S. Agnon - A Book that Was Lost

Really, Hemdat asked himself, why don’t you go see Yael? After all, she invited you through Shammai. One evening he went. Yael’s embarrassment was great. She was wearing Shammai’s jacket, and Shammai lay sprawled on the couch. His smooth jowls that looked like an extension of his swollen neck erupted in strained, triumphal laughter.

They both jumped to their feet and said, “Why, it’s Hemdat! How about some seltzer and lemon marmalade? Or perhaps you would like an aperitif. There’s nothing like a little drink before dinner. You’ll stay to eat with us, of course.”

How, Hemdat wondered, could they sit in a room with no air? The place was a mess. Shammai’s ties hung over the back of the couch and a pair of slippers lay under each bed.

Hemdat did not judge Yael harshly. She had been hungry, and Shammai kept her not only in bread but in chocolates. When you came right down to it, she was a simple girl. Before you knew it she would be the fat wife of some businessman, with lots of children. He bore her no grudge. He did not mention her name anymore.

The summer was coming to an end. The days were muggy. An immense, relentless sun baked the city and there was not a breath of air. The best thing to do was to stay home and sweat as little as possible. Hemdat rarely went out. The coffee beaker bubbled all day and he drank cup after cup. It did not make him less lethargic but it did give him something to do. Not that there weren’t other ways of taking one’s mind off oneself. He could have gone to see the founding of Tel Aviv, for which there happened to be a party that day. All Jaffa celebrated with wine and cake except Hemdat, who stayed home drinking black coffee.

Hemdat’s friends began dropping by again. It must have been the simmer of the coffee. Gurishkin was in fine fettle. He was now a founder of Tel Aviv and the chronicler of a city. Dorban was tipsy most of the time, which did not make him any less himself. The thought of the first Jewish metropolis left a desert rat like him cold. His muse was not about to be seduced by it. Gurishkin did not take him seriously. Dorban had yet to publish a thing. If Gurishkin was up in arms about anyone, it was Pizmoni, who had just come out with a new poem entitled “On the Banks of the Dnieper.” How could you call yourself a Palestinian poet and write about Russian rivers? Hemdat kept filling their glasses. If the wine made them drunk, the coffee sobered them up. The conversation shifted from patriotism and poetry to women and love.

Hemdat, who had been sitting there quietly, stirred and said, “If you’re in your right mind you shouldn’t go out with a girl unless you take along a fat imbecile. She’s sure to fall in love with him and spare you a messy romance.”

Pnina hung her chaste head. She would never have thought that Hemdat could be so crude.

Hemdat stepped outside. In the street he bumped into Yael and Shammai. “How much did the meal at Malkov’s cost?” they asked. Yael wanted to pay for her share. Hemdat smiled awkwardly. “It isn’t fair of you not to answer, Hemdat,” said Yael. “There’s nothing to say,” Hemdat said. “It’s an insult to Yael not to tell her,” said Shammai. “Why don’t you visit me?” asked Yael. “Why don’t you visit me?” asked Hemdat. “I did,” said Yael. “You weren’t in. If you don’t believe me, your green jacket was on the chair by the table.” “Then come now,” Hemdat said. “No, you come first,” said Yael. They changed the subject.

Hemdat had told Yael what he thought of Shammai, which was not very much. Shammai’s father was sweating to put him through college, and Shammai was living high and growing a paunch at his father’s expense. He could never make a woman happy. All he could do was stain her honor. And now that he was not in the best of mental states, Hemdat was a danger too. “If you value your peace and quiet,” he told Yael, “stay away from me, because whatever I’ve got may be catching.” He knew she would pass what he said on to Shammai. What else could you expect from a gossip like her? Shammai was sporting her ring. Where was Hemdat going? He was going to tell Shammai he hadn’t meant it.

Hemdat was plagued once more by carnal desires. One sea-blue night followed another. He would have liked to run into Mrs. Ilonit. The summer was almost over. Although the girls still went about in short sleeves, in another week or two you would be able to touch them without feeling the clamor of the flesh. Hemdat had women on his mind. Being with them made him feel worse, though. Sometimes he still thought of the time he had kissed the hands of mothers in public and the lips of their daughters in private, and sometimes he no longer could imagine it.

When his loneliness was too much for him he left his room and went out, but it followed him everywhere. He shrank from the smell of humanity. He wanted to get as far away from it and into himself as he could, oblivious of others and even, in the quiescence of bone and blood, of his own self. And yet someone had only to lay a friendly hand on his neck to make him quiver with hidden bliss.

Hemdat roamed the streets of Jaffa. His days passed with no purpose and his nights with no rest. He must not let it get him down, his friends said. It was the lull before the creative storm. And indeed something great was brewing in the world. He could hear the tread of things to come. And whatever was heard by his dreaming ears was also heard, seen, and smelled by his other senses. Great events were afoot and the palpable world would step aside to make way for them. The dull, sweltering day was nearly over. Soon it would be night.

Hemdat’s room was on the top floor and had five windows. They were open all day, and green curtains rippled on them like the waves of a river, checkering the floor with tufts of light and darkness. Hemdat paced the room, up and down and across and back. Although the windows were open in all directions, the door was shut tight. Hemdat knew that the Blessed Days had come to the world. You could not find him in the streets of Jaffa or down at the beach. He sat in his room in front of his faithful table. How was he celebrating the holiday? With the gift-offering of his poetry. The summer was gone and the winds were starting up again. The eucalyptus trees swayed in the gardens and shed their wilted leaves. A dry leaf flitted in a corner of the room. The wind had blown it in.

The sun was setting, and black clouds flew like birds at summer’s end. Should he light the lamp? Why sit in darkness? Yael would come. He would be good to her. All was forgiven. They would sit close together on the green divan. She was his beloved.

How long have I known Yael? Hemdat wondered. For ages and ages, he told himself. Perhaps a year and perhaps more. On one of those light nights that flared in early summer he had gone for a walk to the dune. Some young ladies were out for a stroll. One of stately step kept laughing and tugging at her hat brim.

Hemdat rose and left his room.

Before he knew it, he had reached the dune.

He circled it at an even distance.

Then he was standing on top of it.

A chill, greenish moon lit the dune. Here, in this place, he first had seen her. Here he had walked with her. The Hill of Love, it was called. He felt a pressure in his heart. How close it all seemed. Her words lingered over the sand. That woman was born with a glass in her mouth. She never got drunk, though. She knew how to hold her liquor.

Hemdat stood on the dune. Just then he saw a shadow. It puzzled him, like an unfamiliar object found by a man returning home. He knew the dune and everything on it well. He tried to comprehend the shadow. Was it a bush or tree that had sprung up miraculously overnight? Perhaps it was a late stroller.

If it is the shadow of a tree, Hemdat told himself, our love is rooted and will last, and if it is the shadow of a person, it soon will be gone. He froze and did not move, willing himself between hope and despair. A sudden calm, like that between a baby’s fall and its cry, came over him. The shadow stirred and moved in his direction. Ah, sighed Hemdat, it’s a living creature. Was it a man or a woman? It was a woman. He took a deep breath and thought: