A. Yehoshua - The Liberated Bride

The audience entered slowly, advancing toward a stage in the round, on which they were invited to sit as though part of the performance. To heavy but clear-toned music, twelve young actors and actresses dressed in black took their places, microphones attached to them so that they might speak, or even whisper, the words of the ancient text naturally and from the right inner place.

28.

My heart is sore pained within me,

And the terrors of death are fallen on me.

Fearfulness and trembling are come upon me,

And horror hath overwhelmed me.

And I said, Oh that I had wings like a dove!

For then would I fly away and be at rest.

Lo, then would I wander far off, and remain in the wilderness.

Selah.

ALTHOUGH RIVLIN HAD no idea how the play would develop or what was in store for them, the somber prologue from the Book of Psalms, cast into the black space of the auditorium, made him sit up. He smiled encouragingly at his wife. She nodded back, secretly pleased to have been rescued from a wedding that, even if it did not arouse her envy, was eminently forgoable.

Two actors began to recite? declaim? read? speak? act? passages from the story of the Creation. In the day the Lord God made the earth and the heavens …. The story of Cain and Abel… This is the book of the generations of Adam. The grand biblical language soared with contemporary freshness. Though hardly a sentence or word did not come from Scripture, the female director had taken liberties, rearranging and editing the text for the benefit of the spectators, who sat in the dark with quiet yet skeptical attention, slowly sipping old wine, its taste unfamiliar to many of them, from a new bottle.

And Adam lived an hundred and thirty years, and begat a son in his own likeness, after his image; and called his name Seth: And the days of Adam after he had begotten Seth were eight hundred years: and he begat sons and daughters: And all the days that Adam lived were nine hundred and thirty years: and he died.

And Seth lived an hundred and five years, and begat Enos. And Seth lived after he begat Enos eight hundred and seven years, and begat sons and daughters. And all the days of Seth were nine hundred and twelve years: and he died.

And Enos lived ninety years, and begat Cainan. And Enos lived after he begat Cainan eight hundred and fifteen years, and begat sons and daughters.

Emerging from a far corner, a solemn young actress enumerated the generations while crossing the stage in a long, slow diagonal, her floating gait trancelike. In the middle of her path several young men lay twisted on the floor, tormented by the venerable ages of the endlessly begetting ancients. Slowly, the tedious list of names and numbers, accompanied by a distant peal of bells, took on meaning and drama, perhaps because of the way the young actress enigmatically paused before each repetition of “… and daughters.”

Rivlin sought to catch his wife’s eye, to convey that he liked the performance so far and hoped it would continue to hold his interest. But Hagit’s gaze was riveted to the stage — to which he, too, turned intently back so as not to miss a movement or a word. He admired the director for seeking to breathe life into forgotten and unpoetic biblical texts that were tediously plain: dry laws, harsh commandments, blessings, warnings, curses, lists of clean and unclean animals — all backed by electronic music and made amusingly real by sprightly actors in striking costumes.

Now, as two shaven-headed actors leaned over a large table, discussing between them, with the cackling pedantry of old men, ancient sexual prohibitions both commonsensical and bizarre, a tall, striking actress with golden curls falling to her shoulders took out a small white handkerchef and alternately brandished and tore at it with dancelike, repetitive movements as though it were a flag of protest or surrender. With sorrowful irony she joined the exchange, reciting the mordant laws, intricate and outrageous, meted out by the biblical legislator to the virgin raped by a stranger in a city or a field:

If a damsel that is a virgin be betrothed unto an husband, and a man find her in the city, and lie with her; then ye shall bring them both out unto the gate of that city, and ye shall stone them with stones so that they die; the damsel, because she cried not, being in the city; and the man because he hath humbled his neighbour’s wife; so thou shalt put away evil from among you.

If a man find a damsel that is a virgin, which is not betrothed, and lay hold on her, and lie with her, and they be found; then the man that lay with her shall give unto the damsel’s father fifty shekels of silver, and she shall be his wife; because he hath humbled her, he may not put her away all his days.

“Marvelous!” he whispered to his wife, watching with pleasure as a barefoot actor and actress sat down near them to lament the childlessness of Abraham and Sarah prior to the birth of Isaac.

“ Now Sarah and Abraham were old, the plump actress related, and well stricken in age; and it ceased to be with Sarah after the manner of women. She moved contortedly in her envy of the concubine who bore Ishmael to her husband, describing in a deep, sobbing voice not only her own anguish, but that of the bondmaid she tormented:

“ And Abram said unto Sarai, Behold, thy maid is in thine hand; do to her as it pleaseth thee. And when Sarai dealt hardly with her, she fled from her face. ”

All at once, without knowing how or why, the Orientalist felt a lump in his throat. It was as if the sobbing of the barren Sarah were meant for him, were in him. And while Abraham, the defiant believer, promised Sarah in God’s name that she would have a son before the year was out, the plump actress writhed on the floor, clinging to her despair and renouncing all hope in a tragic, sardonic voice:

“ After I am waxed old, shall I have pleasure, my lord being old also? ”

So powerful and convincing was her renunciation that a wordless sorrow moistened his eyes. He froze, afraid to let his wife see. She, however, aware of his tears, laid a light hand on his knee.

29.

“THAT’S THE END of the first act,” Rivlin said. “Now there’s an intermission.”

He leafed through the program, looking for the name of the actress who played Sarah. Putting his arm around his wife, he declared with satisfaction:

“I was on the verge of tears.”

“Do you know why?”

“It touched me. It hit a nerve. Didn’t you feel that way too?”

“Yes. I did.”

They headed for an opening in the human wall besieging the buffet. Suddenly Rivlin saw his wife stop short and duck.

“What’s the matter?”

“Don’t move,” she whispered.

But it was too late. The burly man ahead of them had caught sight of her and was staring at her in astonishment.

“Don’t I know you?”

Hagit said nothing.

“You’re the judge!”

She was unable to move.

“Don’t you remember me?” He reddened, the bills he was holding to give the counterman trembling slightly in his fingers.

Although she shook her head, the shadow of a smile crossed Hagit’s face. Rivlin sensed that she knew this handsome, well-dressed man.

“Is this your husband?” The man pointed, staring at Rivlin.

Hagit said nothing. The Orientalist nodded.

“I’m Amnon Peretz.” The man whispered his name dramatically, as though it were a dark secret. “You still don’t know who I am?” He grinned. “You gave me twelve years.”

Solemn and pale, Hagit bobbed her head. It wasn’t clear what she was confirming — her memory of the trial or the length of the prison term.

“You’re out?”