A. Yehoshua - The Retrospective

He sees Ofra at family events or social gatherings, where relatives and friends look on with approval and relief at their easy and amicable interaction. What had belonged to him he either took or discarded, and if some forlorn bit of mail insists on going to the address he left fifteen years ago, it’s fine if it waits for him with his grandchildren. As a matter of principle he is unwilling to be a guest in his former home, and when he sees the red mailbox he himself had installed many years ago at the entrance to the building, a fragment of his name still lingering there, he feels demeaned. The Spanish retrospective has apparently sapped his resolve. Amsalem is right when he says he should stay away from her. He eschews the elevator and slowly climbs from floor to floor, to see which of the old neighbors still live in the building. But when he gets to the fourth floor, he stops on the last stair. The thought that the wife of his youth awaits him alone in his former apartment arouses tension and trepidation.

It appears that Ofra has seen him from the window, for she opens the door before he reaches it. Yes, she too is surely emotional and confused and perhaps regrets insisting that he come over. Not looking at her directly, he mumbles hello, pulls her close, and plants kisses on her forehead and cheeks, so she’ll be intimidated from the start and not entangle the soul that is still tied to hers.

Disaffected but oddly satisfied, he observes his former domicile, which looks even sadder and messier than the last time he was here. Ofra grew up as a spoiled only child, and her parents would clean up her clutter with patient love that they bequeathed to her first husband. But now she must deal with not only her own chaos but also that of her husband, the artist, a musician who apparently believes that chaos stimulates creativity.

To make room for a grand piano, the harmony of the living room has been violated. The sofa was shoved in the wrong place, and a computer and printer are permanent guests at the dining table. Old newspapers, so hard to part with, are stuffed under the coffee table, which is decked out with plates of savory cookies and dried fruits. But when Ofra offers him coffee, he insists on making his own, to prove to her and to himself that till his dying day, he will not be thought of as a guest in a home that rejected him. Embarrassed, she tries to prevent him from entering the kitchen, and with good reason, since the disarray in the living room is but a pale prologue to the anarchy of the kitchen. He switches on the electric kettle with the cracked handle and chooses a yellowish cup he once loved, but its cleanliness is suspect so he takes a glass mug instead and waits for the water to boil. And she stands beside him, small and tense, smiling uneasily; her face is properly made up, but her hair, gone gray, is not dyed well, or maybe she has stopped dyeing it. The coffee jar is not in its assigned place; she has to find it for him. “You still don’t sweeten your coffee?” she asks softly. “Never,” he says and opens the fridge where, amid the scary proliferation of staples and leftovers, he sees not one milk carton but three. He will not ask the lady of the house which is the most recent but will check the expiration dates and then whiten his cup with the milk of his former wife.

In the meantime, her embarrassment has turned to affection. She beams as she watches the liberty he takes in her home, as if her former husband’s immersion in her chaos gives her hope. Her warmth almost tempts him to comment on the gray hair — is it laziness, or overstated feminism? — but he doesn’t. She is not his. And though the decline in the appearance of the woman who left him should perhaps gratify him, it actually pains, frightens him.

In the living room, she congratulates him again on the award, and in keeping with his decision, he is not quick to dismiss its value but rather smiles and thanks her. Next she shows interest in the retrospective and is happy to hear that Ruth went along. “How is she?” she asks. “She is not well,” he says, “neglects her health.” He mentions her refusal to repeat the blood test. “This is not okay; you have to convince her,” demands his ex-wife. “Why me? She has a son.” “You know what he’s worth,” she reminds him, because she knows Ruth’s story inside out and retains personal and family details long after he has forgotten them. He tells her about his encounter with his earliest films; she remembers them, of course, that was how they met, he would call on her at the National Library to help him select music for them. “There still may be some prints around here,” she says, “look in the storage room.” “No”—he recoils—“there’s nothing of mine still here.”

She has invited him over to talk about their grandson Itay’s bar mitzvah, scheduled for early spring. Itay and his parents decided to eliminate the big party and make do, after the synagogue ceremony, with a lunch for close family, perhaps on the assumption that Ofra and Moses would be writing the big gift checks anyway. Neither Galit nor Zvi has the energy for a big party. Zvi is still waiting for tenure at the hospital and takes on many shifts, and Galit’s salary, despite her tenured position, is the salary of a technician.

“Why, then, should they take on the burden of a big party with many guests? Because Grandpa promised to make a little film of it?”

“I suggested it once, with good intentions. Anyway, I’m a lousy cameraman.”

“I didn’t know it was possible to be a successful director and a lousy cameraman.”

“Anything is possible. So what’s your question?”

“Well, they were wondering how to make Itay happy with something real, not just being called to the Torah; in other words, to give him a truly enjoyable experience, and nowadays among his classmates there’s a trend of taking a bar mitzvah trip to Africa, so Galit and Zvi thought that a trip like that would be a wonderful thing for him, and for his sister and for them.”

“Of all the continents, it’s Africa they choose for the transition from childhood to maturity,” he remarks.

“They’re not thinking in educational terms. They’re thinking about an enjoyable trip in the outdoors, the animals and scenery. A trip to clear the head a little.”

“Itay’s or theirs?”

“Everyone whose head needs clearing.”

“But why Africa? If they’re passing up a party and taking a trip abroad, they should go to Europe. Give the boy a little culture. Show him cathedrals, museums, historical sites. Connect him with something aesthetic, not some lion or monkey that he could see in the safari park in Ramat Gan. And believe me, such a trip wouldn’t hurt Galit and Zvi either, two people who spend their lives cooped up in a hospital.”

“There’s plenty of culture here, without Europe.”

“You really think that?”

“I don’t know what I think, but that’s their wish and it should be respected. If you want to persuade them to change their travel plans, by all means, do it, but whatever happens, you have to help them.”

“With what?”

“I don’t know how big a present you were thinking of.”

“That’s an odd question.”

“Why? Is it a secret? It’ll come out sooner or later.”

“Two thousand shekels, something like that.”

“Perhaps you could increase it a little, help them with the trip? It’s an expensive trip.”

“Increase it? Thanks to our divorce, Itay will get two presents from us instead of one, from his grandpa and from his grandma.”

“He gets two presents but has lost a natural connection with a grandpa and grandma who are together.”

“Not my fault.”

“It is your fault. But let’s not get into that now, please. Let’s keep up the good mood.”