The Retrospective: Translated From the Hebrew by Stuart Schoffman (43 page)

“Obsession . . .” his mother says a third time, but now her tone suggests she has not merely come to terms with her younger son's obsession but rather enjoys it.

From the corridor comes the ringtone of the cell phone abandoned in the folds of the monk's robe. Manuel hurries to answer it, and his voice is heard in the distance, tense and excited. Moses smiles at the elderly hostess, nods his head in friendship, says nothing. David, steadily drinking wine, seems enchanted by the place he has implausibly landed, and he asks the director if he can take pictures of the room and the round bed with the old lady parked in its midst.

Moses refuses firmly. “No,” he warns the young man, “do not photograph here, or anywhere else either. You have come to Spain for one picture only, which you will take in total secrecy. Limit your artistic passions to Israel, or come back to Spain on your own. As a cameraman you are here for me and subject to my orders.”

The young man blanches. His eyes spring open, and he clenches his jaw. But he restrains himself and does not respond. Though the words were spoken in Hebrew, Doña Elvira senses the aggressive tone, and to calm the Israelis she dims the lights with a switch hidden by her bed. The darkness that minimizes her wrinkles enables the director's practiced eye to spot the signs of her former beauty that time has not erased.

“You, madam,” says Moses in English, “are still very beautiful.” Manuel returns from the corridor in time to repeat Moses' words in Spanish.

Doña Elvira does not smile or thank the guest; she throws him a sharp look. “Beauty is still important to you,” she says and rings for the housekeeper, who arrives instantly, clears the dishes, and slides the lady's table back into the side of the round bed. Then, as they watch, she quickly and skillfully readies the bed for the night's rest. She tucks the old woman in a big blanket, spreads pillows around her in a circle, and crowns the remains of ancient beauty with a little white cap. The Israelis rise from their seats as the housekeeper is about to turn out the lights. But Moses is not done. He quietly approaches the actress's bed and says, “Yes, Doña Elvira, beauty is always important to a man, and especially at a hard time. And you know that a hard time awaits me.”

 

Manuel guides the director and the photographer to their room and despite the early hour advises them to go to bed. Chances are the moment may be tonight.

“So soon?” Moses is confused. Manuel reports that a moral tug of war is taking place between financial temptation and the perversity of the quid pro quo. Although there is great hesitation, the people realize others will jump at the opportunity and they will lose out, and they say nighttime would be better for them than day. “After all,” says Manuel, “the original Roman Charity took place in darkness; a prison cell is always dark.”

Pondering the word
original,
Moses nods: “Who is the woman? Have you seen her?”

“I've never seen her. I only saw her husband.”

“Husband,” says Moses, “she has a husband?”

“Of course. If she is a nursing mother with a baby, there has to be a man, the baby's father. Pero, the nursing daughter in the Roman story, is not a holy virgin, and the father of her baby may have known that she went to the prison to save her father.”

“Amazing,” says Moses. “I have read and learned much about Roman Charity but have never come across any mention of the husband of the benevolent daughter.”

“I exchanged a few words with the husband, and he will be there to supervise the photography and stand guard lest any harm befall his wife.”

“But what harm could I do?” Moses protests. “My hands will be tied.”

“Of course . . . of course. I also showed him pictures from art books. He is fearful, nonetheless, because it all seems odd to him. Understandable, no?”

“The fear is natural and appropriate, I feel it too, and perhaps you do as well. The crucial thing is for the photographer to remain calm.”

They go into their room. The young Toledano sets up his bed on the rug in the corner, padding it with blankets and pillows, but the director decides to take a long shower. On returning, he finds that the photographer has turned the light off and burrowed beneath the blankets.

Moses appreciates the darkness. When he gets under the covers, he describes the details of the atonement to the young Toledano, its reasons and purposes. That way the photographer can be prepared mentally, not be surprised or confused. He is willing to undergo this debasement not only to renew his partnership with Shaul Trigano but to bring about Trigano's reconciliation with Ruth and persuade her to stop ignoring her illness.

From the sound of the young man's breathing, Moses senses the emotion of his listener. A long silence followed by a low voice: “All you've just said I've known all along, so nothing will shock or confuse me. I was surprised that a director of your caliber was willing to atone for what was lost long ago in the imaginary world of another artist. It seems, though, that despite all the films you've made without Trigano, collaboration with him is important to you. You are obviously prepared to tie your hands and suck from the breast of a complete stranger, who symbolizes another woman, a woman who made many people miserable.”

“Many people?”

“Look, I don't need to tell you that my father's addiction to her ruined my mother's life. And when he died because of her, we were so angry with him that a long time passed before we could speak his name in the house. But if you're willing to humiliate yourself tonight for that woman, my collaboration can be a gesture toward my father, atonement for having hated him because of his love.”

“In which case, it's a good thing I picked you for a partner.” Moses plucks the hearing aids from his ears, tucks them in their little box, and covers his face with the blanket.

M
OSES' FATIGUE CONQUERS
his anxiety, so at three in the morning he needs to be shaken awake to restore his soul to reality. At first he has a hard time understanding that the reality is Spanish, and that he is being summoned to perform the deed that is his sole reason for being here. Manuel wears layman's clothes, no robe and no cross. Why? The Israeli is disappointed, not least out of concern for his own welfare in dark alleys. But the opposite is the case: they are going to a mixed neighborhood, also home to immigrants from North Africa, and Manuel deems it unwise to raise suspicions that a man of the Church is there to influence Muslims to convert. In that case, it might have been better to invite the man and his wife here and take the photograph in one of the rooms, says Moses. But Manuel cannot entangle his mother or the housekeeper in this story. There is always a chance that someone will be struck with remorse after the picture is taken and will come here and demand the film, or try to extort more money. Manuel believes it best that those involved in the matter not know of any specific place they could return to. Besides, he was careful not to reveal to them the national origin of the photographer and the man to be photographed. He merely spoke in general terms about artists from a faraway continent who wished to re-create a classical picture for a modern museum in their country.

“A modern museum . . . Nice touch.”

In civilian clothes, at this hour of night, the monk looks tough and decisive. Before they leave he pours wine for everyone and prays for success, and once the handcuffs and robe join the camera equipment in the photographer's knapsack, they silently exit the house.

Wintry cold outside. And as they take their first steps Moses realizes that Manuel has every intention of taking them on foot to the appointed place, which he promises is not far. “No,” says Moses, stopping at the street corner, “I can't go on foot tonight, let's take a taxi, even if it's close. I have plenty of money with me.” But at such a late hour, approaching dawn, there are no taxis around. Manuel leads them on a shortcut through a deserted park, passing seesaws and slides, arriving finally at an apartment building where a few lights are burning.

Moses stops at the entrance. He demands that the middleman call a halt to secrecy and reveal the identity of the husband before whose wife he must kneel with cuffed hands.

Manuel is not prepared to supply the man's name, and the wife's name he doesn't know because he never saw her and didn't ask. He introduced himself to the man at the employment office he visits from time to time to help the unemployed with their requests. There he met a North African man of about sixty who seemed wary of approaching the clerk. Manuel spoke with him and was able to win his trust. The man is an illegal immigrant who slipped into Spain more than a year ago. He apparently fled his homeland following a run-in with the law and wandered for a few months in the south of Spain. There he met a young woman, also an illegal immigrant, who joined him and supported them both with odd jobs. But recently she bore him a child, and she is still worn out from the delivery, so given no alternative, he summoned his strength and went to the employment bureau. But when he found that they required papers, he was frightened.

“Does he speak Spanish?”

“Only a little. We managed the rest in Arabic, which I learned at the same time I learned Hebrew.” At first the man was horrified, but the monk's robe combined with the Muslim's distress yielded the faith that proper boundaries would be observed.

“How much did you promise him?”

“A thousand euros.”

“A thousand euros? You overdid it.”

“But this family has no money for food, and you told me you were willing to sacrifice your entire prize, so I thought it would be best to be generous to the man and woman, even at the expense of others.”

“Others? Meaning who?”

“I assumed,” says the monk uneasily, “that the remainder of the money you got from my mother would be donated to charity.”

Moses smiles. At this hour, at the entrance to this building, Manuel de Viola seems much more clever and practical than he did in the gloom of the confessional booth in the cathedral.

“You thought correctly,” he says, laying a friendly hand on the monk's shoulder. “What is left we shall give to other needy people. Since the retrospective took place in Spain, it is right that the prize money also remain in Spain.”

And they ascend a darkened stairway in a building that looks even shabbier on the inside than it did on the outside. They walk through narrow hallways filled with junk and rags and broken furniture and strollers. On an upper floor they are met by a tall, sturdy man, his dark hair sprinkled with gray. In a gesture of greeting he places his hand on his heart, then kisses his fingers as a sign of respect, and hurries them into his flat, locking the door behind them.

It is a rundown apartment, just one room and an improvised kitchen. On a clothesline in the kitchen hang cloth diapers. In one corner is a pile of empty bottles, apparently picked from trash cans to be exchanged for deposit money. Part of the room is set off behind a curtain stitched from old burlap bags. And as they enter Moses thinks he hears the feeble crying of a baby, or perhaps of a woman. The space is already arranged for the photography. A tattered sofa has been pushed to the side and a table laid on it upside down along with two chairs. But the space is not big enough for the required camera angle, and in the manner of cameramen confident of their craft, the photographer repositions a chest of drawers and other chairs. The North African stands silently to the side, transfixed by every movement of the foreigners. Manuel stands across from the Arab and gazes at him intently, as at a garden sculpture. “What do you think,” whispers Moses to the photographer, “do you have enough light?” “No,” answers Toledano, taking his flash from the knapsack and wondering how to set it up. “Come on, my friend,” Moses says urgently, “let's try to get this over with.” He suddenly feels dizzy and grabs hold of a chair. Is it the wine at three in the morning on an empty stomach, or is it the anxiety of humiliation surging in his mind? Frightened and amused by the situation, he closes his eyes.
It's been many years,
he thinks ruefully,
since there's been a woman by my side to make sure I don't fall.

The photographer's energetic movements remind Moses of the young man's father. He sets one chair atop another and hangs the flash in the kitchen, among the diapers. A good thing he remembered to bring an extension cord from Israel, so he can unplug the refrigerator and use its socket to flood the room with light filtered through blue cellophane. This way the picture will acquire a slight aura of mystery. The North African disappears behind the thin burlap curtain, where the silhouette of the waiting woman is now visible. How nice, the light that all at once produces a woman, Moses rhapsodizes. He must produce a similar silhouette of a woman in his next film.

“If we've come this far,” he says to David, “let's shoot the scene two ways, with two different cameras, then pick the right picture and destroy the others.”

The North African paces around them like a caged tiger.

“Perhaps we should pay him in advance, calm him down,” suggests Manuel in English.

“By all means,” agrees Moses, and he hands him ten greenish bills, feeling he is sinking fast into a dream.

The photographer selects a lens and snaps it into the camera, takes out the red robe and handcuffs. Moses removes his topcoat and jacket and hesitates before dispensing with the shirt, then stands naked from the waist up. He wraps the robe around him like a skirt. He takes a chair and turns it sideways and sits on it as if on a footstool, spreading out the robe-skirt to conceal it, then puts his hands together behind his back and tells the photographer to place the handcuffs on him, and now that the ancient Cimon is ready to receive the nursing woman, the man goes to get her. From behind the curtain come whispers of an argument in Arabic in three distinct pitches, then silence. A few moments later, the curtain rises, as in a theater, revealing not one woman but two: an older, heavy one, holding the baby in her arms, and, walking behind her, a veiled woman with hands as black as night and a body so boyish she seems to be a daughter, not a spouse.