Now, as he stands naked to the waist at the foot of their bed, he feels that in the many years since Distant Station, not only has her spirit remained fundamentally unchanged, but her older body has preserved the contours of the young actress, walking up the hilly path.
“How did you feel about yourself in the film?”
“I really liked what I saw.”
“As always.”
“More than ever.”
“When you spoke, for a moment I felt you really believed disasters are a good means of true communion among people.”
“You planted the idea in me when we made the film.”
“You can actually remember what I told you then?”
“More or less, but what I do remember clearly is you didn’t pay me.”
Moses is surprised, breaks into hearty laughter.
“Suddenly you remember?”
“This evening, in the dark, I remembered.”
“In our early films none of us got paid. We worked in partnership, in a cooperative venture. We shared expenses and would share equally in the profits, if there were any.”
“I don’t remember you including me in your cooperative.”
“But you belonged then to Trigano . . . to Shaul.”
“Belonged? What an awful word.”
“What I mean is, you were included in the screenwriter’s budget. You lived together, you were like a little family; whatever he got from the film was automatically yours too.”
“Nothing was automatic. It was unjust and unfair. Tonight I saw that the character who carried the whole film was me. Without my sign language, nobody in the village would have lifted a finger. So even if you thought that Shaul and I were a little family, you should have paid me separately.”
“I should’ve?”
“Who else?”
“Okay, then, I’ll pay you now. I’ll compensate you for all the injustice. Especially now that I’ve seen how exquisitely you played a character in sign language—”
“Which you didn’t even remember was in the film. Apparently you are worn out in spirit as well as in body.”
“I told you.”
She says nothing, regards him with hostility.
“When I saw you watching your hands and fingers waving on the screen this evening, I asked myself if you could still understand them.”
“Mostly.”
“And if I spoke to you now in sign language, could you understand?”
She is surprised, even suspicious, as Moses makes broad hand motions and points at the bed.
She immediately gets what he means, perhaps because she guessed his intent from the start, and sits up to make room for her own gestures, which signal an emphatic no. And as a sly spark flashes in her eyes, she gives a few animalistic grunts, as if to say, It’s not me you want, it’s the character you saw in your films, but even if you can get yourself satisfaction from the character you created on the screen, from me, tonight, you won’t get a thing.
Is that what was actually said to him in sign language at midnight in a hotel that was once a hostel for pilgrims, or was it convenient for him to interpret the signs that way? But since, according to the established convention between them, they could be together only if both sent the same clear signals, he shuffles to the bathroom, locks the door, and starts to fill up the big tub. As he waits, he examines his image in the mirror. Time has turned his hair white but has not yet bared his skull. And he hopes that the wrinkles that proliferate around his eyes offer a touch of humanity and not just an intimation of mortality. He gets into the tub and enjoys the water that lightens his bulk. He washes his hair vigorously, as if that could darken it. And when he returns to the room, clean and fragrant, he finds that his companion has turned out the lights, and to outwit her hunger she has let sleep swallow her whole, coat, boots, and all.
For a moment he wonders if he should wake her, remove her clothes so she can sleep more soundly. But he decides not to touch her, lest she think he intends to violate a clear sign just given him. On second thought, he decides to remove her boots, so they will not soil the white quilt cover. She moves slightly, feels his hands loosening the laces, sighs, and appears to struggle, but does not wake. Finally he manages to pull off the boots, and he removes her woolen socks too. White feet in the darkness, small and tired. Suddenly the young woman materializes from the first film of the day, standing in his family home, fearful and demoralized in baggy white shorts, leaning on a broom, and her pale, delicate foot strokes his hair. Was it the left foot or the right that Toledano’s camera caressed more than forty years ago? he wonders as he gathers both her feet to him, kisses each one gently, and rests them carefully on the bed.
three
The Slumbering Soldiers
1
LATER THAT NIGHT, when he gets up to go to the toilet, he sees she is still wearing her coat. In the dim light of Roman Charity he sits down close to her, careful not to touch her, and explains in a fatherly tone that such uncivilized sleep will not leave her rested. And she, without opening her eyes, mumbles that even uncivilized sleep can be restful, but nevertheless lets him peel off the coat and then, in utter exhaustion, curls up beneath the quilt and goes back to sleep.
But when he wakes up in the morning, her singing in the shower is louder than the roar of the water, and her hungry voice propels him from under the covers, in words not unlike his own: “Let’s get down there fast, before other people eat it all.”
As he emerges from the bathroom, she is dressed and made up, looking at the reproduction that hangs on the wall. But there is still no sign that the scene that repulsed her so in her youth and caused her to rebel against her lover triggers any memory. Moses, however, resolves not to give up. If not today, then tomorrow, he says to himself. I will not let her leave Santiago without reconnecting her to the repulsion that inflicted years of obligation and worry on me.
“Something wrong?” She is troubled by his look, but he waves her off, echoing her warning: “Let’s hurry down, before others leave us hungry.”
A new escort has been assigned for the second day of the retrospective. He waits now at the entrance to the dining room, the young teacher, handsome and refined, who at yesterday’s lunch complained about the absence of abstraction and symbolism in the later films of the Israeli. His name is Rodrigo Bejerano, and although his English is not as lush or fluent as Pilar’s, his thoughts are more complex and interesting. Moses invites him to breakfast.
Bejerano teaches the history of Spanish cinema at the film institute, but his field crosses borders; he is also an expert on French and Italian films of the postwar period. And he admits to being surprised by the three Israeli films screened yesterday.
“Why?”
The Spaniard tries hard to find the right words. “The determinism of the absurdist plot,” he says finally. “I couldn’t believe that in the end, Mr. Moses, you would actually plunge the train into the abyss.”
“It was not I,” says the disingenuous director, “it was the village people.”
“Still . . .”
“So what could we do? Be content with just a threat?”
“Yes, why not? There is great strength in restraint, in a threat that merely hovers, an irrational threat that one can imagine but that does not spill blood quickly and sow destruction easily . . . After all, in that period, not long after World War Two, you were not alone in this genre. Not only in Europe, but even in the Far East and Middle East, there blew an absurdist and surrealist wind. Take for example Egypt, your close neighbor. A few months ago we screened some old Egyptian films, underground films, surrealistic, but their grotesque and absurd elements were gentle, much less violent than yours.”
“The Nile relaxes them,” suggests Moses. “The Egyptians are always certain of their water sources; their surrealism as a result is less vulgar.”
The Spaniard’s eyes open wide, then he smiles, as if he’s heard a joke, but when the Israeli’s expression remains serious, he tries to dig
est the answer, and a moment later he asks Moses if he really thinks the absurdist genre reflects national character or geography.
“No doubt about it,” says Moses, putting down his knife and fork to avert the temptation to talk with his mouth full. “Don’t forget, we belong to an ancient people; for us, absurdity and surrealism are second nature, and so, when our art blends reality with a surrealistic spirit, or just bends it in an absurd direction, it needs a shot of violence, an overdose of imagination, because only then can art be distinguished from the absurd reality. You want only a free-floating threat? Our daily lives are filled with threats, which is why we cannot limit ourselves in a film to the threat to a speeding train—we have to actually throw it off the cliff.”
The young teacher closes his eyes to ponder the answer, his handsome face burnished by the glow of the copper pots and pans hanging on the wall. And then—after Moses picks up knife and fork—Bejerano wears a mischievous look as he challenges the director with a new hypothesis.
“If so, is it also possible to interpret the naturalistic detail in your recent films as a sort of inverted surrealism, a surrealism of calm reality?”
Moses chuckles with satisfaction.
“Let’s assume . . . maybe . . . why not? That interpretation is yours and remains your property. I never get involved in interpretation of my films and I am willing to allow any interpretation, provided it’s not an attack in disguise.”
Ruth is silent, dreamlike, not following the conversation. She is no longer eating what she piled on her plate in the first ravenous minute and has pushed it half full to the center of the table. Now she seizes her tea with both hands, presses the warm cup to her cheek, its pallor only thinly veiled by makeup.
In her absent-mindedness, can she still appreciate the delicate beauty of the young man sitting opposite her, or does this sort of thing no longer interest her? Over the years of their collaboration, Moses learned to gauge every shift in her mood. Even when she was not in front of the camera, or in his field of vision, he felt he knew what was on her mind. And now, in the dining room, despite the lusty singing in her morning shower, he can sense a depression setting in. Is the picture of Roman Charity slipping into her consciousness, an old memory giving rise to new melancholy?
“And today?” he asks Rodrigo. “Which films are being shown today?” The young man, unlike Pilar, does not need to pull a list from his pocket but quotes from memory the Spanish titles of the two films designated for today, quickly improvising their English titles.
Moses also asks about the film to be screened the next day, but Bejerano doesn’t know; de Viola had given him only the list for today. In any case, the final decision is based on the experience of the day before—the reactions of students and teachers, the nature of the discussions, and the level of interest displayed by the wider audience. For the institute is not just an art-film house but a center of learning, and a retrospective here is not only part of the students’ curriculum but also—please forgive the presumptuousness—an opportunity for the artists themselves to reconnect with their past and understand it better.
A waitress in a purple apron arrives and asks Moses to go to the reception desk after breakfast for a brief word. He assumes it has to do with the picture hanging by his bed, and since he would rather receive the information with Ruth not present, he doesn’t wait till the end of the meal, but agrees to go at once, asking Ruth to guard his near-empty plate.
His assumption is correct. The quick response of the hotel staff to an unusual request by a guest apparently stems from its tradition of caring for weary pilgrims. The clerk on duty, after seeing the picture for himself, located in a nearby town his former art history teacher, and to the best of his ability described on the telephone its content and style. On the strength of his report, the teacher offered a strange story of the picture’s background and even suggested the names of several possible German or Italian painters but said she could determine the identity of the artist only after actually seeing the painting. There are two options: invite the expert to the hotel, or send her the picture and hang another, less troubling one in its place. Moses immediately rejects the second possibility, and reminds the man that the picture does not bother him at all, quite the contrary; it connects with an important private memory . . .
“A private memory?” The hotel clerk is somewhat taken aback by the leap into the modern era.
“I mean the memory of a film I once made.”
In the end it is decided to bring in the art teacher, who can probably arrive within three hours.
On returning to the dining hall, he finds that Ruth has vanished. “She said,” the Spaniard explains, “that she forgot to take her medicine, and also that she would not be visiting the museum, but not to worry.”
“Why should I worry?” says Moses. Noticing the long line that has formed, he decides against another visit to the buffet, reaches for his companion’s plate, and slowly finishes off her leftovers.
“The three films you screened yesterday,” he goes on, “were very early ones. I had no idea your retrospective would dig so deeply into my youth. And if you surprised me, the director, you surprised her, the actress, all the more. To meet her young self, and in a foreign language, would naturally excite her and also exhaust her. It’s best she should rest this morning and be ready for the screenings this afternoon.”
Bejerano nods but adds that perhaps he is also to blame for her leaving; he may have worn her out with all his talk. Not often does a man get to sit face to face with an actress he has seen the night before in the full flower of her youth, and realize that despite the years, she has lost none of her magic.
Moses grabs the young man’s hand with affection. “Your words are very generous, and even more if you actually believe them. If you get a chance to tell her how you feel, it will help her self-confidence, which naturally enough has faded in recent times. But don’t torture yourself thinking she went back to the room because you talked too much. She loves conversation, and she enjoys listening to people talk, but her headaches are real, especially when she forgets to take her medicine. By the way, what did you talk about?”
“I talked. She listened. She asked what I thought of yesterday’s films, and I told her frankly that despite understandable weaknesses, typical of such early films, I was pleased to find them free of a certain annoying flaw found in many films today. I mean the doubling of the plot in the last third of the movie.”
“Doubling of the plot?” Moses is intrigued. “I can guess what you mean, but please, tell me.”
“A film begins,” says the young Spaniard, trying to formulate a thought precisely in his halting English, “I mean a realistic film, serious, psychological, with a believable plot.” A film about human relationships, about people with a real problem that demands attention and a decision that is painful and not simple. The suspense is genuine, subtle but clearly defined. However, past the halfway point, the film drops off, not because the original problem has been resolved, but because the filmmakers, or more exactly the producers, were afraid the audience would be bored. There is a sense of an ending to the film, and there should be, because a work of art, as opposed to life, has a clear shape, but in the meantime the screenwriter and director have run out of ideas. They cannot drill to a deeper layer in the relationships that have been formed. And the producer begins to complain that the product he has in hand is good for only sixty or seventy minutes, but what happens after that? So then, instead of developing new aspects of the existing conflict, they spread a layer of glue on the story to attach an additional plot—ghosts arise, long-lost relatives come to visit, painful family secrets are exposed, or one of the characters gets cancer. No, this is not the same old deus ex machina of the Greek plays, a god brought down from the skies with a butcher’s knife to slice through the complications that the characters can’t manage to resolve. This is actually an additional plot, connected to the other one with crude, implausible threads, to please the distributors of th
e film.
“Outstanding. A sharp diagnosis.” Moses applauds. “And in my early films, you say, you found no tendency toward a double plot.”
“Not yet. The plot line is clear and unified, though very simple, maybe a bit primitive, but not doubled in any way.”
This young and handsome Spaniard—I like him a lot, thinks Moses. He is thoughtful, honest, open, and it will be possible to get information out of him that the sly little priest shrouds in secrecy.
“Let’s have another cup of coffee and see if there’s some double plot on the buffet, and have a taste of that. Then we’ll go to the museum, and perhaps again to the cathedral. When I arrived I said to de Viola that we’ll have plenty of time here, but the plenty will too soon be over.”
“Three days in a city like Santiago de Compostela is a quick trip, but if your time is running out, my time will make it better.”
2
MOSES GOES TO get his jacket and finds the room is dark, except for a bedside lamp by which Ruth, relaxed in her nightgown, is leafing through a booklet of photos of the city.
“Good thing you decided to go back to bed.”
“Only because you said last night that uncivilized sleep isn’t restful.”
“Precisely”—he is gratified that she remembers—“which is why you need to rest before the exhausting encounter with two films we made in our childhood.”
“Exhausting?”
“Because it’s harder and harder for me to understand what we made then and why.”
“Hard? For you?”
“Even for me. Because, as you know, for me the plot is not enough, not in my films or in the films of others. And in those first screenplays, the real power was not in the story, not even in the strange situations, but in the sharp dialogue that he . . . Trigano . . . wrote. That’s where his wild imagination really shone.”
Only rarely does he explicitly mention in her presence the man who drove her away, and her face catches fire, and she seems about to respond but thinks the better of it and returns to the photo brochure.
The Retrospective Page 9