses' films, from the dawn of his career, forgotten films made in full collaboration with Trigano.

“Why did you pick such ancient films of mine?”

“For you they are ancient,” says Pilar, “but not for us. We have silent films here in which the mother of de Viola, the director of our archive, performed as an actress.”

“She's still alive?”

“Barely. But if she feels well enough, she will personally present you with the award you've been promised.”

“I
F THESE ARE
today's films,” says Moses to Ruth as they walk into the giant square, whose majestic emptiness in daylight is no less glorious than its nakedness at night, “we won't be able to go shopping during the screenings. We'll have to sit in the dark and try and remember the details, or we won't be able to answer the audience's questions intelligently.”

The day is cold and bright. The plaza is lined by imposing palaces, which Pilar identifies by name—Palacio de Rajoy, where the mayor will soon receive them for an official visit, and the former Colegio de San Jerónimo, today the Institute of Galician Studies, whose rector, says Pilar, hopes to honor them with his presence at one of the screenings. And of course the massive cathedral itself, built atop a Romanesque church, its towers looming above a grand quadruple flight of stairs, the battered, greenish steps leading to the entrance. An aficionado of European cathedrals, Moses enjoys the novel experience of a long climb from ground level to the towering church. At the northern face of the cathedral stands a statue of Santiago, Saint James, one of the twelve apostles of Jesus and the patron saint of Spain; his sacred remains migrated to this place and since the Middle Ages have attracted pilgrims from all over the world who seek blessings and healing.

Therefore, in contrast to many European cathedrals, where often one finds only an African or Korean priest celebrating the Mass for a handful of foreign workers and a few local women, here the cathedral is crammed with tourists, who upon entering are transformed into pilgrims; they kneel and make the sign of the cross, sing sweet hymns at masses performed in small chapels. Near the stairs leading to the crypt housing the relics of the saint, believers wait patiently in line, hoping to draw strength from the dry bones.

Because the birdlike emissary of the archive is not sure if Jews draw strength from a competing religion, she leads them instead alongside the pews, pausing occasionally at statues and explaining their significance.

One cannot help but notice the brisk activity in the confessional booths. Along the interior walls, on both sides, the booths are arrayed one after the next, many more than generally found in cathedrals. Remarkably, even at this early hour, the confessionals are manned by priests in robes, some hidden behind a curtain, others on view awaiting prospective clients, immersed in books that through the lattices of the booths appear to be novels rather than holy scriptures.

Moses is impressed by the vitality of the religious rite of confession, which he had naively assumed was on the decline. “Decline? Not in Spain,” Pilar replies, “and surely not in this cathedral.” She blushes, her eyes glinting with mischief. Perhaps the visitors from Israel wish to confess?

“I don't rule it out,” Yair Moses says with a smile, “but I would first need to put my sins in order.”

“In order? How so?”

“Separate personal from professional sins, for which I would need a priest who is also an expert in film. But is it possible for a priest to take confession from someone who is neither a Christian nor a believer in God?”