A. Yehoshua - The Retrospective

“They evicted me from the hotel,” he says to the monk, who is delighted to see him. “So I came to bid farewell to the cathedral, since at my age, who knows if I’ll be able to come back. But why the crowds? Have I stumbled into a special holiday?”

Manuel knows of no holiday that Moses has stumbled into and thinks it is mere coincidence that several organized tour groups have arrived all at once and are attempting to perform in a few hectic hours the entire pilgrimage ritual that in the past took weeks and months. But it’s quiet here in the library, and he can show the Israeli director something of the priceless collection.

The guest is disinclined to spend the minutes he normally spends napping immersed in antique drawings. He would not, however, object to fulfilling a wish that arises every time he visits a church — to be closeted just once in a real confession booth and confess whatever comes to mind to an unseen authority. And would not the confessing of a non-Christian person, a disbeliever in divine providence, be an interesting experience, not only for the giver of the confession but for the receiver as well?

“You wish to confess?” The Dominican’s eyes light up.

“To try it, to get a taste of this ancient and venerable practice. In churches in Israel it’s hard to find a priest who is not an Arab, or at least a supporter of Arabs, and therefore the confession of an Israeli Jew is likely to get tangled in a political debate that would undercut its simple humanity.” As an artist, Moses has been wary of trying psychotherapy, out of concern that it would burrow too far into his meager unconscious and extract childhood lies and secrets that even in old age spur him on and nourish his creative work. For the psyche is a nest of vipers: you pull out one snake, and its friends are dragged along with it. But a short confession, offered by chance in a foreign country before boarding an airplane, might restore his soul.

“A fine wish for you, but hard to fulfill. If my brother were here, he would be happy to be your confessor.”

“Then why not you, Manuel? You strike me as trustworthy and attentive, and besides, there’s little chance we’ll ever meet again. So let’s do a confession in Hebrew, as in the early days of Christianity, and I’ll concentrate on my professional sins so as not to interfere with our friendship.”

“Ah, my friend,” Manuel says with a clap of his hands, “I am a monk, not a priest, and I cannot grant absolution to anyone.”

“Absolution?” Moses is taken by surprise. “I don’t need absolution, nor do I believe in absolution that does not follow an act of atonement — which no one else can perform in my place.”

“If you want just confession”—Manuel smiles—“let’s sit down at the table, and please, speak slowly.”

“No, no, not here,” objects Moses, “what I want is a confession in a real booth, tiny and dark, with a curtain and grille, opposite a hidden face that enables total freedom. But now, as I walked through the church, I saw that the booths were full and the lines were long.”

Manuel promises to try to find a suitable confessional on the lower floor, for everyone who comes to Santiago is something of a pilgrim, and it would be a shame if Moses returned to his homeland with an empty soul.

Manuel goes out to look, and Moses regrets embroiling such an amiable fellow in his scheme, a man of goodwill, if a tad disorganized. The flight to Barcelona is four hours from now, and the airport is not far away, but because the bags are ticketed to Israel, they are suspect by definition and must be checked well in advance. Meanwhile, Ruth will return to the hotel and be worried by his absence, so he decides to wait for only ten minutes, and if Manuel has not returned, he will leave him a note of apology next to the open book.

It is a volume in Latin, printed in the early nineteenth century. Its text is minimal and illustrations plentiful, some in bright colors and others in black-and-white. Portraits of priests and bishops and cardinals in decorative vestments, each according to his role and rank — apparently clergymen who served in the cathedral, which appears in faint outline in the background of each picture. Inserted at times among the men of the cloth is a man of temporal power — a patron or prince, or a tall gaunt knight wearing a helmet and sword with a small goatee, perhaps a distant relative of Don Quixote. And now and then, a band of armed soldiers, clad in billowy riding pants, preceded by a handsome young man tooting a hunting horn. Less often, he happens upon a well-fed noblewoman reclining in the parlor of her home, or a thin, sad young woman sitting on a horse, and on the next page a portrait of just the horse, and beside it a tall dog, gazing purposefully into the distance. Moses turns the pages drowsily, looks again at his watch. The desire to sit in the confession booth seems childish and unnecessary. Really, why bother with reality? In his next film, he can stick a confession scene in the script and tell the set designer to reproduce a booth, with a curtain and grille, so that during production, between takes, the director can enter it at will and confess to someone he deems worthy.

The sound of rapid footsteps. The door opens and the radiant face of the monk appears. A confessional has been located on the lower floor, actually the personal booth of the local bishop, intended for visiting priests and monks who wish to confess to him. Manuel has received permission to admit the foreign confessant, but so as not to provoke a theological controversy, he has not disclosed his non-Christian identity, though he does not fear its exposure, since his life’s mission is to be a subversive monk: this is the new word he uses to guide his actions. In Madrid he received a special dispensation to assist immigrants and refugees of dubious identity and illegal foreign workers, among them even pagans. His heart is gladdened by the mere possibility of taking confession in Hebrew from a Jew who denies the existence of any God, so he has now decided, on his own authority, to violate another principle: though he is not a priest but just a monk, he is prepared to grant absolution, and he announces this so Moses will feel free to confess with complete openness.

Moses laughs. He doesn’t need absolution.

And why not? It will be given even if not urgently needed now. Moses can save it for the afterlife. Dominican absolution in a bishop’s booth in the historic cathedral may come in handy in the World to Come, should he discover that it exists.

They descend more stairs, passing the tomb of Saint James, where pilgrims crowd for a touch of the sacred stone, and continue through a maze of hallways to a quiet chapel with a dark booth in the corner. But Manuel’s subversion is not complete. Because he is unwilling to have the aged confessant kneel before him, he turns the tables — he opens the booth, moves aside the red leather curtain, and gently seats Moses on the chair of the priest, while he kneels to hear the confession from behind the lattice.

TO CONFESS FOR the first time in his life in the depths of a magnificent cathedral just prior to a flight back to Israel is very naughty, downright anarchic. What’s not yet clear is what to confess to.

He decides on a brief, symbolic confession, a training confession, so that if he ever wants to stage such a scene in a movie, say a detective flick or a comedy, he can boast to the actors that he’s directing from personal experience.

The booth in the bishop’s chapel is unlike the booths Moses has seen in churches. This one is plush, almost luxurious. The curtain is made of leather and not cloth, and the inside walls are also upholstered in leather, as in a recording studio, to muffle the voices as much as possible. On the seat lies a plump leather pillow, and, remarkably enough, the screen separating the confessor and confessant is not metal but is also made of leather, punched through with holes, so it seems as if myriad eyes are peering from the other side. The overbearing scent of the leather, redolent of the sweat and tears of generations of sinners, makes Moses a bit nauseated, as if he were trapped inside a hippopotamus. But Manuel’s voice is soft and courteous.