S. Agnon - A Book that Was Lost

Hemdat ran into Yael in the street and asked her why she hadn’t come. She had wanted to, she said. Her room was like an oven. There was so little air that not a feather stirred in her torn pillow. “Then why didn’t you come?” asked Hemdat. “I was embarrassed,” said Yael, “because I don’t have a good dress.”

Next he met Mrs. Mushalam. Breezy Mrs. Mushalam was happy to see him. Dorban walked doubled over by her side, his hands gripping the ends of a rope. Although his meters were based on camel steps, he looked like anyone else beneath a load. Mrs. Mushalam had bought her husband the complete Brockhaus for his birthday, and Mr. Dorban had been kind enough to lend a hand. It wasn’t the latest edition, but you could hardly tell the difference. An encyclopedia was an encyclopedia. Of course, each edition had something new, but in Palestine one learned to make do. You could find everything in it from Chrysanthemums to Vasco da Gama. Reading an encyclopedia was like taking a tour around the world. She had already learned that Wasserman’s Caspar Hauser was based on a story from real life. “But why,” said Mrs. Mushalam, “should I even be talking to a man who hasn’t come to see my new furniture from Jerusalem? Didn’t Yael tell you about the inlaid furniture that I bought?” She held out a bouquet of roses and said, “Here, smell this rose.”

Hemdat apologized. “I’ve been meaning to come,” he said, “especially since there was something I wanted to talk to you about.”

Mrs. Mushalam pulled a rose stem from the bouquet as if reading his thoughts.

Hemdat buried his face in the rose. “When Yael’s mother left,” he said, “she gave me money for Yael to buy fabric for a dress. Yael can sew it herself.” It was Hemdat’s misfortune that he always blushed when he lied, but Mrs. Mushalam was a kind heart and did not hold it against him. “You needn’t tell Yael who gave it to you,” Hemdat said. “Any story will be fine. What a surprise it will be when she comes around in a new dress.”

Hemdat jumped back and rubbed his forehead. He had been stung by a bee. No, it was only a thorn. “The Revenge of the Rose,” said Mrs. Mushalam, laughing.

Although Hemdat did not know what fabric Yael would buy, he tried picturing her in her new dress. And if it is possible to picture a scent, he imagined that too. All day long he waited for her to come. But she did not. What was keeping her? Surely not the lack of a dress. Toward evening he left his room for the first time. What had he done at home all day? He had waited for Yael. And why had he not gone to see her? Because he had cleaned his room for her and wanted to share its intimacy with her. Now that his hopes had waned with the day, he stepped out.

Sandy Jaffa was at rest. The whole town had gone to walk by the sea. Hemdat strolled among the mounds of sand. A sound of singing came from some houses. Old Jews were sitting over the Sabbath’s last meal and singing the Sabbath’s last hymns. Hemdat felt a twinge. Through an open window he heard the rabbi giving a sweet-voiced homily. He tore himself away and walked to the sea. When Yael’s laugh reached him from a group of young people on the beach, he moved away and sat down by himself.

Hemdat sat facing the sea. The lacy waves raced in. Perhaps they bore Yael’s image. Pnina spied Hemdat and called to him from afar. Yael joined in, bidding him to come. Hemdat rose and went over. Pnina and the others slipped away. Yael acquiesced and stayed with Hemdat.

Although evening had fallen, there was still a bit of light in the sky. Suddenly Yael got to her feet and said, “I’ve creased my dress.”

Hemdat looked at her and said, “Wear it well. It’s very nice fabric.”

“My mother bought it. I sewed it,” said Yael measuredly, running a hand over the dress as if to brush something away. What childish pride. She studied him as though comparing their clothes. His pants cuffs were frayed and loose threads stuck out of them. It was the fault of the pigeon-toed way he walked, which made his legs rub dolefully together.

Hemdat traced some letters in the sand. At first he did not realize that they spelled Yael Hayyut. Although it was banal, he wanted to show her her name. Along came a wavelet and washed it away. Hemdat watched the waves lick at the sand and fall silently back. Yael got to her feet. She was hungry and wished to go home. Hemdat knew she had no food there and invited her to eat with him. Not in his room but in a restaurant. Yael said no. Then she said yes. Then she said no and yes. Hemdat was in rare spirits. He would not have to eat by himself.

They went to Yaakov Malkov’s inn. For once Hemdat was not his own housekeeper. Mrs. Malkov wiped the Sabbath wine from the table and Mr. Malkov spread a fresh cloth. Yael ordered meat, and Hemdat ordered dairy and fish. Hemdat did not eat meat. The truth was that he would have given up fish too, but he did not want to be labeled a vegetarian. Mrs. Malkov took away the big tablecloth and brought two smaller ones, one for meat and one for dairy. Hemdat regarded the plain strip of table between the two festive tablecloths.

As he was eating Malkov asked him, “If you’re a vegetarian, how come you eat fish?” “Because,” Hemdat said, “the fish didn’t sin before the Flood and weren’t punished by it.”

Malkov did a doubletake. Today’s young men had an answer for everything. What answer would they have on Judgment Day? He rose and went off singing an end-of-the-Sabbath hymn, and came back with a bowl full of almonds. Hemdat beamed at him. “That’s my man, Reb Yaakov,” he said, sliding the bowl over toward Yael.

The almonds had a tangy bitterness. Hemdat dipped one in sweet wine and watched Yael’s jaws bulge as the strong teeth she had bitten off his hair with cracked almond after almond. Yael rose and went to the sink for a glass of water. Hemdat poured her some wine. She shook her head. “I want water,” she said with a toss of her proud shoulders.

Mr. Malkov’s little daughter came to remove the tablecloth and whispered to Hemdat, “She’s so pretty.”

Hemdat patted her fondly on the ear.

7

Hemdat enjoyed Shammai’s visits. Shammai was a sight to see when he talked about Yael. He had visited her every day in the hospital, walking all the way to Jaffa. He had guarded her like a watchdog. And yet Yael could not stand him. She did not want him anywhere near her. Hemdat must remind her when he saw her that evening of everything Shammai had done for her. Really, Yael, what an ingrate you are.

Shammai’s enthusiasms delighted him. He was so youthfully naive. What did Yael have against him?

A few days went by. Yael was nowhere to be seen. Shammai dropped by. He had a walking stick, a safari hat, high boots, and a full picnic basket. Where was he off to?

Shammai had rented a carriage and was inviting Hemdat to come on a trip to Rehovot. “Please do us the honor,” he said. “Yael is coming too.” Shammai’s eyes came to rest on the Rembrandt and his reflection appeared between the couple there.

Hemdat removed the picture from the wall. As if Yael cared whether he came or not. “Yes or no,” Shammai had said. “If you don’t come, Mrs. Ilonit would like your place.”

Who was Shammai to be chasing after Yael Hayyut? Shammai was the son of a Jewish businessman who owned land in Palestine and lived in America and supported a family left behind in Russia, plus Shammai, who was studying medicine at the American College in Beirut. On his vacations Shammai came to Palestine to acquaint himself with the site of his future practice. His coarse hands and jowly cheeks should not mislead you into thinking that he wasn’t an idealist. Was it because he said, “Why don’t you drop in on us?” that he blushed when urging Hemdat to visit Yael? It made Hemdat laugh to hear him declare boyishly, “I love what you write, Hemdat. Everything of yours is so perfect. I’ll be damned if I know why Pizmoni is called a poet. I’ve never read a single line of his.”