The Retrospective: Translated From the Hebrew by Stuart Schoffman (41 page)

“You may be right. It is late, and we're both tired. And the drive back does worry me. So let's stop here and continue our conversation in Tel Aviv.”

“No Tel Aviv, no conversation or meetings. Even this one was unnecessary from my standpoint, which is why it's the last one.”

“And what about your epiphany?”

“It stays with me.”

Y
OU STAND UP
and take your car keys from the table, and you head for the big house, followed by the wiry-haired white dog from Kibbutz Re'im. You go through the main hall, where all the screens on the walls have gone blank, and through the hallways between the rooms, but this time you enter one of the bathrooms, remove your jacket and shirt in semidarkness, and douse your half-naked body with cold water to invigorate it. After changing batteries in your hearing aids to refresh them too and petting the dog who waited patiently beside you, you head back to the arbor. From the doorway you hear a reedy wail.

“What happened?”

“Uriel has you mixed up with his grandfather, my wife's father, who is no longer with us. He was upset to see you disappear.”

“But I didn't disappear, Uriel, here I am.” You lean over the young man and dare to wipe gently a tear from his pallid face.

“See.” Trigano strokes his son. “It's not so easy to say goodbye to this grandpa. He keeps talking.”

And you go on to describe Amsalem's investment offer for a new film, on the condition that Trigano write the script.

“That vegetable dealer? He's still hanging around?”

“He's no longer a vegetable dealer, now he's a successful building contractor.”

“How old is he?”

“Over eighty. But fresh and youthful. After all, you were the one who introduced him to us.”

“He's still willing to lose money on your movies?”

“He invests small but useful amounts. The film business gives him status among his friends, and he invites them to premieres and helps me fill the hall. You don't need to worry about him. Even when the movie fails, his contract ensures he won't lose money.”

“I never worried about him. He's a wily bastard who knows how to take care of himself. So he's interested in some Turkish melodrama?”

“It could also be British. On television they showed a boy of fourteen from Liverpool who fathered a son. Amsalem decided that in this permissive generation, basic values are collapsing and the world is growing more absurd by the day, and he fondly remembers our early films, even though after every one he swore that we would never see another penny from him. Now suddenly he misses you. If Trigano is still up to it, he says, he should be the one to write the script. If he could plummet a train into a gorge so convincingly, he can make a schoolboy sire a baby, and concoct a tragic post-postmodern story out of it.”

“Why tragic?”

“Because he suggests that the schoolboy, in the end, should plot against his own child in order to get back at the mother.”

“So, in your old age, you finally found a fitting screenwriter.”

“I listen to everyone. True, his ideas are lowbrow and primitive, but sometimes he comes up with something original, from the marketplace, from the tumult of life, like the idea for
Potatoes,
which was a very successful film.”

“I didn't see it.”

“So what do you say?”

“What can I say? I've already said everything. You can tell Amsalem that Trigano still exists, but not for films by Moses, because there is a deep abyss between him and the director.”

“There you go again. You deepen it by the minute, make it ever darker. If there's an abyss between us, let's explore it. Enough with being proud and stubborn. Look at me. What do you see? An old teacher has come to you with goodwill. A penitent pilgrim.”

“A penitent?” he says with disbelief. “Penance to whom?”

“To you.”

Is it possible that the word
penitent,
uttered almost unconsciously, has softened his heart but might invite a daring demand of atonement? In any event it seems that your gentle hand on Uriel's cheek has quieted the boy. His deformed head has dropped, his eyes are shut, his breathing has grown heavier.

His father carefully wheels him back to the building. And now, alone at the table with no one nagging you, you take a look at what's before you, and poke around with knife and fork, and your appetite grows, and the hunger suppressed at the start of the evening erupts in force. The meat is cold by now. The unspecified internal organs are submerged in the sweetish sauce. But the fast you levied on yourself renders them delectable.

“You don't want me to heat up the meat for you?” You are startled by the farmer's wife standing behind you. “Why eat it cold?”

“No, I like it this way.”

“A few minutes ago two rockets fell in Sderot, but they just sounded the all-clear, no need to worry.”

You are now alone in the arbor, dogs crouching at your feet, mist rising from the earth. Trigano has not returned from putting his son to bed. Maybe he simply lay down and fell asleep beside him. Will a finale of dining alone top off a story about a director who tried his best to appease his screenwriter?

From behind the big house come sounds of screeching wheels and the clanging of cans. The big mule, wearing a sort of dunce cap, pulls the farmer in a little cart, bringing fresh milk for the residents. Raindrops penetrate the
sukkah.
Someone will need to show you the way home.

You are still as stone. A veteran artist waiting for a sign that will breathe life into a new creation.

S
OME TIME PASSES
before Trigano finally reappears, looking at you more charitably and apologizing. It was hard getting the boy to sleep. Meeting a stranger was enough to unsettle him. So he had to explain, to sing a song, tell a story. This time none of it calmed him; his father had to lie beside him and pretend he was falling asleep. “It's late, Moses, let's part amicably,” he says and puts on his coat and his hat and takes a pipe from his coat pocket. “The way to Tel Aviv is simple, some seventy kilometers, but it's starting to rain, which doesn't bother Hamas. Let's say goodbye.”

You don't budge.

The abyss . . .

Yes, the abyss. Trigano fills his pipe and lights it. No, he can't recall any other instance of a director and a screenwriter still troubled decades later by a scene that got canceled. And yet, an abyss. Even during the dubbing at the archive they all felt that the ending of the film was unclear and seemed pasted on. True enough, a weak and threadbare ending is no rarity in films, or plays, or books. Except that his original script had a proper, powerful ending, which was discarded out of cowardice. It wasn't to shock the audience that he wrote the closing scene. The thinking behind it was correct and human.

“The gifted former student, a dedicated army officer, who decided out of generosity and with full awareness to give birth to a child for a couple she loved, older people from a world utterly different from her own, Holocaust survivors, suddenly realized that with this noble act she had sentenced herself to be forever bound emotionally to a child whose life she will never really know. And yet, the tragedy of the adoptive parents, and the terror that dominates their memories, will inevitably become hers too and will cast their shadow on her entire future. So she decides to renege on her agreement to give the couple her baby. But out of pain and guilt over injuring those who have waited so eagerly, she wants to prove, mainly to herself, that she is not merely rebellious and independent, but also kind. When she leans over the beggar and pulls out her breast, she is saying, in effect:
Even as I go my way as a free woman, after giving up my baby to strangers, I do not turn my back on the world I have disappointed. I will care for you in your old age, I will comfort you, I will give you of myself.

“And the actress and the director, who did not grasp the human content of the scene and saw only childish provocation, also could not understand the depth and the timelessness of its theme, which enriched the arts for generations.”

“You didn't explain it that way when you fought for the scene . . . not a word about that.”

“Because I myself didn't yet know what I was tapping into. Unaware of the historical reference, I still felt the power echoing from the depths compelling me not to give up the scene. I didn't know but I felt that the ending I invented, with all its ambiguity, was essentially a reconciliation, a potential point of departure for the next film.”

And he stops, falls silent.

“Please, keep talking.”

His look stabs you. He seems to be weighing whether you are worthy of further revelation. He looks at your plate then fills it with scraps from the table, and the dogs run to the trough near the arbor, where he tosses the remains of the meal.

“So?” And in your heart the possibility has already become certainty.

“You know or have maybe heard of the Latin concept of
Caritas Romana
?” he asks.

“Of course. Roman Charity.”

“You knew? How did you—”

“Later,” you interrupt in a teacher's commanding tone. “First tell me what about it moves you so much.”

“In the cathedral museum, I stumbled upon a reproduction of a painting of Roman Charity by an unnamed artist. It seared my heart, and I realized that even as a young man without much education, I had tapped into an ancient story about a daughter who nurses an elderly father in prison. I understood then that the early scripts I wrote for you were not created in a vacuum but issued from something deeper and wider than my own little soul. I invented something that had been invented two thousand years before, in Europe. I, who came to Israel from a small town in Africa. Juan de Viola explained to me—”

“Juan de Viola!” you exclaim. “He hung that picture in our room, over the bed.”

“Over your bed?”

“Yes, over our bed. The hotel borrows reproductions from the museum for their rooms.”

“Wonderful, wise Juan . . .” gushes Trigano. “I told him about the other ending, the discarded one, and he went and hung it by your bed.”

“He said nothing to me.”

“Was this the first time you came upon the image of Roman Charity?”

“Yes. Despite my bourgeois upbringing, despite the home full of books, despite the history I studied at the university—”

“Studies that gave you no historical depth. Now you can understand the root of my anger. When you canceled that scene, you also trampled my self-confidence . . . my faith in my intuition, in the spiritual sources of my creativity . . . It's no accident that I then began to decline.”

“Decline? Just a few hours ago I sat in that wonderful class of yours. Make no mistake, I now understand well the harm I caused you. Which is why I came to you tonight as a penitent.”

“A penitent,” he sneers, “a shallow word if not accompanied by an act of atonement.”

“Atonement?” You smile. “What kind of atonement?”

“A simple atonement. I ask you, Moses, to reconstruct the lost scene.”

“What? Shoot the film over again?”

“Not a film. The film is over and done. I want a scene of the myth that inspired me without my knowing, a scene of an old man, tied up, nursed by a young woman. I want you to reconstruct Roman Charity for me. A worthy classical theme.”

“But how? One scene?”

“One shot. Just for me.”

“What, get actors?”

“A young woman, whoever she may be. But a woman nursing.”

“Nursing?”

“Yes, drops of milk must be seen on the old man's lips.”

“You've gone too far . . .”

“No, I haven't.”

“And the man?”

“The man? The man is the actual penitent.”

“You mean—”

“That's the point. The old man on his knees is you.”

“Me?”

“Why not? You are the man who suckles. You are the prisoner tied up. In body and character.”

“Me!”

“Yes, who else? This is your atonement. The atonement of the director. You'll be in the scene, tied up and half naked, kneeling before a young woman who will nurse you. Look on the Internet for Roman Charity and you'll find dozens of pictures, and you can choose the one that suits you best.”

“You're insane . . .”

“The insane one is you, who came down south on a winter night and asked to do penance. You junked a scene that was important and precious to me, and I will accept one still picture, on condition that you are the protagonist.”

“Trigano, in the depths of your soul there is madness, and also cruelty.”

“Perhaps. Do as you like. You came to me, not I to you.”

A long silence. He sits stubbornly facing you, puffing smoke from his long pipe.

“You just want to disgrace me, humiliate me.”

“There is no disgrace in art. The hour has come, Moses, at your age, for you to come to terms with that idea. Art makes the disgraceful beautiful and the repulsive meaningful. That's what I tried to explain to you then and you didn't understand. But you will understand when you perform the act yourself . . . with your own body. It will serve you well in the few years left you to make films.”

Did he come up with the idea when he saw you in his studio, or did it crop up as he lay by his son, pretending to be asleep?

Again silence. Is he really waiting for an answer, or has he given up on you?

“And if I present you with such a picture,” you say, challenging him like a partner in crime, “you'll agree to ask Ruth to repeat her blood tests?”

He tenses.

“Why is that so important to you? Do you intend to marry her?”

“Maybe. Why not? The hour has come.”

He falls silent, shocked.

You put it more strongly. “If I present you with such a picture, you will convince her to repeat her blood tests.”