S. Agnon - Shira

Now, after taking leave of his wife, he went to telephone Lisbet Neu. He found a phone booth, but it was at an intersection, and he was worried that he wouldn’t be able to hear Lisbet Neu’s lovely voice over the traffic. So he passed it up and went on to another phone, only to realize that the numbers were jumbled in his mind. He wasn’t sure which was her work number and which was the grocery number. He opened the telephone book to verify the numbers. They were spotted with dirt and illegible. He put down the book with the illegible numbers and went on. He found another booth.

When he opened the door, he found a woman inside. He retreated and was about to turn away. The woman said, “I finished my conversation. If I’m not mistaken, it’s Dr. Herbst, Mrs. Herbst’s husband.” Herbst stared at her and at the red turban on her head, his face turning red, like the turban. She said, “I am sure that Mrs. Herbst is well. She is comfortable with us and has whatever she needs.”

Herbst asked himself: Who is this woman in whose hands Henrietta is so comfortable? One thing is clear: the red turban on her head is becoming. And it is equally clear that she is the nurse I call Nadia, though her name is not Nadia but Shira. He was gracious to her, so that she would be gracious to his wife.

Shira said, “Did Dr. Herbst want to use the phone?” He blushed and muttered, “Yes.” Shira said, “Is there trouble with the phone? Here, I’ll make the call.” She lifted the receiver, placed a coin in the slot, and said, “This is the nurse Shira. S-h-i-r-a. How is Mrs. Herbst? H-e-r-b-s-t. I said Mrs. Herbst, the wife of Dr. Herbst. Dr. Herbst from the university. Mrs. Herbst who checked into the hospital this afternoon. She’s doing well? If so, Mr. Axelrod, her husband sends regards. Her husband, Dr. Herbst, who is right here having trouble with the phone. Can you hear me? Heeeeaaar meee ? Or do I have to repeat everything? You heard me. Good.”

Herbst thought to himself: That nurse took on a hard job. I must thank her and pay her for the call. But will that make us even? He looked her in the eye and said, “If Miss Shira is free, I would be glad to take her for coffee.” Shira answered, “I am free, and I would be delighted to go.” Herbst realized his timing was right, that he had done the correct thing, and that to have done otherwise would have been rude.

Shira adjusted her turban, took a mirror from her purse, powdered the tip of her nose, and said, “Let’s find a café with a phone so we can inquire about Mrs. Herbst.” Herbst opened the door of the phone booth for her, thinking: This woman is tough on the outside, but inside she is soft. As for me, what am I like? I’d rather not inquire or analyze. He looked at Shira again. Her freckles were no longer visible, because of the darkness or the powder. Either way, she was tall and well dressed, so one would not be embarrassed to be seen with her in public. She opened her purse but, instead of a cigarette, took out a mirror and peered into it, as young women do.

They went into the café and sat down — Herbst like a man unaccustomed to the company of a woman, and Shira like a woman intending to relax rather than talk. When Herbst realized she wasn’t eager for conversation, he was relieved and took the opportunity to observe her. He noted that she was sitting distractedly, sitting without crossing her legs, sitting and drinking tea with milk, sitting without smoking, sitting contentedly without looking this way or that, simply gazing at the small space in front of her, which was being filled with her tranquil presence. Though one cannot quite say this, for space is space and she is no more than herself — how could her mere gaze fill it up?

When she had finished about half of the tea, she took her purse, got up, went to the phone, picked up the receiver, and asked how Mrs. Herbst was doing. She came back, smiling, and said, “This time I was lucky and more successful. I spoke with the night nurse, not with Axelrod, who never hears you, who just keeps talking to everyone and his wife, as they say. As for Mrs. Herbst, she is doing well and is in good hands. The nurse I spoke to is the one in charge.”

Herbst said to Shira, “Really, that Axelrod is an odd fellow. He talks over his shoulder to everyone at once.” But what I am saying is irrelevant too. I should thank her for taking the trouble to inquire about my wife for me, and I end up talking, in Shira’s words, about “everyone and his wife.”

Shira didn’t answer. She sat with her legs crossed. When she crossed her legs, it seemed to Herbst that she began to dwindle. Not as she had dwindled there in the hospital, when he and Henrietta sat as one, and Shira and that beggar merged and were enclosed in whatever place that was. Though it was clear to him that it had all been a dream, he looked around and was surprised that the same beggar, blindman, Turk, wasn’t there now. As soon as he saw that he wasn’t there, he smiled and murmured to himself: In any case, it’s clear that he didn’t disappear in that sandal.

While Herbst was struggling to extricate himself from matters that are inherently impossible to extricate oneself from, a man appeared, dressed in black, elegant, and so closely shaved that there was a blue cast to his cheeks. He bowed and asked if they were pleased to be in his café, if they had received what they ordered, if what was served to them was satisfactory. When they answered that they were pleased with the service, that whatever they were served was good, he went on to say, “I hope that from now on you won’t pass me by.” He then took the opportunity to introduce himself. Actually, he had already introduced himself and told them his name. He had introduced himself earlier so he would be able to talk to them. He was introducing himself now to assert his position.

Now that he had joined them, he thought it would not be inappropriate to say a few words. He began telling about himself: that he was new here in Palestine and in Jerusalem, that it had never occurred to him that he would come here, certainly not to live. “But,” he continued, “having come here, I wanted to set up a café like the one I had in Berlin. At first, I thought I would open a café in Tel Aviv, a dynamic city, teeming with action. But when I saw the cafés there, which are half out-of-doors, I decided against Tel Aviv. For I, dear sir and dear madam, see the café as an enterprise that should offer refuge from the street rather than drag the street along with it. In Tel Aviv, coffee drinkers sit outside, as if they’re drinking soda, not coffee. With your permission, madam, and yours, sir, let me say a few words on the subject of drinks. Every drink has its place. Wine loves a fine room, furnished like a parlor with chandeliers that light the room as well as the wine in the goblet. Your eyes are fixed on the goblet, and its eyes are fixed on you. Being gay and jubilant, you bring the goblets together and sing out, ‘ L’hayim .’ Tea loves grayish yellow walls and a low ceiling. It inhabits its cup like a mandarin ruling his domain. Cocoa loves a cloth embroidered with roses and butterflies, with cake alongside the cocoa and cream topping them both. Beer loves an old, dusky cellar with oak tables, heavy and bare. A cocktail is at home anywhere, asking nothing of those who drink it. It sits watching with sadistic pleasure as people clamor for an illicit drop whose mother doesn’t know who its forebears were and is even unsure of her own daughter’s genealogy. And so on, with every sort of drink. Each one has its place. Coffee is foremost, with a special place named for it. Whoever comes for a cup of coffee comes to relax, to be refreshed. There, in Tel Aviv, you sit on the street, drinking, without knowing what you are drinking, engaging every passerby, arguing, shouting, contending, though no one can be heard, while a small, dark Yemenite crawls about applying the tools of his trade to the assorted footwear. He alone, I would say, is of any consequence. While he shines a man’s shoes, the fellow’s head could be switched with someone else’s, and neither of them would notice, in the general commotion, that head and shoulders are mismatched. Even here in Jerusalem, all is not well. It’s hard to find a good spot and hard to find waiters. You’re forced to hire waitresses. I don’t deny that waitresses have something waiters lack, but they’re impatient. They don’t have the patience guests deserve. There are guests who don’t know what they want, and a waiter must know what to suggest and how to use hypnosis sometimes to make them think it was their own idea to order as they did. Not only do waitresses fail to help a guest, but their brash manner confuses him. I stand by in silence. If I speak up, the union will be after me. If you will permit me, sir and madam, I would like to tell you what happened to me here in Jerusalem. I once threw a waitress out of my café. I won’t claim I was one hundred percent right, but surely ninety-nine. Picture this: I am standing and talking to her, and she yawns in my face. I yelled at her and said, ‘Take your rag and get out.’ As soon as she left, her friends stopped working and followed her, declaring that they were on strike. I laughed and said, ‘Strike, my girls, strike. Such meager chicks… you’re not even worth the price of slaughtering.’ I tried to find other waitresses, but they all belonged to the union and would have nothing to do with an employer involved in a strike. A gentleman came from the Histadrut, carrying a briefcase, like a lawyer, and began talking to me as if he owned my café. In short, he talks and I answer, I talk and he answers. Meanwhile, the customers rush in, and there is no one to serve them. Having no choice, I decide to negotiate with the waitresses, all except for that brazen one, so they’ll go back to work. Do you know what that man from the Histadrut said? He said to me, ‘If you don’t want her, we don’t want you.’ Ha, ha, ha, ha — I’m the boss, and she’s merely my servant. Yet he has the nerve to say to me, to the one who set up this place, ‘We don’t want you.’ If things hadn’t happened as they did, who knows how it would have ended? Exactly what happened? The sort of thing that happens only in Palestine. That gentleman had his eye on the waitress, and she had her eye on him. They were married, and, believe it or not, I sent them an enormous tart with ‘Mazel Tov’ written on it in chocolate. Which is not to say that we made up. But I did win their hearts, and they are now regular customers. He comes for coffee and she comes for ice cream. It’s the sort of thing that occurs only in Palestine. There are many basics missing here. I won’t mention the ones a cultured person misses all the time. But even some of the things a modern man needs only two or three times a year can’t be found here. There is not a single synagogue with an organ or a choir. I have dealt with one such need by setting up this café. I hope it suits you and that I will have the pleasure of seeing you here again. Good night, dear lady. And a restful night to you, sir. I am at your service. Au revoir .”