S. Agnon - Shira

Herbst sat on the bus, compressing himself so as not to impinge on his neighbors’ space. The bus was very old, one of the oldest, a survivor from the country’s first generation of buses. The seats were arranged with two rows running along the sides of the coach and one across its width. They were tattered and worn, with springs that popped out and poked the passengers. The bus company knew that in bad times people are so pleased to be able to go home that they don’t notice what they are riding in. Herbst was pleased, too, that he had found himself an inch of space, and especially pleased that he was going home with no secret to conceal from Henrietta.

Henrietta was awake. She still hadn’t accustomed her son to do without a ten o’clock feeding. She didn’t actually feed him; a wetnurse, brought in by Sarini, performed that function. But it was Henrietta who prepared the baby for his feeding, then waited until it was time for him to eat.

Manfred came in quietly, so as not to wake the baby. But he wanted Henrietta to hear that he was back. Not because he had anything to say to her, not because he wanted to ask about her or the baby, but for the following reason: if she asked, “Where were you,” he could answer honestly, “I was in a certain place, on a certain bench, on a particular boulevard,” and so on. He was in a position to enumerate all the places he had been; they were all legitimate and in no way suspect. This was one purpose. Another purpose: should he have occasion to go to a place he wouldn’t choose to tell his wife about, the present information would compensate for what he would conceal from her in the future.

The table was set with a light meal, covered by netting, and a thermos bottle. Before Manfred had a chance to take a bite, Henrietta began talking. She reported that Sarini had brought the books and left them in his room. When she said “the books,” he detected a note of complaint about money wasted on luxuries, when she needed every penny for the household. When she heard that the books were borrowed from Ernst Weltfremdt, she was startled, remembering the poem Rika Weltfremdt had composed for her and the new baby. She had forgotten to tell Manfred about it. If Rika had asked him about the poem, he wouldn’t have known anything about it, which would imply that she had so little regard for it that she hadn’t thought to mention it to her husband. But there was no cause for worry. Herbst had spent about an hour and a half with Ernst Weltfremdt, but Rika Weltfremdt didn’t show her face. Ernst Weltfremdt makes a point of not having his wife appear in his room when he has a guest, because, when she comes in, the guest feels obliged to ask how she is, and this interrupts his conversation.

Manfred wasn’t pleased — not with himself and not with Henrietta’s conversation. Though he had every reason to know that Henrietta wouldn’t burden him with Rika Weltfremdt’s verses, he was afraid she intended to read them to him. Determined to spare himself, he said to her, “I’m not willing to waste even a minute on them.” Henrietta looked at him, bewildered. She was about to respond, but she kept her mouth shut and was silent, knowing that, if she began talking, they would end up quarreling. And, after months of peace, it didn’t make sense to have a fight. She looked at him again, trying to find a reason for his sullenness. One minute, she wanted to scold him, to say that, if he was in a bad mood, he needn’t take it out on her. A minute later, she felt sorry that he was in such a state. Manfred himself knew that he hadn’t behaved well and tried to placate her, but he didn’t want to say anything openly conciliatory, for that might call attention to his foul humor. He changed his manner abruptly and said in a firm voice, “Your boy is taking the lifeblood out of you.” Henrietta understood that he meant to placate her, but his words were irritating, for he had said “your boy.” Henrietta said, “You talk about ‘your boy’ as if he were some street child I took in just to annoy you.” Manfred said, “That’s not so, Mother. I said that only…How can I explain it? Only…for no reason. Just like that.” Henrietta said, “Besides, I have the impression something is not right.” “Not right?” Henrietta said, “Everything is all right with me. I’m talking about you, Manfred. I suspect that something is not so right with you.” Manfred said, “When I look at myself, I see that I’ve never been in better shape. I don’t have a mirror, but I’m certain that even my tie is straight and in place. Isn’t it, Mother?” Henrietta laughed and said, “You’re wrong about that. Your tie happens to be disheveled and askew. I hope you yourself are in better shape.” Manfred said, “If it hadn’t been a present from you, I would say I myself am in better shape. Since it was a present from you, I would say I’m a rag by comparison.” Henrietta laughed and said, “Don’t exaggerate, Fred. Hand me my handkerchief.” He gave her the handkerchief. She knotted it and said, “Many thanks, Fred. Unless I forget to look at the knot, I’ll buy you a new tie, even before your birthday.” “Why all of a sudden?” Henrietta said, “So when you say that, compared to your tie, you look like a rag, there will be some truth to your words.” Manfred said, “That’s what I like about you, Henriett. It’s really possible for a person to talk to you, Henriett.” Henrietta looked at him and said, “With whom isn’t it possible for you to talk?” “With whom isn’t it possible for me to talk? You want me to list everyone, beginning with Adam and Eve?” Henrietta said, “And I assumed you had a particular person in mind. A particular woman, to be precise.” “A woman?” Manfred cried in alarm. “Is there a woman in the world I have any wish to waste a single word on?” Henrietta said, “If I weren’t your wife, I would be interested in talking to you.” “Since I am, alas, your husband, you aren’t interested in talking to me? Well, it’s already ten o’clock, and I’m keeping you from resting your weary bones. If I weren’t afraid of offending you, I would leave right now and go off to my room.” Henrietta said angrily, “You can go if you like. I’m not stopping you.” Herbst said, “That’s not how it is, Mother. Don’t be angry. You have an odd way of getting upset, all of a sudden. I had your welfare in mind, your need for rest, and you are offended. You tell me: would I want to hurt you?” “You wouldn’t want to hurt me, but you’ve gotten into the habit of saying things that are irritating and painful.” “From here on, I will weigh every word before I utter it. Incidentally, has your boy gained any weight?” “My boy is upholstered with fat; he no longer gets cold, as he did a week ago.” “It all comes from milk?” “Fred, you don’t know how cute you are with your questions. Where does the fat come from? Your cigarettes, perhaps. Mimi was here again. I assumed she wasn’t satisfied with seeing me in the hospital, then again on the day of the brit — that she wanted to see more of me. But this time she came on your behalf.” “On my behalf? I don’t feel…How shall I say it? I don’t feel there is anything about me that would attract her.” “But you would like to attract her?” “Why not?” “You old sinner, is that how it is?” “So she came on my behalf. Why does she want me in particular, when I won’t scold or abuse her? Isn’t she content with Julian’s scolding and abuse? Some women are peculiar: the more a man scolds them, the more attached they are to him. All he needs is a whip to beat her with.” “Phew, Fred, I don’t think there is a woman anywhere who would be attracted to a man who beats her.” “I don’t think so either. I don’t think there is a woman anywhere who would tolerate a whip. Now, back to the subject of Mimi. So Mimi was here, and she came on my behalf. What does a woman like that want from me?” “What does she want from you? She wants something that doesn’t please me. I told her in no uncertain terms that you are cutting down on smoking.” “Now I understand. She’s trying to help that fellow again, that cigarette merchant of hers! Don’t you think Tamara smokes too much? I think I hear a cough coming from her room.” “It doesn’t sound like Tamara.” “Then who is it?” “The woman who nurses the baby. It’s time for you to go now, Fred. She just woke up, and she’ll be here in a minute.” “Good night, Henriett.” “Is that it, Fred? I need a kiss first, then a l’hayim , then a goodbye.” “May you have many long years, Henriett. I could learn a lot more from a woman like you.” Herbst went up to his room, stuck a cigarette in his mouth, and lit it with heightened passion, having refrained from smoking the entire time he was with Henrietta, so as not to pollute the baby’s air. As he smoked, he surveyed the two heaps of books on his desk. He laughed derisively, reflecting to himself: When it comes to spiritual matters, women and illiterates make the most trustworthy agents. Sarini arranged the books precisely as they were when she took them from under my arm. This woman doesn’t know the alphabet, but her memory is formidable. She remembered what order the books were in and placed them on my desk accordingly. Here they are, in two piles, one large and one small, precisely as they were before she took them from me to put in her basket; the large pile is on the right, the smaller one on the left. At that moment, he had no desire to look at the books he had borrowed. But, out of habit, he opened one, then another, and glanced at them without reading them. Meanwhile, he finished his cigarette, discarded it, took another, and began pacing the room, as though troubled by his thoughts. Actually, he wasn’t troubled by any thought, but, as he paced back and forth, it seemed to him that there was something he could have done but didn’t do. He lit the cigarette and reviewed what he had done that day, including the fact that he had been near the alley where Shira’s new apartment was and hadn’t stopped by to see if her door was open. He smiled that derisive smile again, directing it at himself. If so, he observed, I am a hero, one of those heroes who control their own impulses. He crushed the cigarette with his fingers and disposed of it. He set his watch, undressed, and looked at his watch again, because he wasn’t sure he had set it. After a while, he went to bed, taking a book, as usual, but turning out the light even before he opened the book, which was not usual. He observed to himself: Tonight, having done nothing but walk a lot, I’ll fall asleep without a book and without the preoccupations that disrupt sleep. However, something did disrupt his sleep. It seemed to him that it was the anniversary of his father’s death, that he ought to say Kaddish for him, but he didn’t have a minyan , a prayer quorum of ten. Bachlam appeared, and Herbst considered asking him to join the minyan . Bachlam began to enumerate his aches, his books, his admirers, his enemies. Herbst didn’t have the nerve to interrupt, in order to say Kaddish for his father, which upset him very much. When he woke up, he was still disturbed, and he began to scrutinize himself and to have misgivings about his own behavior. He searches for Shira, but, when he is near her apartment, he doesn’t go to see if she is in. He then returns to his wife and considers himself innocent, pleased to have earned a night’s credit to be applied toward a future act that would have to be concealed from her. Even his transactions with Bachlam were improper, for he had begun to court him in the hope of winning his support for a promotion. These thoughts about the Kaddish he should have said for his father reminded him of a verse from a Heine poem on the subject, which reminded him of yet another poem that goes roughly like this: “ Darf man die Welt belügen / Ich sage nicht nein / Doch willst du sie betrügen / So mach es nicht fein .”