A. Yehoshua - The Retrospective

“No, that’s enough.” Moses touches the little bird’s hand. “Did you all forget how old I am?”

“How could we forget?” she counters with a cheerful smile. “We studied your biography.” As proof she produces from her handbag a folded sheet of paper with an old photo of Moses, along with his resumé in Spanish.

“No,” protests Moses, “midnight is much too late for a gourmet meal. Let’s work it in between the second and third screenings.”

“Impossible. In a restaurant like this, the break between the two films would barely be enough for a first course.”

“So there’ll be only a first course, and maybe a quick dessert. What can I do, Pilar? It’s how I was brought up. Nights are for sleeping, not eating.”

She shrugs, as if to say the nights in Spain are long enough for both eating and sleeping. Suddenly she shifts her gaze, eyes flashing, and rises to invite Ruth, wandering among the tables, to join them. “Here’s your companion,” she says, in keeping with his resumé. “How charming to meet such a lovable character in person and not just on the screen.”

The two hug and kiss as if they were childhood friends. Moses has observed in recent years that Ruth is quick to throw her arms around anyone still excited to meet her, maybe to seize the connection before she is forever forgotten. Moses puts his napkin on his plate and hangs his scarf on the chair to indicate imminent return, and hurries back to the room, which Ruth has tidied up. He inspects Roman Charity, still hoping to discover the name of the artist, but to no avail.

Before returning to the dining room, he inquires at the reception desk about the reproduction of the painting hanging by his bed. Who was the artist, when was it originally painted, and in what museum may it be found? The desk clerk writes down his room number and the location of the picture and asks him to describe it, and Moses obliges.

“If the picture is disturbing to you, sir, we can replace it by this afternoon—”

“No, on the contrary, I like it, it’s very nice, but also quite intriguing.”

It will be difficult to find a quick answer, but the desk clerk promises to forward the question to the director of the cathedral’s museum.

On his way back to the table, Moses asks the waitress for another cup of coffee. At the table, the two women are deep in conversation. “All right, then,” says Moses, “let’s get going and see the cathedral.”

“But wait,” insists Ruth, “which films were picked for our retrospective?” Linking herself, as usual, to Moses.

“What’s the difference,” Moses says in Hebrew, “we know our own films.”

“But if we have to explain, or defend them…”

“Defend?” Moses pats her arm affectionately. “You mean discuss them. But even if we need to defend them, so what? We won’t know how to defend what we created?”

Pilar pulls out a piece of paper with the titles in Spanish of the three films to be screened that day, improvising their translation into English, and the visitors do not recognize a single one. “You’re sure these are ours?” asks Moses with a laugh. “Or did you bring someone else’s films by mistake?”

It turns out that here in Spain, foreign films are freely assigned titles that appeal to the local audience. It takes a bit of wit and ingenuity to excavate the old titles hiding behind the new. There has been no mistake. These are indeed Moses’ films, from the dawn of his career, forgotten films made in full collaboration with Trigano.

“Why did you pick such ancient films of mine?”

“For you they are ancient,” says Pilar, “but not for us. We have silent films here in which the mother of de Viola, the director of our archive, performed as an actress.”

“She’s still alive?”

“Barely. But if she feels well enough, she will personally present you with the award you’ve been promised.”

“IF THESE ARE today’s films,” says Moses to Ruth as they walk into the giant square, whose majestic emptiness in daylight is no less glorious than its nakedness at night, “we won’t be able to go shopping during the screenings. We’ll have to sit in the dark and try and remember the details, or we won’t be able to answer the audience’s questions intelligently.”

The day is cold and bright. The plaza is lined by imposing palaces, which Pilar identifies by name — Palacio de Rajoy, where the mayor will soon receive them for an official visit, and the former Colegio de San Jerónimo, today the Institute of Galician Studies, whose rector, says Pilar, hopes to honor them with his presence at one of the screenings. And of course the massive cathedral itself, built atop a Romanesque church, its towers looming above a grand quadruple flight of stairs, the battered, greenish steps leading to the entrance. An aficionado of European cathedrals, Moses enjoys the novel experience of a long climb from ground level to the towering church. At the northern face of the cathedral stands a statue of Santiago, Saint James, one of the twelve apostles of Jesus and the patron saint of Spain; his sacred remains migrated to this place and since the Middle Ages have attracted pilgrims from all over the world who seek blessings and healing.

Therefore, in contrast to many European cathedrals, where often one finds only an African or Korean priest celebrating the Mass for a handful of foreign workers and a few local women, here the cathedral is crammed with tourists, who upon entering are transformed into pilgrims; they kneel and make the sign of the cross, sing sweet hymns at masses performed in small chapels. Near the stairs leading to the crypt housing the relics of the saint, believers wait patiently in line, hoping to draw strength from the dry bones.

Because the birdlike emissary of the archive is not sure if Jews draw strength from a competing religion, she leads them instead alongside the pews, pausing occasionally at statues and explaining their significance.

One cannot help but notice the brisk activity in the confessional booths. Along the interior walls, on both sides, the booths are arrayed one after the next, many more than generally found in cathedrals. Remarkably, even at this early hour, the confessionals are manned by priests in robes, some hidden behind a curtain, others on view awaiting prospective clients, immersed in books that through the lattices of the booths appear to be novels rather than holy scriptures.

Moses is impressed by the vitality of the religious rite of confession, which he had naively assumed was on the decline. “Decline? Not in Spain,” Pilar replies, “and surely not in this cathedral.” She blushes, her eyes glinting with mischief. Perhaps the visitors from Israel wish to confess?

“I don’t rule it out,” Yair Moses says with a smile, “but I would first need to put my sins in order.”

“In order? How so?”

“Separate personal from professional sins, for which I would need a priest who is also an expert in film. But is it possible for a priest to take confession from someone who is neither a Christian nor a believer in God?”

“It is possible for him to take confession from such a person, but he cannot grant absolution,” answers Pilar confidently, “and don’t be surprised if you find a priest here who also understands film.”

“Then I’m ready to confess,” Ruth chimes in, attracted by the idea of confession at a safe distance of a few thousand kilometers from home, though it is unclear whether her fractured English could express her sins adequately.

The animation teacher smiles faintly, steering the pair toward the large altar at the front. Here, too, one last confessional, isolated and closed, apparently in use. Pilar asks the two to wait until the curtain is opened, and after a huge red-faced man emerges, wiping away tears, she approaches cautiously and pulls from the darkness a short priest in a big robe. His face brightens at the sight of the Israelis, and he cordially inquires whether their hotel room was comfortable and their breakfast satisfactory.