The Retrospective: Translated From the Hebrew by Stuart Schoffman (32 page)

For Hanukkah, she has suggested to one of the schools in south Tel Aviv where she runs drama clubs that they not settle for some banal holiday skit about the little cruse of oil that lasted eight days but stage a real play about the Maccabees based on a fine novel by Howard Fast,
My Glorious Brothers.
The school's principal was concerned that the lofty language of the Hebrew adaptation might prove too difficult for many students. However, when Ruth explained that many years back, in a school in the desert town of Yeruham, she herself as a girl had acted in
My Glorious Brothers
, and that even though the parents and children were new immigrants the play was received with awe and appreciation, the principal gave her approval, provided that the play run no longer than fifty minutes.

And so, for several weeks now, Ruth has been coaching the Maccabees at the school, occasionally inviting the lead actors to her studio to polish their performance. She would not, of course, think of inviting Moses to the school, but if he wants to attend the individual coaching sessions, he can come, on two conditions—first, that he not introduce himself as a movie director, as that might generate false hopes; and second, that he not share his comments, positive or negative, with the students, only with her.

He has often visited her apartment in Neve Tzedek, to discuss a new role or as a loving friend who happened to be in the neighborhood, but she has never opened her studio door to him, even though it is across the hall from her flat. More than once, when he inquired about her sources of income and expressed interest in seeing the studio, she refused. “It's a mess and you will not find what you're looking for.” “But what am I looking for?” he would protest. “I only want to know you better.” And she would persist in her refusal: “What you know is more than enough.”

But today, in hopes of being a partner in his new film, she will open the door of her studio to him and let him observe her work. In so doing she forces him to go without his afternoon nap and get to her place before the students arrive, and she repeats the stipulation that he must sit on the side and not intervene and, most important of all, not introduce himself as a film director.

The studio is not nearly as small as he had been warned. It's a fair-sized room, with an adjacent kitchenette used for storage. Though the room has only one window, it's large and faces the sea, admitting mellow afternoon light. True, there are lots of costumes in the studio—some that she and other actors had worm in his films—alongside props meant to stimulate the imagination of children: masks, swords and spears of tin or wood, toy guns and hand grenades, all stuffed into the kitchenette. She seats him beside a tiny bathroom partitioned by a curtain, near a white tunic worn by the cantor in
In
Our Synagogue
.

“To hide you completely would be dangerous,” she says, “because if you sneeze or cough it will scare the children, but for once in your life, try to minimize your presence.”

Before long, three students pile into the room, two boys and a girl, quickly removing their coats and overstuffed backpacks, dumping them in a heap in the corner by Moses. He smiles at them but is careful not to say a word. Ruth, contradicting her own instructions, introduces him as an old friend, a famous film director, who has come to observe the rehearsal.

Predictably, the kids, for whom film is the pinnacle of all the arts, are excited, and one of them, a dark-complexioned boy of about thirteen, wants to know the director's name and film credits. Moses, with a sheepish smile, lists a few from his retrospective, but Ruth interrupts and says, “That's enough, kids, let's get down to work.” The two boys are apparently of Middle Eastern extraction, but the girl's coloring suggests the Far East. A tall, slim Asian with a finely sculpted face and big slanted eyes—perhaps she's the child of foreign workers who put down roots here, or a member of some tribe from deepest Asia that qualified as Jews under the Law of Return. Their drama teacher has them perform a few warm-up exercises to loosen their bodies and wake them from the torpor of their school day, and then she seats them on a bench to refresh their knowledge of the text before they perform the scene.

The boy who took an interest in Moses plays Simon the Hasmonean, the main character, and has mastered his lines of dialogue. The girl, who is called Ruth in the play, is still a bit shaky in her part, but the traces of a foreign accent in her delivery add to her charm and beauty.

He will need to get her name and address, decides Moses. Even if she had no dialogue, a close-up of her marvelous face would captivate the audience.

A nighttime conversation ensues between Simon the Hasmonean and the girl who courts him, while the other boy, Judah Maccabee, sits still on the side, staring at the young lovers.

 

R
UTH:
Simon, where art thou?

S
IMON:
Who calls Simon?

R
UTH:
A moonstruck lad like you, sitting and dreaming of a lovely lass—were you bored, Simon?

S
IMON:
I feared that jackals had broken into the corral. It is not proper, Ruth, that you sit here with me.

R
UTH:
Why? Why is it not proper that I should sit with you, Simon, and is it not a lion you wait for and not a jackal?

It is three hundred years since a lion has arisen in Judea.

You never smile, you are never amused, is this not so, Simon, son of Mattathias? There is no one unhappier than you in all of Modi'in—in all of Judea—in all the world. Methinks I would give the best years of my life to see a lion leap hither and swallow you up.

S
IMON:
That is most doubtful . . .

R
UTH:
There was a time that you liked me, Simon, or did I just imagine it . . . Each time I came to Mattathias' house, my heart asked me—will Simon be there? Will he look at me? Smile at me? Speak to me? Touch my hand?

S
IMON:
Not four days have passed since Judah went away.

R
UTH:
What?

S
IMON:
You heard my words.

R
UTH:
Simon, what have I to do with Judah? Simon, what troubles you? What harm have I done to you? You are a block of ice, not only with me, with your father and Judah as well!

S
IMON:
And for no reason?

R
UTH:
I do not know for what, Simon.

S
IMON:
When you went out with Judah, before he left—

R
UTH:
I do not love Judah.

S
IMON:
And he, does he know this?

R
UTH:
He knows.

S
IMON:
But he loves you, I do know this, I know my brother Judah, every gesture, every look of his eyes, every thought of his heart. All his life he has received what he has wished. I know his accursed humility—

R
UTH:
And for this you hateth him.

S
IMON:
I do not hate him.

R
UTH:
Simon, Simon, Simon son of Mattathias, Simon of Modi'in. Many are the names I have called you in my heart. My Simon, ah, how wise you are, yet such a fool. It has always been only you for me, and I dream that one day you will love me. Even if you do not love me, I will live near to you. So that you will look at me, speak to me. Am I not even worthy of this?

S
IMON:
And Judah loves you.

R
UTH:
Simon, is Judah the purpose of your life? Have you nothing else in your world except for him? Judah took me in his arms and I took pity on him. I am not his and not another's. Simon son of Mattathias—there is but one man to whom I could belong.

S
IMON:
You took pity on him? You took pity on Judah?

R
UTH:
I took pity on him, Simon, do you truly not understand?

 

And here the director stops them, as impassioned and excited as if she herself has poured out the love-talk of two ancient youths into her small studio space. And the visitor is pleased by the ability to turn stilted and archaic dialogue into flowing, living conversation, and despite the caution not to react, he cannot hold back and claps his hands.

The two youngsters smile. But the third one, serious and gloomy—Judah Maccabee, who morosely listened to the others speak, a rejected lover before he even enters the play—casts a cold eye at Yair Moses, who stands up as he tries to recall in the mist of memory where and when he encountered such a serious gaze.

B
ECAUSE HE WOULD
never consider using a toilet meant for children and concealed by a curtain, he hints to his hostess that he would like to enter her apartment. And she gives him the key and asks in a whisper: “Will you manage by yourself?” “Of course,” replies the guest. “What kind of question is that?”

He does know the apartment well. Past the living room is a charming bedroom, in which a few years ago he sometimes spent the night. Not much has changed. Colorfully upholstered sofas and armchairs with scattered pillows cheerfully complement framed posters on the walls of films she had appeared in.

Admittedly there is something tacky about an apartment whose walls are covered with street ads, yet the occupational narcissism doesn't detract from the aesthetic of the flat, especially since its owner anticipated that Moses would not miss the chance to get inside and made sure to tidy it up.

Before returning to the studio to see how the children manage the lovers' dialogue scene, he sinks into a favorite armchair and pours himself a glass of cognac from a bottle he brought here years ago. He looks around at the familiar walls and at the table. Among various papers is a new, unfamiliar drawing, a charcoal portrait of Ruth as a young woman, almost a girl. Clearly this is not by a professional artist but by a barely trained amateur, whose pencil made one eye a little bigger than the other and raised the forehead too high. The actress's smile in the portrait indicates the artist knew her well. Maybe the results of that first blood test are also on the table. If he showed them to his son-in-law, Zvi could tell what was ominous and what wasn't. But he doesn't touch anything. There was a time when he felt at home in this apartment, but that's over. The gaze of Judah Maccabee, the boy who had not spoken a word, flashes in his mind's eye. Can it be? Or was it just an illusion?

Ruth enters to see what's taking him so long.

“I felt weak, watching your young actors . . .”

“Well, get over it. Because now they want you to watch the rehearsal. I knew they would get all excited over a film director. Even in the most out-of-the-way school in this country, everybody wants to be a star.”

“Excuse me, but I'm not the one who revealed my identity.”

“That's true. But someone had to explain to them why an old man like you suddenly materialized in the studio, and I couldn't think of another identity for you. But what made you tired?”

“You just said I was old. Also, I missed my afternoon nap. Nice to see how patient you are with children. Though don't you think you ought to simplify the text a wee bit for them?”

“Simplify how?”

“Cut back the ‘where art thou' and ‘hateth' and ‘hither.' I'm afraid the audiences of kids will get lost in the stilted language.”

“Don't be so sure. Most of the students from south Tel Aviv come from traditional homes and their parents take them on Shabbat and holidays to the synagogue, where they are exposed to such words.”

“What about that boy?”

“Which boy?”

“The third one, the silent one, Judah Maccabee.”

“What about him?”

“He hasn't said a word. He doesn't have any lines?”

“Not today. I invited him to suffer in silence witnessing the love that grows between his beloved and his brother. To bring him closer to despair so he convincingly performs his death in tomorrow's rehearsal.”

“It's wonderful how you work as director. You seem to have learned something from me after all.”

“Maybe, a little.”

“By the way, doesn't that boy remind you of someone? That look of his . . . the way he stares . . .”

“You mean Trigano.”

“Exactly.” Moses is agitated. “I was afraid to say anything . . .”

“Afraid?”

“I don't know . . .”

“When I started to work with them I did notice a certain resemblance, and I checked whether there was a connection. Didn't find any. Though his grandfather came to Israel from the same region. But in the course of working with him, the resemblance got blurrier. He's a complicated child, not easy, uptight . . .”

“What's his name?”

“Elisha.”

“I didn't dare to say he reminds me of Trigano, it's been so many years since I've seen him.”

“Yes, there is something . . . You're not imagining it.”

“You see, I'm not yet completely senile. Let's go back to the studio. I'm eager to see you directing that scene. Will you ask the kids to touch physically, or does their love remain hanging in the air?”

“Kids today touch each other with ease. With love and also violence. Aren't you planning some serious touching in your next film?”