A. Yehoshua - The Retrospective

“YOU SEE,” HE says to Juan on their way to the hotel, “it is a wise man who knows the limits of his strength and declines in advance a meal in a good restaurant.” “Wise or otherwise,” answers Juan, “tomorrow you will not be able to shirk your duty. A distinguished lady, far older than you, will be making a special trip from Madrid to honor the conclusion of your retrospective with her presence.”

It is almost midnight, and again the empty square is spread out before them in splendid gloom. “You don’t want another little look at our cathedral before bedtime?” jokes the priest. “Why not?” says Ruth, still energized by the film. “No, the night is so short,” Moses firmly interjects. But before they part, he expresses genuine appreciation, first for the fine hotel accommodations and generous hospitality, and for the quality of the dubbing and the high level of questions from the audience. He is especially grateful to the host for his excellent and efficient handling of the retrospective, yet he must ask that the pace tomorrow be a bit slower, and without giving the priest a chance to promise anything, he turns to the reception desk and collects the room key and the two pilgrim walking sticks.

How good to return to the calm of the spacious, pleasant attic, which is made up for the second night’s sleep. The sheets have been changed, and little chocolates in gold wrappers glitter on the big pillows.

But Ruth, suddenly cold and distant, dives fully dressed onto the bed, in fur jacket and boots, quickly unwraps a chocolate, and pops it whole into her mouth.

Moses removes his two hearing aids and tucks them in their box. Then he steals a look at the picture of the old prisoner steadfastly suckling at the pure white breast. He still refrains from saying anything about the picture to his companion, who is watching him with something akin to hatred.

He undoes his necktie and takes off his shirt.

“You could have asked whether I also wanted to decline the dinner.”

“I assumed you wouldn’t want to go without me.”

“Then you could have stayed with me, even if you weren’t hungry.”

“Again you ignore the age difference between us. When you’re my age, and I am no longer among the living, you’ll understand better how one feels at the end of a long and tiring day.”

She closes her eyes.

“In the morning, a big breakfast, but if you’re still hungry now, you can have my chocolate.”

She reaches for his pillow, takes the chocolate, and puts it in her mouth.

Now, as he stands naked to the waist at the foot of their bed, he feels that in the many years since Distant Station, not only has her spirit remained fundamentally unchanged, but her older body has preserved the contours of the young actress, walking up the hilly path.

“How did you feel about yourself in the film?”

“I really liked what I saw.”

“As always.”

“More than ever.”

“When you spoke, for a moment I felt you really believed disasters are a good means of true communion among people.”

“You planted the idea in me when we made the film.”

“You can actually remember what I told you then?”

“More or less, but what I do remember clearly is you didn’t pay me.”

Moses is surprised, breaks into hearty laughter.

“Suddenly you remember?”

“This evening, in the dark, I remembered.”

“In our early films none of us got paid. We worked in partnership, in a cooperative venture. We shared expenses and would share equally in the profits, if there were any.”

“I don’t remember you including me in your cooperative.”

“But you belonged then to Trigano… to Shaul.”

“ Belonged ? What an awful word.”

“What I mean is, you were included in the screenwriter’s budget. You lived together, you were like a little family; whatever he got from the film was automatically yours too.”

“Nothing was automatic. It was unjust and unfair. Tonight I saw that the character who carried the whole film was me. Without my sign language, nobody in the village would have lifted a finger. So even if you thought that Shaul and I were a little family, you should have paid me separately.”

“I should’ve?”

“Who else?”

“Okay, then, I’ll pay you now. I’ll compensate you for all the injustice. Especially now that I’ve seen how exquisitely you played a character in sign language—”

“Which you didn’t even remember was in the film. Apparently you are worn out in spirit as well as in body.”

“I told you.”

She says nothing, regards him with hostility.

“When I saw you watching your hands and fingers waving on the screen this evening, I asked myself if you could still understand them.”

“Mostly.”

“And if I spoke to you now in sign language, could you understand?”

She is surprised, even suspicious, as Moses makes broad hand motions and points at the bed.

She immediately gets what he means, perhaps because she guessed his intent from the start, and sits up to make room for her own gestures, which signal an emphatic no. And as a sly spark flashes in her eyes, she gives a few animalistic grunts, as if to say, It’s not me you want, it’s the character you saw in your films, but even if you can get yourself satisfaction from the character you created on the screen, from me, tonight, you won’t get a thing.

Is that what was actually said to him in sign language at midnight in a hotel that was once a hostel for pilgrims, or was it convenient for him to interpret the signs that way? But since, according to the established convention between them, they could be together only if both sent the same clear signals, he shuffles to the bathroom, locks the door, and starts to fill up the big tub. As he waits, he examines his image in the mirror. Time has turned his hair white but has not yet bared his skull. And he hopes that the wrinkles that proliferate around his eyes offer a touch of humanity and not just an intimation of mortality. He gets into the tub and enjoys the water that lightens his bulk. He washes his hair vigorously, as if that could darken it. And when he returns to the room, clean and fragrant, he finds that his companion has turned out the lights, and to outwit her hunger she has let sleep swallow her whole, coat, boots, and all.

For a moment he wonders if he should wake her, remove her clothes so she can sleep more soundly. But he decides not to touch her, lest she think he intends to violate a clear sign just given him. On second thought, he decides to remove her boots, so they will not soil the white quilt cover. She moves slightly, feels his hands loosening the laces, sighs, and appears to struggle, but does not wake. Finally he manages to pull off the boots, and he removes her woolen socks too. White feet in the darkness, small and tired. Suddenly the young woman materializes from the first film of the day, standing in his family home, fearful and demoralized in baggy white shorts, leaning on a broom, and her pale, delicate foot strokes his hair. Was it the left foot or the right that Toledano’s camera caressed more than forty years ago? he wonders as he gathers both her feet to him, kisses each one gently, and rests them carefully on the bed.

LATER THAT NIGHT, when he gets up to go to the toilet, he sees she is still wearing her coat. In the dim light of Roman Charity he sits down close to her, careful not to touch her, and explains in a fatherly tone that such uncivilized sleep will not leave her rested. And she, without opening her eyes, mumbles that even uncivilized sleep can be restful, but nevertheless lets him peel off the coat and then, in utter exhaustion, curls up beneath the quilt and goes back to sleep.