The Retrospective: Translated From the Hebrew by Stuart Schoffman (42 page)

He looks straight at you with the same hard eyes that were fixed on you long ago in the classroom.

“Yes,” he says.

“Perhaps we'll renew our partnership—”

“Not so fast,” he interrupts, then adds: “But no one will threaten any baby. Tell Amsalem he should confine his murderous fantasies to his own family.”

nine

“C
AN AND WOULD
you help me turn a verbal confession into a photographed atonement?” Moses asks the Dominican after finally getting through to his mobile. Manuel de Viola, who often makes the rounds of poor neighborhoods in the capital, is required to carry a cell phone to assist him in places where a monk's robe offers no protection. But Manuel, who has faith in human innocence, generally leaves the device turned off in the folds of his robe, using it only at night to check on his mother's welfare. So days went by before Moses could speak with him and explain what he needed and why. “I am willing,” Moses tells him, “to dedicate my entire prize to this.”

Manuel, who remembers the Israeli's confession, subscribes to the religious logic that such a confession demands continuity and perhaps absolution. And although he is appalled by the deviant nature of the screenwriter's request, he is neither willing nor able to refuse. “I must extinguish the fire I ignited in you,” says the monk, his deliberate Hebrew reverberating in the tiny phone. He also expresses optimism that with the help of the prize money he will be able to cover the needs of a distressed neighborhood in Madrid.

Moses turns next to Toledano's son David, the photographer, and asks him to join his journey. “I need you to take only one picture in Spain—specifically, an artistic picture of me beside a female character not yet chosen. The picture will be printed in my presence, in two copies. I will take custody of them, along with the film or memory chip of the camera, to make sure that the picture will never be duplicated and with the hope that over time it will be deleted from your memory. Yes, I could have found a Spanish photographer, but I would not trust him as I trust you, not because I know you, but because I knew your father, my friend and collaborator, and I'm certain that were he still alive, he would not hesitate for a minute to agree to my request.

“So, will you come with me?”

“If Abba wouldn't have hesitated, neither will I,” answers the young man gallantly. He wants to know how many cameras to bring. “Two will be more than enough,” Moses answers confidently, “we're talking about only one picture, but bring equipment that will work in dark places.”

Moses has come to terms with the fact that he will part with his prize money; when all is said and done, the sum is puny, and spending it this way will not only please Trigano and open the door to a new partnership, but get Ruth to repeat her blood tests. Thus he treats himself to a business-class ticket, seating the young man in coach not so much out of stinginess or frugality but from concern that if the boy sits next to him on the plane, Moses will be forced to answer questions he would rather not yet address. But such worries are unfounded. At the airport it is amply clear that Toledano's son is a quiet and courteous young man and that the early loss of his father left him heir to the man's good qualities but not his troubled soul.

The white robe and black jacket, the cowl, the big copper cross dangling from his belt, distinguish Manuel de Viola amid the welcoming crowd. He and Moses bow slightly to each other, and Moses enthusiastically introduces the young cameraman.

“We too, like you Jews, seek to glide in the path of righteousness,” says the Dominican as he takes hold of Moses' rolling suitcase, but it quickly becomes clear that the pursuit of virtue will not be simple. In an effort to help reduce the level of air pollution in Madrid, the man of God does not take taxis but rather travels by rail, which means they have to pick up the suitcase and carry it down rough and crooked stairs to a lower level, onto a platform from which they and grimy industrial workers, foreign laborers, African peddlers, and students in school uniforms pile into a commuter train that despite its dilapidated appearance takes off with a burst of energy.

Yair Moses is at peace. He is certain the monk knows his way, and that his religious presence shelters them from pickpockets. “Is the hotel in the center of the city?” he inquires hopefully, but it turns out that Manuel has chosen to put up the two Israelis at his mother's house. Moreover, he explains, Doña Elvira has purchased three small ceramic plates depicting the motif of Roman Charity, to provide the Israeli with added inspiration for his pose in the scene he will soon direct.

“What?” Moses is shocked. “You told your mother?”

“I did,” says Manuel. He can conceal nothing from his mother. Luckily, his monastic vows have sentenced him to a life of bachelorhood, otherwise he would have been compelled to bare his wife's secrets too. But he reassures Moses: His mother may be trusted with secrets, his and those of others. Speaking frankly to her is like confessing to the Crucified One Who hears and understands everything but speaks not a word.

When they emerge from underground, dusk has fallen, but the streetlights are not yet on in the narrow alleys. The de Viola home is a large and attractive villa where during the civil war, family members remained amicable despite loyalties to opposing camps. But by the end of the century, they were forced to divide the big house into apartments for rental so that the aging actress could maintain her way of life and be dependent on the good graces of no one.

Although the monk often spends the night at his childhood home, mainly to lift his mother's spirits, he prefers not to use his key and risk frightening the elderly occupant, so he rings the bell, and they wait for the housekeeper to unlock the door. She leads them down a long and narrow corridor crowded with pictures and bookshelves to their room, at whose center stands only one bed, though a wide one, stocked with pillows and blankets.

Moses is startled. Must he again share his bed in Spain, and this time not with a character from his films but with an unfamiliar young man? But if this is the only guest room in the house, how can he embarrass the hostess by requesting another one? And it would not be right to send the young man to a hotel. In the distant past, when filming at an outdoor location, he and the cinematographer would sometimes share a little pup tent, and Toledano Senior had not pushed Moses around in his sleep, so why should the son be any different?

But the young cameraman can guess his misgivings and quickly announces that he will sleep on the rug, leaving the bed to Moses. And to minimize his presence he goes off to shower and change his clothes. Moses takes his toiletry kit and medicines from his suitcase and considers whether to hang his clothes in the closet, then decides to leave them folded in the valise. This is not a retrospective before a foreign audience or an appearance at a formal dinner but a secretive, revolutionary act that calls for wrinkled clothing. He feels the little bag containing the handcuffs and runs his hand over the red robe he borrowed from Ruth's studio, which he claimed he needed for his grandson's Purim costume.
How many times,
he chastises himself,
have I demanded that others, men and women, put on bizarre clothes and accessories and stand shamelessly before the camera? It's only right that for once I make the same demand of myself.
From his jacket pocket he removes an envelope, counts the prize money, deliberates whether to hide it and not risk carrying it in precarious streets, or take it with him and not leave it in a room with no lock on the door. Finally he decides to spread the risk. He hides a third of the money in a woolen sock; a third he shoves through a torn lining in the suitcase; and a third he replaces in his jacket pocket. The white robe and copper cross might be able to protect one thousand euros, but it's doubtful they could hold their own in the case of three.

 

The housekeeper appears in an embroidered apron and white cap straight from an old movie and invites them to supper at the bedside of their frail landlady. The two Israelis tiptoe into the bedroom, which is spacious and splendid enough for a banquet. The armchairs and couch are upholstered in a flowered fabric matching the window curtains, and small tables are arranged among them. In the corner stands a large round bed, and upon it sits a smiling Doña Elvira, the old actress, who seems to have shrunk since their meeting in Santiago. Moses approaches and does not stop at a handshake but lifts her hand to his lips, and holding it close he asks her how he has deserved such warm and devoted care from her and her two sons, for he is not even a descendant of the Spanish exiles and thus not properly entitled to compensation for injustices visited upon his ancestors.

Doña Elvira smiles feebly. In the evening, her English gets very shaky, and she requires the translation skills of her son, who has removed his robe and in his spotless white shirt looks like an elegant bearded bohemian.

Carafes of wine and cups are placed before the guests, and a small table is pulled from the side of the round bed. The housekeeper serves a platter of hot and cold tapas, and as they eat, Moses is shown three small ceramic plates embossed with colorful renderings of the Roman Charity scene, each with different characters and poses.

Moses feels the embossing with his fingertips and passes the plates to the young photographer, who is still unaware of the connection between them and his assignment. Moses explains to his hosts that since his first encounter with the reproduction by his bed at the Parador, he has studied the subject of Roman Charity, finding much material in books and on the Internet, and so when Trigano came to him with his astonishing demand, he knew that this evoked an ancient and venerable topic and did not rebuff his friend's fantasy with disgust. Indeed, the reproduction in his hotel room had been hung there at the initiative of Juan, who sowed the first seed, the point at which the involvement of the de Viola family in the act of atonement began. The reproduction he saw at the hotel will be the model for the scene he will direct and appear in himself, though in his case the nursing woman's gaze may be turned to the side—as he saw in some Renaissance paintings, as opposed to the Parador picture—so as not to embarrass her or the man. As to whether the woman should also hold a baby—that will depend on the circumstances. Moses would prefer to play the scene alone so Trigano could not claim afterward that the baby stole the atonement.

Yes, Trigano had admitted that when he thought of the ending to his script, he had not yet heard of Roman Charity, and after he discovered that his imagination was deeply rooted in classical art, his pain over the lost scene and anger over the insult by the director had flared up again. Clearly, then, at the outset of their renewed collaboration, it makes sense to reenact the scene in keeping with its classical roots. There is no point in masquerading as an old beggar to whom some unrelated woman exposes her breast. Only by getting to basics and re-creating the original source of the scene will it be possible to restore trust that was damaged—albeit in a discreet fashion, as one copy of the picture will be given to Trigano, and the other he will keep for himself, so he can privately enjoy his own daring, but the negative or memory chip will be destroyed so that the picture will never again be reproduced.

“That's what we agreed, am I right?” He turns to the young man drinking a glass of wine.

“Right.”

He explains to Doña Elvira that David is the son of Toledano, the cinematographer of his early films. He too, like his boyhood friend Trigano, was upset at the time by the elimination of the scene, for which he had specially prepared soft, delicate lighting. But since Toledano the father knew Ruth from childhood, he understood her refusal, or at least accepted it, and unlike his friend, he did not break his tie with Moses but continued to collaborate with him until he lost his life in an unfortunate accident. Moses feels there is symbolic significance in his collaboration with the son who follows in his father's footsteps in the field of photography and who has carried everything necessary all the way from Israel on his back—except for the prize money, which Moses himself has carried.

“Do not grieve for the money,” Manuel tells him in Hebrew, “it will be given to those who are truly in need.”

“The money doesn't grieve me,” replies Moses, “prizes come and go, but I fear humiliation, even before strangers I will never see again. I am not young nor am I an adventurer. I am a solid citizen in the last stages of his life.”

Suddenly fearful, he whispers to the Spaniard: “Have you prepared the place? Found a suitable woman?”

“Don't worry,” says the monk. “It may happen this very night.”

T
HE PORTIONS OF
tapas are small but varied, the meal pleasant and relaxed, so Moses is puzzled as to how and why the conversation comes around to the Marranos and the Inquisition, with Manuel trying to convince them that he is related to one of its top officials. He brings from the hallway two large paintings of family members, portraits of middle-aged men, severe-looking priests in white collars, then opens a Spanish encyclopedia of the history of the Inquisition and compares their pictures to that of a churchman from the sixteenth century, a cruel Inquisitor. In his opinion, anyone can see the similarity of the three, and some of their features have filtered down to him. We have a shared genetic destiny, says Manuel, who has switched into English laced with Spanish so his mother can participate in the conversation.

“Obsession . . .” scoffs his mother, sipping her herbal tea. In the vast round bed she looks like a dwarf. “An obsession to convince yourself you are a cousin of such a man,” she says.

Manuel smiles sheepishly but carries on. If his ancestors persecuted New Christians and tortured those unable to prove the purity of their blood, then it is his responsibility to cleanse their sins by giving shelter to undocumented people of dubious origin—namely, illegal foreign workers.