S. Agnon - A Book that Was Lost

“The stories of Rabbi Nahman of Bratslav,” answered Hemdat in a whisper.

“I’ll be there to clap for you. Shammai, you have the perfect hands for a standing ovation.” Yael clapped her hands and said, “I’m just warming up. Wait until tonight. You better be there, Shammai. Oh, my, look how late it is.” Hemdat gave a start. He had almost forgotten that the Mushalams were back in town and that he had promised to drop in on them.

Hemdat couldn’t say what drew him to the Mushalams. Before their marriage he had not been especially close to either of them. Not that it wasn’t nice to spend time in a tasteful house, even if it was lived in by newlyweds. Shoshanna Mushalam understood him. Unlike some people, she didn’t think he had fallen for Yael Hayyut, and the apples she served were immaculately peeled and never came with bits of skin or knife mold. Shoshanna liked the early plays of Ibsen. It wasn’t fair that Norway had all those mountains and glaciers when here there was nothing but a bit of sea beyond the flat roofs of the houses and a lot of pushy women playing Florence Nightingale. “That’s all there is. Oh, look, the sun is going down. I’ve never seen anything so gorgeous. I wouldn’t leave this place for the world. Happiness for me is going out to my backyard and seeing all the fig trees and dates. It’s beyond me how Mrs. Ilonit goes around complaining all the time. Why, it’s paradise here! Hemdat, look at all those shooting stars. Someone should give the sky a hanky. When did you last see Yaelchi? I mean Yael Hayyut. How is she? Such a lovely person. I can’t believe you’ll end up living here, Hemdat. You’ll go abroad. You’re always welcome to stay with us when you come back, though. Tell me, do you think those frames suit the paintings?”

“Of course, of course,” Hemdat nodded automatically. He even found things to praise on his own. The furniture and the house matched perfectly. So did the flowers and the flowerpots. The Mushalams’ home smelled of flowers all year long.

Although Mrs. Mushalam was happy to hear nice things about her house, she had too much to say to have time to listen. “Really?” she said and was off again. It was a miracle she had found those flowers. She was on her way to the souk when she saw a little Arab holding them. “Ma’am, ma’am,” said the Arab, “buy my flowers.” And so she did. “Would you like a glass of water, or some juice? Yael Hayyut loves this juice. Aren’t those flowers just bursting with life? O my sweet little darlings!”

Mrs. Mushalam removed her head from the flowers and said to her husband, “Why didn’t you tell Hemdat that you read his story ‘The Shattered Soul’? Hemdat, I must know if it’s about you. I can’t believe that your father really walks around with a hasidic fur hat. Here, this flower is a present for you. You can give it to Yael Hayyut. Just don’t abscond with it. My spies are everywhere.”

Yael Hayyut had never brought him flowers. She couldn’t afford them. Once, when a rose fell off her hat, she picked it up and stuck it in the Rembrandt. Although roses were not in season at the time and this one was not real, Hemdat was pleased by the gift. From each according to her ability.

4

Hemdat lay on the divan. Usually Yael arrived between five and six, but today she was late again. She would do him a favor if she didn’t come at all. He needed to work and she wasn’t letting him. She was taking up all his time. Perhaps he should stop tutoring her.

A gust of wind caught the papers on the table and sent them flying in all directions while riffling the green blotter. Hemdat remained seated. He had a feeling of foreboding. The sky had grown dark. Where was she? Just when he needed her, she hadn’t come. His nights would be forlorn without her. There were days when he had to force himself to rise and only bothered to wash because of her. It was six o’clock and still no sign of her.

The wind was blowing harder. A storm was brewing. The street lamps sputtered in vain against the darkness. Swirls of dust spiraled upward, spiraling swirls of gritty dust. His hat nearly flew off his head. What was he doing out in a sandstorm? He began to run down the dark, narrow streets. The sand clung to his feet and lashed his face. He prayed he would make it to Yael’s room.

Yael was not in. A small, smoky lamp gave off a dim light. When Pnina turned up the wick, which cast its sickly glare on Hemdat, the flame grew even weaker.

“Where’s Yael?” Hemdat asked, looking down to hide his face.

Pnina looked down to hide the fact that she knew what it looked like. “She went to see her mother and stayed. Her bad arm is acting up and the doctor wants to keep her in the hospital.”

Suppose it was blood poisoning and they had to amputate? The thought of her lovely body without an arm! He felt overcome by sorrow, but even though he wanted to, he could not cry. He went back to his room and lit the lamp. The night seemed endless. He did not do a single thing he had planned to do, and what he did would better have been left undone.

Pizmoni whistled as he climbed the front steps. He was coming from the hospital, where he had just seen Yael. There was nothing to worry about. It wasn’t serious. Tomorrow or the day after, she would come home. After leaving the hospital he had decided to take a walk. What a lovely night it had turned out to be. An hour ago it was blowing like the devil, and now just look at the sky. That was Palestine for you! That was Pizmoni too: one minute with Yael in the hospital and the next minute here. He was in high spirits. A few days ago he had published his poem “The Song of the Strong,” which was a new voice in Hebrew literature. Now he had made up his mind to go abroad. A poet without an education was like a candle without a wick. Next summer he planned to start at a European university.

Hemdat enjoyed their walk. The night glowed darkly. A light breeze blew good smells from the wet sand, and the sea murmured in the stillness. The conversation flowed. Pizmoni knew more about the oddest things than all your uncles and cousins combined. I don’t know if Yael ever told you what made her come to Palestine, but Pizmoni knew the whole story. What happened was that a friend of hers in Russia had been arrested for subversive activities. When his house was searched, a letter from Yael was found, and although there was nothing against the government in it, she was thrown into jail with a lot of revolutionaries. It cost her father a pretty penny to get her out, and since the police kept following her even then, it was decided to send her to Palestine. Soon afterward her father lost his money and died in poverty, and the shame was so great that her mother packed her things and set out to join Yael. She had barely recovered from the voyage when she fell ill and had to be hospitalized.

Ah, wasn’t it the loveliest night! You could walk forever and never tire of the murmur of the sea and the smell of the sand. And what in the whole world tasted better than the salt on your lips? If Pizmoni hadn’t needed his sleep, Hemdat could have strolled with him all night.

The next day he put off going to the hospital. The hours passed in sleep. He wrote nothing new and revised nothing old. After parting from Pizmoni, he had stood looking out the window until the sunrise filled his room with light. Now he found himself at the gate of the hospital. Visiting hours were over, but the good-natured attendant let him in.

Outside the ward he found Gurishkin, who had come to see Yael too. Gurishkin was putting his time to good use, for he would have a few pages to add to his autobiography when he sat down later that night by his dim lamp. Although the hospital was a Jewish institution and deserved the public’s support, it was so poor that it stood empty most of the year despite the illness going around. Whoever was sick had to go to the Christian hospital and pay ten francs for the pleasure of being preached at.