S. Agnon - Shira

Herbst asked Julian Weltfremdt, “Are you in a hurry?” He said, “Not at all. I’m running away from the noise. What a nation we are! Each individual makes as much noise as an entire people. Why so much noise? Remember the teachers in our German elementary school? When a Jewish student raised his voice, they used to scold and say reproachfully, ‘Not so much noise — this isn’t a Jewish school.’ If they were exaggerating about the noise there, here it’s no exaggeration. What brings you to town? You are ordering a new sign, I suppose?” “A new sign?” “A sign saying Professor Dr. Manfred Herbst. I heard the faculty senate is considering your promotion. Since they are considering it, they’ll promote you. Not because you deserve it, but to show the world that they’re not idle, that they accomplish something. Good luck and congratulations, Herbstlein. From the depths of my heart, I hope you get a full professorship. Did you see my cousin’s book? No? You can see it in any bookstore window. It’s as fat as a watermelon. In another country, such a book would earn professorships for generations to come. Here, he’ll have to make do with a title that’s good only for himself. Poor fellow.”

They went into the café and sat down together. Weltfremdt took his cigarettes from his pocket, placed them in front of him on the table, and sat talking about the things he had talked about yesterday and the day before: how there is never anything new in Jerusalem; that, if you do find something new, it’s a second-rate copy of something old. Nonetheless, he had some news. He had found a job. He would soon be teaching in a secondary school, either Blumenkohl or Lilienblum.

“This is the story of the school,” Weltfremdt told Herbst. “There was a land speculator, a stupid and ignorant man, who made a fortune. He put up a building that was large and not especially ugly. If it were ugly, I would suggest to the authorities that they turn it into a prison in which they should install the builder, his partners, his partners’ partners, and all the high officials who accepted bribes from him openly and secretly. When it was built, he didn’t find tenants that suited him, so it remained uninhabited. It upset him not to have any tenants — to have no one to oppress, no one to skin alive — so he decided to set up a school. In this country, schools are a lucrative enterprise. Everyone is after an education and a degree, and those who are too stupid to achieve this for themselves want their offspring to be educated. Where does one acquire an education? In schools. There are new ones everywhere. Anyone who lacks the competence to open a kindergarten opens a secondary school. For the moment, they are content to call the school a gymnasia. Before long, they will all become universities. The Jews are not a people known to be content with the minimum. As long as the university is more highly regarded than the gymnasia, every gymnasia is destined to become a university. And you, Mr. Innocent, aren’t you wondering why the headmaster saw fit to have me teach in his gymnasia. It’s because of my name. He can boast that Weltfremdt is one of his teachers, and people will assume he means Professor Weltfremdt. So you see, Herbstlein, one can do a good turn without lifting a finger. Whom do I have in mind? I’m thinking of my cousin.”

The waitress came and asked, “What would you gentlemen like?” Weltfremdt deliberated and said, “I would like an ashtray.” “And what else would the gentleman like?” Weltfremdt said, “Just a minute, I’ll see if I forgot matches. I forgot. Yes, I forgot. I truly forgot, so please bring me some matches, too.” The waitress laughed and asked Herbst, “Tea or coffee, sir?” Weltfremdt said, “I would like to have some coffee, but make it iced coffee. Take my advice, Herbst, and have some iced coffee. You’ll be eternally grateful to me. Miss, bring two glasses of iced coffee — but iced, truly iced, not the kind that’s called iced and isn’t iced. I found matches. Forgetfulness is an unfortunate trait, but memory is even more of a misfortune, as it includes remembering and forgetting in one, for, if you hadn’t forgotten, you would have no need to remember. Do you or do you not understand? I assume you don’t. So let’s go back to the beginning. The idiot who set up that gymnasium had never, in his entire life, seen a school. But he was a skilled merchant and a good businessman. He understood that the parents’ goal was to acquire good credentials for their children. For this reason, he instructed the staff to ignore the stupidity of the students. This is how they prepare students for the university. My dear Herbstlein, I’m talking, but you’re not listening. What’s that in your hand?”

Herbst was holding his notebook, but he wasn’t looking inside it. He was repeating Shira’s address to himself, having erased it the night before. Startled by Weltfremdt’s rebuke, Herbst tucked away the notebook, stared at Weltfremdt, then surveyed the café. A few years earlier, he had been here with Shira. Someone else had owned the place at the time. He had been here another time with Shira and found yet a different owner. Cafés change hands often. A proprietor who serves his customers well, who provides good coffee, ends up selling the business and leaving the country.

All of a sudden, Herbst took Weltfremdt’s hand, looked at him — either at him or through him — and said, “I have to go.” Weltfremdt collected his things and stood up. Herbst remained seated. Weltfremdt noted this and laughed. Herbst said, “Why are you laughing? Is it because I’m sitting down? I really have to go. Yes, I have to go.” Weltfremdt said, “I would assume, dear Herbstlein, that need is determined by desire and desire by need.” Herbst smiled, a confused smile, pretending not to understand, as if he had been about to do something but was interrupted and was now making every effort to recover. Herbst looked down at the table and called out after Weltfremdt, “You forgot your matches.” “It’s an empty box,” Weltfremdt explained. Herbst picked up the matchbox, looked inside, and said, with a confused chuckle, “That’s right, the box is empty. You’re going already?” “Yes,” Weltfremdt answered, “I have to go too.” The two friends took leave of each other and went their separate ways. Weltfremdt went to another café to glance at some newspapers, and Herbst turned toward the bus stop, meaning to go home.

On the way to the bus, he thought: Henrietta isn’t expecting me for lunch, because I told her I was going to Gethsemane. If I come home now, I’ll disrupt her routines. She probably hasn’t prepared lunch, or she has prepared it but plans to serve it for dinner, so she can have time to pursue some of her other interests. I really should stay in town as long as possible. What if I did tell Julian I had to go? Herbst arrived at the corner and stood in the shade of an awning that was shielding a display window from the sun. He looked at his wristwatch and pondered, wondering why he had left the café in full knowledge that, at this hour, there was no better place to be and no better conversationalist than Julian Weltfremdt. He looked at his watch again. No, the French Library wouldn’t be open yet. He suddenly cried out, “Fool! How could you forget …?”

Like a person who remembers something he has to do and regrets every wasted moment, he didn’t say just what he had forgotten. But he directed his steps toward a store that sold foreign books, one of many that sprang up when German immigrants arrived, bringing with them many books but not enough money for spacious apartments with room for bookcases, like the ones they were accustomed to in Germany. Thus, they were compelled to sell their books for next to nothing. Herbst’s interest at that particular moment was not in those books, but in the collection of a certain orange-grove owner from Petah Tikva, which the proprietor had recently purchased from his heirs. True, for the most part these books were German classics, the best of which he already owned, and the lesser ones were unappealing. But these were elegant editions, bound in leather, and Herbst was considering an exchange. He wanted to trade his ordinary editions for these handsome ones, adding to the deal a number of books he was ready to dispose of anyway.