Moses instantly empathized with her action. Notwithstanding the disruption and the time and effort spent in preparing the location, he told Toledano, who had so looked forward to this scene, to turn off the camera, shut down the lighting, dismantle the track. And since in those days Moses was both the director and producer, he hurried to inform the beggar from the National Theater that the scene had been canceled and paid him right there in cash, the full amount. He still remembers the hot flush of insult on the face of the rejected actor, who had once played classic roles in the theater but in recent years couldn’t find a job and thus needed something, however marginal, that would revive his reputation, or at least his self-worth. First the actor wanted to know if the actress was repulsed by him, and after Moses assured him that he wasn’t the issue, it was the credibility of the scene, the actor let fly a curse, flung the burning pipe into the top hat, and demanded a taxi. A year or two later, reading the actor’s obituary, Moses wondered if the shock he had dealt him that drizzly morning had perhaps hastened his death.
At first Trigano refused to accept the violation of his script and tried to convince his lover to reverse her decision. But since she knew it was in his power to subdue her rebellion, she decided to ignore him. She covered her face with her hands and refused even to lower the window. Trigano slammed his fist on the glass as if to break it. And Moses, trying to forestall further violence, took quick responsibility for canceling the final scene. Let’s find a different ending, he suggested, something more heartfelt and plausible, a scene that conveys simple compassion, not intellectual provocation. And though he knew he was wounding the pride of his partner and former student, he got carried away and complained about the boring nonsense he’d had to direct lately, the sick and twisted situations he was increasingly expected to bring to life. He deliberately chose extreme language—boredom, not difficulty; nonsense, not oddity—that would undermine the self-confidence of his young collaborator. Trigano, who had been Moses’ loyal and beloved student, had convinced him that together they could create visionary art, something utterly new, and persuaded him to switch from teacher to filmmaker. And now, suddenly, the teacher had denied not only the artistic value of his student’s work but its moral quality.
Trigano bore the offense with a quiet hatred that undermined any chance of continued collaboration. True, creative differences had flared up between them before, arguments over characters and relationships, the content and style of dialogue, camera angles that had been spelled out in the screenplay. But a good partnership had endured, resulting in six films, admittedly unprofitable but unique and original and praised by those whose opinions mattered. But when the actress rebelled in the last scene of the seventh film—a scene that for the writer was the very point of the film—and the director not only made no effort to get her back in front of the camera but supported her action, Trigano quickly tore their collaboration to shreds. For it had been agreed that the screenplay could be discussed and debated during the writing process, but once the shooting started, the director was to honor the script.
And even though many years have gone by with no contact at all between the two, Moses still feels the stump of amputation, and he believes the screenwriter feels it too, even if he is too proud to ad- mit it.
After all, once they parted ways, Moses continued to make feature films, first from screenplays written by others and later, as success favored him, from scripts he wrote himself based on original ideas or adapted from books. Whereas the screenwriter’s output was confined to short, esoteric films, and then, when his new collaborators proved incompetent and saddled the productions with financial problems, he stopped making films altogether and went into teaching.
Sometimes Moses feels a vague desire to get back in touch, but he never does. Reconciliation after a serious breakup is harder than smoothing feathers after an argument. When they ran into each other at public events, at festivals or symposia, they barely exchanged more than a few empty words. Moses had at first believed that Trigano left him because of the affront to his professional dignity, but when he saw that the writer had left his friend and lover too, Moses understood that Trigano’s pride was injured not only by a director’s excessive indulgence of an actress repulsed by a twisted script but also by the extreme kindness of another man to a distressed woman whom Trigano regarded as his own. For had Moses not truly melted at the sight of a frightened female refusing her breast to an old street beggar, he would never have dropped a scene he was previously willing to direct—one never seen on the screen before. Toledano, the cinematographer, in love with Ruth, had adjusted the lighting and the camera so the moment at the end, when the beggar’s head touches her breast, would project the nuanced eroticism, the sense of longing and nostalgia characteristic of Ruth’s performance in those days.
Now, contemplating the picture of Roman Charity, Moses dismisses the possibility that Trigano had known about this painting, or another one like it, when he came up with his scene. Shaul Trigano had been a pupil in his class, and he was the type who relied more on imagination than knowledge, which in his case was spotty. Besides, Trigano had not described an old prisoner, hands bound behind him, who can’t touch the woman dispensing kindness, but rather an old beggar on a street corner who grabs like a baby for the breast that feeds him.
4
WITH THE FIRST glimmer of consciousness, Ruth expands her conquest of the big bed, assuming a diagonal position that sends a clear message: Don’t come back to bed, my friend. Other companions might have sought an alternative interpretation of the angle—such as Come, I wait upon your pillow—but Moses’ stricter reading had been proven right in the past. He doesn’t go near her except if she asks, and she doesn’t ask unless he gives her a sign that he is willing and able to respond. In essence she is not a partner but a companion; more precisely, a character who reappears in his films because he feels obligated to take care of her. They’ve never lived under the same roof, and she has a social world of her own, where she stays in touch with friends and lovers. She has a modest income from her work as a drama teacher for children, so she is not dependent on movie roles given her by Moses or any other director. But lately, despite her long experience and lingering beauty, she is not exactly in demand. And as she is unfit for the theater, since she can’t remember long stretches of dialogue, Moses has been trying to find her smaller parts in his films, and he recommends her for others. It would be a shame if her career ended in commercials for insurance companies or organic foods. Her intellectual resources are not deep. She came from a religious background, and in her father’s house, not one unholy book sat on the shelf, and all the record albums were Jewish folk songs. Her mother died in childbirth, and her father, a tall, silent man who was a respected rabbi in their village of Debdou, in eastern Morocco, left his community to make aliyah to Israel, where to support himself and his only daughter he became a farm worker. Therefore, when Trigano began to take an interest in her and plan her future, her father wholeheartedly turned her over to the energetic young man, who persuaded his girlfriend to drop out of high school, believing that whatever he learned and knew would be hers too. Moses doesn’t want to turn on the light but opens the curtains a bit to take another look at the picture, to decide whether to call it to Ruth’s attention, possibly awaking painful memories, or let her discover it for herself. But the winter sun is in no hurry to visit the westernmost province of the Iberian peninsula, and in the faint gathering light, Ruth’s diagonal position has exposed her legs, which are rubbing each other to keep warm. He takes the quilt and carefully covers them. All these years later he still remembers the praise once accorded them by an old painter who came three times in one day to see the first film she starred in.
That was in the 1960s, in a small movie theater in north Tel Aviv that specialized in unconventional art films, mostly foreign, some of them without subtitles. But ambitiously avant-garde Israeli films unable to make their way into the bigger theaters were also welcome to try their luck,
which is how Moses and his collaborators came to show their film there.
In most of his early films, Ruth had significant roles, since as the scriptwriter’s girlfriend she was available to work for free. The director and cinematographer were curious to feel out the audience, so they would sneak into the first screenings, with no expectation of favorable response. These were modest films, made under primitive conditions. Yet at their core lay an intense and arresting surrealism that attracted sophisticated viewers.
The very first showing of the aforementioned film was at three in the afternoon. A few viewers walked out in the middle, but a man with a hat planted firmly on his head watched attentively till the end. He came back for the first evening show, the hat again conspicuous as the lights went down. At somebody’s request, he removed it, revealing a big and shiny pate. Moses and Toledano were determined to find out what drew this man to watch the film twice in a single day, but he slipped out of the hall in darkness before the film was over. To their astonishment, he turned up at the third showing, at nine that night, and sat down in the back row. This time the director and cinematographer blocked his path before the lights went up and asked what compelled him to watch so unpolished a film three times in a single day.
He was evasive at first but then quickly complied, introducing himself as a painter. He thoroughly analyzed scene after scene, listing its strengths and weaknesses, and though his reservations were substantial, he also offered encouragement. The filmmakers were intrigued: If the film had so many flaws, why see it three times in one day? The painter hemmed and hawed, but finally admitted that it was because of the young actress, who had so moved him that he came back to engrave her image in his mind, for who knew when he would again see her on the screen? Strange words of praise, as he had not spared criticism of her acting, yet he came back, drawn by her charms. The cinematographer asked for a fuller explanation, if only to know how to capture that magic in the future. Whereupon, with precise professionalism, the painter proceeded to describe the nature of the sensuality that had spoken to him, sketched her facial structure in the air with his hand, detailed the shifts of expression in her eyes, marveled at the lightness of her gait, her ease as she sat down, and, above all, the perfect form of her “heavenly legs.” Those were the very words he spoke in the darkness as the last lights went out in the lobby of the movie theater. Moses was disgusted by the libidinal enthusiasm of the old, foul-smelling man. But the cinematographer hung on every word, as if in the future he would be able to translate the artist’s professional lust into perfect lighting and camera angles.
Was that the moment that sparked Toledano’s secret love for the actress who was bound body and soul to the scriptwriter? For even after Toledano married, he would often remind Moses, half seriously, of the keen observations of the “man with the hat,” to guide him in the staging of scenes that preserved the magic. Years later, when Trigano abandoned Ruth, the cinematographer remained faithful, and if there were no jobs for her in films by Moses or others, he would find work for her in commercials, where he was free to film the fading magic from every conceivable angle. One day, when he attempted to film her from a cliff as she lay nearly naked on the beach below, he carelessly lost his footing and crashed to an untimely death.
5
THE BLACK VELVET curtain grows lighter, and hunger too makes its demands. Ruth is an inveterate night owl, late to bed and late to rise. But since this retrospective will require long hours of attendance, it would be good to hurry up and use the morning to explore the city of pilgrimage. Moses is careful not to touch the sleeping woman, but he draws the curtain back and opens the window too, so that light and air will wake her. And when he emerges from the bathroom, fragrant with cologne supplied by the hotel, he finds her curled under the covers with smiling eyes, and since she knows how addicted he is to sumptuous hotel breakfasts, which in recent years have become the most satisfying benefit of his travels, she urges him to go to the dining room and not wait for her. Lately, Yair Moses often imagines his meals in advance, and in his pursuit of a precise naturalistic style, he prolongs the eating scenes in his films, insisting that real food be served, colorful and appealing, not sterile replicas, and he instructs the cameramen to shoot close-ups of full plates and wineglasses, not just long shots of the dining table. Within scenes he sometimes has actors cut short the dialogue and improvise personal reactions to the food. You are not dogs, unable to express opinions of what they eat, he likes to tease the actors, but intelligent beings who need to understand not only what comes out of your mouths but also what goes in.
He himself, though, prefers to eat in silence. As the years have gone by, he has become increasingly convinced of the value of being alone and keeping to a daily schedule. He is content to embark on flights of imagination and planning, especially at a sumptuous breakfast, a feast for the eyes and palate, such as he has discovered in the dining room on the ground floor of the historic hotel. A small sign by the entrance informs guests that this same dining hall was in operation during the Renaissance, serving the weary pilgrims who lodged at the royal hospice and those who cared for them. The waitresses’ traditional attire arouses interest along with appetite. He looks around for a table suitable for a lavish but introverted meal, and then a woman, thin as a bird and not young, approaches him tentatively and informs him that she has been sent by the film archive and institute to be his guide for the day.
If he asks her to wait for him in the lobby, his meal will be hasty and unsatisfying. But neither does he want her to watch as he gorges himself alone, so he urges her to join him. “Before my companion arrives,” he tells her, “come advise me on the fine points of Galician cuisine, so I won’t miss the best or be tempted by the worst.” She is embarrassed by the invitation, but since the flimsiness of her physique enables Moses to steer her with a light touch to the multi-tiered buffet and shove a big plate into her hand, she cooperates, naming the local dishes, listing their pros and cons. And as Moses, acting on her recommendations, piles his plate with tiny pigeon eggs and pickled fish in bluish brine and golden pastries shaped like shells, she too talks herself into an ample plateful of the same. The name of the birdlike adviser is Pilar Carballo, who identifies herself as a teacher of animation at the film institute. Despite her tiny frame, or because of it, she turns out to be an energetic eater, or maybe she arrived at the hotel especially hungry. In shared pleasure, they eat their fill, and to ensure orderly consumption, he asks many brief general questions about the institute and its personnel, the city and its residents, so his guest may reply at length and in detail while he continues to eat. Pilar is happy to oblige and also spells out the plan for the day.
The schedule, as promised, is jam-packed: First, a visit to the cathedral, which considering its importance is worth additional visits. From there, a courtesy call on the mayor, who has promised to attend one of the films at the Israeli’s retrospective. From the mayor’s office, back to the cathedral to see its museum, and then, time permitting, a taste of the Old Town. At noon, a lunch-and-study session with teachers from the institute and employees of the archive. At three, the screening of the first film, followed by discussion; at six, the second film and discussion; at nine, the third film, plus discussion. Around midnight, top off the day with a meal at a superb restaurant.
“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.
The Retrospective Page 2