A. Yehoshua - The Retrospective

“See for yourself. Each one is different. Supposedly we were good friends for a time, but I seem to have remained a riddle for him. See how he kept drawing me over and over, obsessively.”

“And Ruth too.”

“Debdou? Fine, in her case it’s obvious. He was fixated on her till the day he died. So it’s only natural that he’d pursue her not only with his camera but also with a pencil. But you, despite everything, didn’t stir his soul at all.”

“As opposed to your soul.”

“I broke away from you and blotted you out for good.”

“You’re sure about that.”

“I don’t even have to check.”

“But you unsettle my soul.”

“So why not settle it with another crappy movie?”

The noise level in the room has lessened. It seems some have paused in their conversations and are following the unexpected encounter. Moses is afraid Trigano will not be able to hold back and will let fly an insulting remark that will kill any chance of talking further. With the authority of a teacher, he grasps the arm of a rebellious student and leads him to a corner.

“I want to talk to you.”

“About what?”

“I have things to say.”

“On what subject?”

“Not here. Let’s meet.”

“I’m busy, I have no time. I teach in several places. I have many students and I sit on many committees. Let’s wait till summer vacation.”

“Summer vacation is a long way off. I want a short meeting. That’s all.”

“It’s hard for me to make time even for a short meeting; moreover, you’re unwilling to tell me what it is you want from me. Write me a letter, you can do it by e-mail, and I’ll see if there’s any point in a conversation.”

“E-mail? Are you crazy? I want to talk.”

“So give me your phone number, and during the Passover break, or on Independence Day, if I have time, I’ll try to call you.”

“What, Independence Day? Forget Passover. You dragged me all the way to Spain, and now you want to run away? I need help, Trigano.”

Trigano shrugs. “Really, I am busy. I teach at three colleges, advising students, supervising their work. Once a week I go down south to Netivot and stay the night — I have a film workshop at a community center there.”

“Then I’ll come to you in Netivot. At night.”

“Netivot? There’s rocket fire there from Gaza. Do you have a death wish?”

“What do you care if I die? But before I die I demand a talk. The retrospective you so honored me with is not over.”

YOU PLAN TO arrive in Netivot before dark, to locate Trigano’s studio more easily. If he is so insistent on estrangement from you, it’s best to show him that you’ve come not merely for your own personal agenda but to reconnect with his thoughts and imagination and be, if only for a short while, the student of your student.

In light of your recent road trips, you no longer trust the map you have in hand, so you buy a new one at a gas station. Its user-friendly design promises that this time you won’t get lost.

“Any rockets been fired at the south?” you inquire of the young man filling up your car.

And though this Israeli Arab appears indifferent to rockets not aimed at him, he says that so far as he knows, rockets are more likely to fall on the Jews at dinnertime. But it’s clear to you that he’s not familiar with the intentions of his fellow Arabs across the border in Gaza, since on the way down, long before dinner, there were radio reports about rockets falling in open fields. If so, you hope that the daily quota will have been filled before you enter the fire zone.

You are pleased to note that Netivot is no longer a peripheral village but an actual city, its status and prestige enhanced by the rocket war of recent years. Shops are still brightly lit and streets full as dusk falls, and everyone you ask knows the way to the community center. But you have arrived early. And since it would be humiliating if Trigano barred you at the door, it would be better to slip into his darkened classroom while a student film is being screened. So you sit down on a bench in a wooded park a stone’s throw from the community center, and though your hunger rumbles, you ignore it, preferring to break your fast with the scriptwriter, who as you recall is in the habit, like a Muslim during Ramadan, of eating hardly at all in daytime and enjoying a big meal at night. If you’ve made the trip down south to unravel an ancient hostility, it would be good to invite him for a generous meal, at your expense, conducive to relaxed conversation.

Sitting in the little cluster of pine trees, complete with a glimmering pond of goldfish, you watch with wonder as a multitude of night students, arriving no doubt from around the region, young and old, mainly women, park their cars side by side in the lot and go to classes and workshops at the center, which in the evening turns into a community college. Now and again muffled explosions are heard in the distance. And though a senior citizen who has sat down beside you on the bench dismisses those as “ours” and not “theirs,” you, the cautious Tel Avivian, head for the bomb shelter in the community center and are relieved to discover that the film workshop is held in the basement.

You wait awhile before sneaking into a large classroom, and you find a seat in the back row. Considering all the silver hair sparkling in the light of the projector, you will not stand out on account of your age.

You don’t yet see the man, but his voice is clear and confident, and it seems that since you parted ways his Sephardic accent has grown more pronounced, possibly to connect better with his students. The big old projector rattles in the middle of the room, presenting an amateur production shot on film, not video, perhaps to attune the budding directors to genuine shades of color. Judging from the conversation, this is apparently not the first screening of this film, since there are references to comments previously made and scenes viewed earlier. Sometimes, without turning on the lights, the teacher asks that the projection be interrupted in order to discuss fundamental issues — aesthetic, technical, or moral — and the conversation flowing in the dark indicates that the teacher can identify his students by their voices. As Trigano pinpoints weak spots and describes missed opportunities, you close your eyes and are propelled back in time, to the entrance of the Smadar Cinema in the German Colony in Jerusalem, where after the second show a student usher stands excitedly delivering his opinion of the film his mentor has just seen.

The screening is over and the lights go on, but Trigano has not yet spotted the new arrival. While reels are changed in the projector, an older woman in a headscarf and long dress stands before the class and delivers a few introductory words about her short film, an imaginary and experimental story, as she defines it, about a religious family that decides unanimously, after careful thought, to become secular. She and her husband play the leading roles, and relatives and friends play secondary roles and serve as extras. Despite the cast members’ doubts, they were all swept up by the story, and as it turned out, the imaginary heresy in front of the camera was so pleasurable it was hard to let it go and get back to reality.

The lights go down, and on the screen an unprofessional film unfolds, confused and choppy, but also bold and entertaining, and the Orthodox amateurs portraying their newfound irreligiosity play their parts with conviction and élan. All eyes are drawn to the leading character, a beautiful religious girl who lures her family to a bacchanal on the beach, and even the neighborhood rabbi who tries to hold the family is forced to give in and ends up splashing in the sea as the ultimate heretic.