A. Yehoshua - The Retrospective

Moses closes his eyes.

“What made you think of Trigano?”

“No reason. You didn’t mention him when you told me about Spain?”

“I might have. You still in touch with him?”

“Not at all.”

“Now, for God’s sake, be a good host and get me some coffee. And let’s call a time-out.”

“As you wish. But do me a favor, don’t touch anything here. It’s all organized so that if one piece of paper is moved, I’m a dead man.”

THE HOST IS gone and a sweet silence fills his bookkeeping hideaway. Beyond the barred window, a view of skies as blue as if painted by a child. The power of the desert, thinks Moses. Eighty kilometers away you have rainstorms, and here, pure clear skies. Though the little room is warm, he has no intention of falling asleep, and while he waits for the coffee to revive him, he wraps himself in a checkered woolen blanket, eats the apple he stashed in his pocket, and studies the portrait of the king of Morocco hanging over the desk where Amsalem performs his tax evasions.

He is so accustomed to afternoon naps that despite his decision to rest and not sleep, his eyes snap open only when Amsalem’s sister-in-law, the young grandmother, enters, pulling the baby carriage while balancing a tray of coffee and cookies, the sounds of robust Israeli singing accompanied by accordion trailing behind her.

Moses suspects she took the coffee delivery upon herself so she could continue narrating her family story, but she surprises him with a strange request — she would like to leave the baby with him in this room. The young father wants to unwind a bit in a soccer game with the kids, and she would like to join the group singing in the living room, to lift her spirits a little, and if the baby starts crying he can call her. After all, Moses once had grandchildren this age, didn’t he?

“Four,” he proudly declares, “with more to come, I hope.”

“Good, then.” The woman smiles.

What’s good? He is baffled by the rather presumptuous request for him to babysit this problematic child — perhaps to tempt him to make a film that will alleviate the indignity. But he smiles kindly, helps the attractive woman find a suitable place for the carriage, and takes charge of the pacifier, making it clear that he will seek help at the first signs of yowling.

“Thank you, Yair.” Suddenly they are on a first-name basis. She hurries back to the singing, he closes the door after her. Before checking on the uninvited guest, he gulps several small cups of hot coffee. Now, wide awake, he takes a close look at the baby whose name nobody has bothered to tell him.

The baby is awake and gives the director a quiet, knowing look. Is the blue-black color of his eyes a joint venture of America and Israel or something temporary, likely to change? Moses considers whether to stick in the pacifier right away to head off a scream, or wait for one patiently so he can put a quick end to babysitting and restore the child to his grandmother, who didn’t leave him milk. He offers the baby the pacifier, and the little one hesitates before accepting it as consolation for the breast that had gone all the way to America. But even as he sucks at it avidly, he maintains a curious gaze at the unfamiliar old man who might make him a character in his next film.

Moses knows from experience that the pacifier will not prevent a round of wailing, nor will smiling or making funny faces. He leans over and picks up the baby in his arms, amazed how light he is.

He takes him to the window, to the vista of the gleaming desert in the noonday sun, carefully holding the child’s head lest it fall back, though he seems already able to hold it up on his own. The baby is quiet. Moses points at the blue skies stretched over the desert, and the pacifier falls out as the child gapes with wonder. A new, urgent idea crosses the director’s mind, and he replaces the baby in his carriage.

The baby, disappointed, produces a slight wail of protest, a clear enough sign for Moses, who will not do battle with any child. He picks him up again and carries him through the kitchen, its air thick with the smell of leftovers, to the front yard, looking for the young father, who is indeed there, a boy among boys, excitedly chasing a ball, and Moses suddenly laments the lost childhood of this lad trapped by love, and he retreats to the house with the baby in his arms and sternly scans the group of singers, and as he searches for the young grandmother, she hurries toward him, takes her grandson, and says, disappointed: “What happened? So fast?”

“Nothing I could do; you didn’t leave any milk, and besides, I have to be going, because I’m paying another visit on the way back.”

IT’S STILL EARLY afternoon, and Moses asks Amsalem, who escorts him to his car, if he remembers the location of the wadi where Slumbering Soldiers was filmed. Amsalem remembers, for it was he who supplied fresh food during the shoot. “It’s no more than forty-five kilometers from here, and the road has surely been improved.”

“It’s been more than forty years,” says Moses, “so find me the place on the map. When I saw the film in Spain I got all nostalgic for the Nabataean ruin we turned into a secret installation.”

“Let’s hope it hasn’t been razed.”

Moses takes out an old map from the trunk and follows Amsalem’s thick finger as it moves from the Ohalim junction by the Ohalei Kedar prison, to the Nokdim junction by Ramat Hovav, to the forest of Nahal Secher, to the Negev junction, then heads left from there to the old oil pipeline road that passes at the foot of Hyena Hill to the vicinity of Yeruham and then straight to the Big Crater, where it plunges down to Wadi Matmor. “This is where we made that crazy movie,” says Amsalem.

“Matmor?”

“Or maybe it was Hatira. When you get there you’ll remember, or just ask any Bedouin. If I didn’t have guests, I would gladly drive you, but since you’re already in Beersheba, why not go there? The roads are empty on Shabbat and the police don’t go there, you can speed down and back in an hour.”

Given such encouragement, Moses heads south and not north. He drives the route of Amsalem’s finger and finds that the late-afternoon road is indeed empty, taking a holy Sabbath nap. Here and there, an old pickup truck emerges from a distant Bedouin encampment. Sometimes Bedouins cross the road, raising a hand in greeting or just wanting to hitch a ride.

Yellow dominates the desert scenery, dotted here and there by reddish bushes and green shoots, encouraged by infrequent rain. The mountains in the distance look like a giant accordion, their foothills arranged like loaves of dough awaiting a blazing oven. The view is joined by the whistle of a new wind, which thickens the haze and fans the road with a fine coating of sand.

At the Negev junction he is uncertain about the turn onto the oil road; he slows down and looks for a human being who can assure him he is not lost. A small group of Bedouins, men standing and women sitting, are gathered by the shell of an old bus stop. He pauses for them to confirm the route, which they do, and they also take an interest in his destination. Wadi Matmor or Wadi Hatira in the Big Crater. Does any of them know the place? And if so, does anyone know if the old Nabataean ruin is still there? They pass the question back and forth, and finally a dark skinny man pushes his way to the car window and swears he knows the wadi and the ruin and is able to guide the driver there. But why?

“Just to see it.”

“And to stay?”

“No, just to look.”

In that case, the Bedouin offers his services as tour guide, but for a fee, since it is a long way. “Long?” Moses is apprehensive. “How long?” He waves the map. “Long,” insists the Bedouin. Long for him, for he lives not far from here. “A hundred shekels,” offers Moses. “A hundred each way,” counters the Bedouin, “you also have to come back.” Moses closes the window and shifts into drive. “Let’s go, a hundred shekels, final price.” The Bedouin knocks on the window. “Okay, a hundred and thirty, final price.”