A. Yehoshua - The Retrospective

The foes of the animal have invited to evening prayers an irate ultra-Orthodox Jew, who is frightened as the creature stares at him from atop the holy ark. He demands that the synagogue be purified of the abomination and consecrated again, threatening the congregants with excommunication if his ruling is not heeded. It’s easy enough to invoke religious law, but as a practical matter, it is impossible to expel the animal without killing her or destroying the synagogue, and the rabbi, who during the week continues to work as a laborer, refuses to harm her. At night, secretly and alone, he tries to discover her hiding place and to persuade her gently to leave his synagogue.

Thus begin nightly conversations between the rabbi and the mongoose, the rabbi talking and the animal responding with her eyes. He leans toward her now, falling onto his knees to beseech her, trying to cajole the animal to leave the synagogue and go into the big natural world that awaits outside. Actually, he speaks only to the camera, and his hand reaching to touch her fur is stroking the empty air, while the animal listening to him speak is not a free being capable of escape but a creature held in place by the invisible plastic leash, attentive to the lens of the camera that evokes from her big, sparkling eyes the elegant sadness of one who understands the rabbi’s request to leave his synagogue but who cannot allow herself to abandon the Jews to their fate.

Moses, standing in the rear, cannot see the faces of the audience. Two or three have left, and two others are whispering. There are also a few nodding heads, perhaps dozing, but the heads of the de Viola family, the old lady and her two sons, remain upright as, toward the end, the film gathers momentum.

The congregants, despite their love for the rabbi, abandon the synagogue, one by one. Someone takes the stolen Torah scrolls, another dismantles the holy ark, still another disconnects the electricity and water, and they all go in search of a new place of worship.

The building gradually reverts to a ruin, and the camera captures the waves licking its foundations. From time to time a few hikers visit the site. A pair of lovers spends a night there. The rabbi, still working with a hoe, no longer plants trees by the roadside but has been sent to dig wells in the hills. Toledano’s camera has apparently broken free now of both writer and director, following the rabbi who has lost his congregation as if his character holds the key to Kafka’s riddle. The film ends with a moment of rest for the laboring rabbi. He sits down among the rocks to eat his meager meal and watches as a large mongoose battles a snake. Thus hope is born from a strange, dark, and absurdist film, which Kafka could have barely imagined.

THE LIGHTS GO back on but are dimmer than before the screening, as if to allow people to make a getaway without revealing their reactions. But Moses is not interested in reactions. Yes, this is an immature film that was imposed on him, and it’s just as well that it was dropped from his filmography.

He stands in the corridor waiting for the mother and her two sons and Ruth, who is with them. The theoretician walks by and shakes his hand firmly. If he happens to be a member of the prize committee, Moses thinks, I’ll be going back to Israel empty-handed. Manuel fondly grasps the director and says in Hebrew: “May your hands be strong, you have done a great thing — you have forced Kafka to be optimistic.” Juan reinforces his brother’s words with a nod and invites his guests to sit awhile in his room before dinner, the final item on today’s agenda.

But Moses doesn’t want a dinner where conversation will inevitably make its way to the film just screened. “No,” he says apologetically, “attending a retrospective is harder for me than making a film, because I’ve lost control. If you want me clear-headed at tomorrow morning’s ceremony, please liberate me from this last supper and enjoy the company of my companion. With the aid of such an accomplished translator she will surely be able to explain anything that needs explaining.”

They readily agree to his request and quickly arrange his transportation, which makes him suspicious. By ten o’clock he has arrived at the Parador, where he is surprised to find the lobby empty save for three guests, whose boisterous laughter suggests their intoxication. He suddenly realizes that his fear of negative criticism has condemned him to go to bed hungry, and tomorrow’s generous breakfast will not compensate for the splendid farewell dinner planned by the priest and his staff. He asks the reception clerk, a pretty young woman, if food might be available at this hour, which is after all not terribly late. She is sorry, the dining hall is closed, the cooks have gone home. But she herself could prepare for him something light.

“Cold and simple food will satisfy me, señorita.”

She leaves behind the math textbook that she had been immersed in. Before long she brings to his room a bottle of wine and a loaf of black bread with a large hunk of goat cheese. Moses sits in front of Caritas Romana, lustily chewing fresh bread and cheese, whose pungency he offsets with slugs of wine straight from the bottle. He removes his shoes but not his clothes before getting into bed.

He glances at his watch; it’s past midnight and Ruth has not returned. There is of course nothing to worry about, she is under the aegis of two men of the cloth, but he keeps his clothes on, so if his presence is needed he can be prompt and presentable. He switches off the bedside light and turns over, like turning a page, in hopes that all his worries will vanish. But the new page in the book of sleep is more unsettling than the last one. For when he next opens his eyes he is startled to find the room lights dim, and himself naked under the blanket. By his side lies Ruth, quiet and content, leafing through the menu of the closing dinner.

“Tell me,” she says to the man awakening beside her, “what scared you so much about the film that you passed up a great meal?”

He pulls the blanket closer. He feels his head is glued to the pillow.

“The truth? This time I was afraid of real anger.”

“Anger over such an old film?”

“All of them are my children”—the director sighs—“even the weak and the pathetic ones. Kafka wrote a story about that, in the first person, called ‘Eleven Sons,’ and the most miserable son is the one he loves best, though he would not want to entrust his life to him. Indeed, Kafka felt most of his works were flawed, but he did not destroy them and instead deposited them with a friend, asking him to burn them after he died. But the friend refused, and rightly so. If Kafka truly wanted to burn his works, he would have done so himself.”

“But why did you think it would arouse anger? You know, the old man, the theoretician, gave his own little interpretation.”

“Good or bad?”

“An interpretation I didn’t understand. Any interpretation is good, no?”

“What else happened at the dinner? Why was it so long?”

“Spaniards are night people. They don’t get up at seven in the morning to listen to the news.”

Moses laughs. “And the food? It really was special?”

“A fabulous meal. Heavenly. What you missed tonight you’ll never have a chance to eat again.”

“And they talked about me?”

“Because you could do without them, they did without you. The cultural attaché from the Israeli embassy phoned from Madrid to apologize for not coming to tomorrow’s prize ceremony.”

“So there’ll still be a prize?”

“If that’s what they promised you.”

“Maybe, between a fabulous course and a heavenly course, you remembered who played the rabbi?”