A. Yehoshua - The Retrospective

Winter stillness in the street on a cold Jerusalem morning. The hour is early; his entering the garden to check camera angles would look strange. He returns to the car and fetches the Spanish pilgrim’s staff — a white-haired man with a walking stick will cut a friendly figure even before his intentions are clear. The morning paper has been stuck in the mailbox; he can wait till the owner comes out and ask his permission for a visit in the garden to verify an imaginary reality. But the owner tarries, and waiting in a cold empty street is an undignified waste of time. He opens an adjoining gate and enters a yard, which stood empty throughout his youth until a four-story apartment house was built there. On a narrow path alongside the stone fence separating the two properties, he walks around his parents’ home, and after cutting through a tangle of bushes, he reaches a corner from which as a child he enjoyed secretly watching his parents on the patio. Despite the hour, there is a risk that someone at a rear window may wonder about the unfamiliar old man standing in a far corner, so he huddles in the bushes, gets down on his knees, and grabs the edge of the stone wall, his eyes fixed on his former family home to calculate whether Toledano and the set designer with ingenious trickery had indeed managed to turn one house into three.

Why is he hanging around here? If a whole day could disappear so easily, why try to reconstruct so distant a reality? Wouldn’t it be better to stop struggling with an unreliable memory, even if the retrospective comes to an end with an open question? But he is a Jerusalemite to the marrow, able to rest his head comfortably on a stone wall as the vine on the stones caresses his face with a fragrant tendril, and his walking stick, its tip planted in the ground, steadies him as he gazes at his parental home.

At last the door opens. An old dog comes out of the house, begins sniffing among the plants and bushes. Slowly, in widening circles, the dog progresses toward Moses but, oddly, exhibits no excitement or wonder, not a growl or a bark. Moses clucks at him gratefully, and the old dog just perks his ears and wags his tail, then urinates and turns his head loyally toward his master, who has followed him outdoors: an elderly man in a bathrobe, with a little beard like Moses’ and a similar body type. The man takes down several wet items from the clothesline, then goes to fetch the newspaper. He does not hurry back inside but pauses on the doorstep, shielding his eyes for a better look. Can it be that in the back corner of the adjacent property, amid the bushes, is a male figure that resembles him? Now a woman appears from the house, skinny, with a mane of white hair and a watering can, and she begins dousing plants that were sheltered from the rain. Although twenty years have passed since the sale, Moses recognizes the woman lawyer who had bargained with him stubbornly over every detail. In light of this recognition, he is also sure now of the identity of the other man, also a lawyer, her husband. If he is right, the couple have not only maintained his old family home as it was, with all its defects, but also remained true to each other. Have they clung to the house because of its proximity to the president and prime minister, or because they believe that the enigmatic Belgian consulate, which dominates the top of the street like a secular cathedral, enhances the beauty of their own house?

In any event, concludes Moses, a talented if tragic cinematographer like Toledano could certainly have produced three different houses from this one. He might even have placed his camera here, in this very corner, and with delicate shifts left and right, up and down, convinced the audience that in each scene, the main characters were entering a different house in a different area. But was all this done merely to save money in a low-budget film, or was there also a symbolic intention, which only the screenwriter could explain?

The two lawyers summon the dog to the warmth of their home, but before entering, the animal turns its head toward Moses and emits a brief bark, as if to say: I smelled you, don’t you dare cross the fence.

Yes, here at Moses’ family home on a cold Jerusalem morning, his retrospective is finished, and now it’s time to return to routine. As he approaches his car parked in front, he sees that the doors of the theater are wide open, and the lights in the lobby are on. Young people in coats and scarves mill toward a makeshift counter to waken themselves with coffee and bagels. Someone recognizes him from a distance and calls his name. They are actors and singers and dancers, here for the dress rehearsal of a musical play for children to be staged during the Hanukkah vacation.

“A play? By whom, about what?” Moses asks.

“Based on Don Quixote , adapted to an Israeli setting.”

“More Don Quixote ?” sniffs Moses. “Enough is enough, no? The eternal hero.”

Other actors recognize the director and flock to him as bears to honey. Among them, a tall young man with a little beard who will apparently dance the part of the Knight of the Sorrowful Face. A few of them have heard about the prize and congratulate him. “Small prize,” he says, thinking, That does it, I’ll have to declare it, but I can reduce it by deducting my expenses, maybe Ruth’s too.

A young and pretty actress, who years ago studied in Ruth’s class for children, brings him coffee and a bagel and asks what he’s doing in Jerusalem at such an early hour. Preparing for a new film? What’s it about? Has the cast already been chosen? Would he like to watch their rehearsal? No new film, just some vague ideas. He is too tired to attend the rehearsal. When the musical begins its run, he will bring his oldest grandson to see it and his sister too, Moses’ little granddaughter.

The group is called inside, and the lobby empties quickly. Moses gets ready to move on, but the cafeteria worker who is collecting the dishes says, “What’s the hurry? Finish your coffee.”

HE KNOWS THAT Hanan, the husband of his ex-wife, gets up late in the morning; at night he usually works on his music. To avoid exchanging pointless pleasantries with his successor, Moses phones Ofra during morning hours.

“I just got back from Spain and I’m returning your call,” he says to her on his mobile.

“How are you, my dear?” she asks.

“Doing my best.”

“I was so happy about the prize.”

“Be only a little happy, it’s a tiny prize.”

“In any case, it’s encouraging. They gave you a retrospective too.”

“A strange retrospective, drilling deep down. But you didn’t leave me a message because you wanted to encourage me.”

“Why not? Absolutely. But also to clarify something about Itay’s bar mitzvah.”

“Clarify what?”

“Not on the telephone, Yairi — let’s meet this evening.”

“Where?”

“At home.”

“Not at home. You know I don’t like being a guest in an apartment that used to be mine.”

“You’re not a guest. You are always the former owner and not a guest. And besides, Hanan is abroad and I’m alone.”

“Alone? Even worse. Better we should meet elsewhere.”

“Why?”

“Remember what happened a few years ago when we were alone in the apartment? I hassled you and lost my self-control and it ended in an ugly scene that hurt us both.”

“But that was years ago. You’ve gotten over me since then. I’m a woman of sixty-three.”

“Sixty-four.”

“Almost. And you’re pushing seventy.”

“I’m already there.”

“Then why get worked up about an old lady like me? You especially, always surrounded by beautiful actresses.”

“No beauties,” he growls, “it’s all fairy tales from the tabloids.”