S. Agnon - Shira

In the morning, Herbst appeared in the dining room with an armful of thick Latin books in pigskin bindings. While he was waiting for Henrietta to bring his coffee, he glanced through the books. “Such diligence,” Henrietta remarked, with a show of laughter and concealed admiration. Manfred answered, “Diligence that doesn’t do me any good. The very thing I need is missing.” Henrietta asked, “And where can it be found? In the National Library?” Manfred said derisively, “The National Library, the National Library. Whatever we don’t need is there, and whatever we do need is not there. Even Ernst Weltfremdt has more good books than that warehouse they call the National and University Libraries. But Professor Weltfremdt doesn’t have the volume I need either.” Henrietta asked in a worried tone, “So what will you do?” Manfred said, “I’ll do what one does in such cases. I’ll do without.”

During breakfast, Manfred said to Henrietta, “I have the urge to go to Gethsemane, to the monastery there.” Henrietta said, “To look for that book?” Manfred said, “I doubt that those monks are familiar with the book I’m looking for, but I would like to go, because I once promised to visit a monk who lives there. It’s not urgent, and the visit isn’t essential, but for those very reasons I think I ought to go. I don’t know if you grasp my meaning. Those things that aren’t really essential are often particularly appealing. Going there is just such a thing. Several months ago, I became acquainted with a monk, who invited me to visit him. I promised I would come. He didn’t expect me to keep my word, nor did I intend to keep it. Suddenly, all of a sudden, I see that I must keep my promise. What do you think about this?” Henrietta said, “I assume you won’t be back for lunch.” Manfred said, “I see from your response that you approve.” Henrietta said, “To be sure you don’t get hungry, you ought to have an egg for breakfast — one of the eggs Zahara sent us.” Manfred said, “You have a one-track mind, Mother. Give me your lips, you monster, you.”

When Herbst got off the bus and found himself on the street, in the midst of a bustling throng, under a sky full of heat and light that blazed, stretched, and expanded with each person, where each structure and each sound took on the whiteness of light, like some substance that dims the eye and deafens the ear — when this happened, his will began to diminish and fade away. He was sorry to have left home on such a hot day, at such an hour. Though he had promised whomever he had promised that he would visit him, though he felt obliged to keep his word and fulfill his promise, he hadn’t set a time and wasn’t obliged to visit on any particular day. He took off his hat and wiped his brow, as well as the inner band of his hat and his sunglasses, scanning all four directions to find the Gethsemane bus stop. As in the case of all quests that are undertaken without conviction, he only half stirred, and he would have remained in his spot if he hadn’t been swept up by people going to the post office and the bank, and by other pedestrians whose swift pace stemmed from the same source as his stationary position: they, too, were unsure of their direction. Time passed, and he didn’t remember where the bus stop was, but he realized that he didn’t have to make the trip. He decided not to go. Having decided not to go, he was pleased; for, even if he had found the bus, he would have had a long wait. Buses from the outlying districts make the return trip only after their riders have concluded their business in town, which they never seem to do until the day is nearly over.

Having ruled out Gethsemane, he didn’t know what to do. Unless their work compels them to go into town early in the day, those who live in outlying neighborhoods tend to make the trip only for a specific purpose. This was true of Herbst. If not for the trip to Gethsemane, he wouldn’t have come. Now that the trip was off, he had no purpose. He didn’t really belong in town. Here he was, with three or four sizzling stones underfoot and a blazing sun overhead. Actually, he could have been standing in the shade of the bus from Talpiot that had arrived in the interim and could have taken him home to his books. But, since he was in town, it seemed a shame to go right back. After all, it isn’t every day that he stops working without some sense of guilt. So what should he do? He can’t very well visit a friend, because everyone is at work. Anyone who isn’t lecturing is either in the library, looking for material for an article, or engaged in writing a book. There are people who sense when a friend is at work, and, in a flash, they are there to interrupt. Herbst was not that sort. He was simply looking for a place to spend an hour.

There are very few places in Jerusalem where one can spend an hour at that time of day. If I list them, there won’t be more than two: the Bezalel Museum and the B’nai B’rith Library. In the past, before the National and University Libraries were built on Mount Scopus, the B’nai B’rith building was always buzzing with people. Herbst went there quite frequently, and he used to bring guests from abroad, though he was embarrassed that the collection didn’t live up to its reputation. When the university was built on Mount Scopus, all the good books were transferred to its new libraries, and the one in town began to be forgotten. Now that he was looking for a place to spend an hour, he didn’t remember it. He forgot about the museum, too. This forgetfulness of his is probably puzzling, so I will explain it. In the early days, when he first came to the country, these two institutions were his favorite haunts. Now that the population had grown larger and the city’s limits had expanded, he himself was taking smaller steps, and it was not as easy to come and go. He began to go to those places less and less often, then not at all. Since he no longer frequented them, they began to fade from his memory and were soon forgotten.

Herbst stood on the street near the post office and was astonished to be looking for a place to go and unable to find one. Only a few years back, this would not have happened. Even before he could quite picture a place, he would find himself there, whether it was night or day, sunny or rainy. If someone tells you, “We used to take night walks along the top of Jerusalem’s walls, and outside of the city as well,” you will think that’s a fairy tale. Let me tell you, it’s absolutely true. What is more, we used to walk through the Old City to the Western Wall and find Hasidim and other pious men standing there, bemoaning the exile of the Divine Presence. At what hour? At midnight. From there, we used to go to an Arab café, drink coffee, and smoke narghiles, to the accompaniment of their singing or their gramophones. The Arabs welcomed us, and we weren’t afraid to go anywhere. Isn’t it amazing? Our community was small then, but its horizons were broad. Now that it has expanded, its horizons are narrow, and no Jew is safe from the murderous assault of a knife or a bullet. At any rate, in the area between the post office, Mahane Yehuda, and Beit Hakerem, there is nothing to fear.

Herbst abandoned his spot near the post office and went to look at the window display in one of the stores while debating where to go. The windows were covered, to shield them from the sun. This was true of all the other stores, too. He had no choice but to go to a café. Herbst didn’t usually go to cafés. If we saw him there, it was not because of him, but because of Anita Brik, because of Lisbet Neu, because of Shira. Moreover, it seemed odd to him to do today what he had done the day before; he had spent several hours at Zichel’s just yesterday. There are, of course, people who spend a great deal of time in cafés. Julian Weltfremdt, for example, who goes to two cafés every day. Herbst met Julian Weltfremdt, who was leaving one café on his way to another.