“This could actually be true?”
“Yes, that’s what we thought at the time,” says Moses, “with no political conflict, just out of human loneliness and emptiness.”
The hosts nod in agreement. Yes, they know people like that. In their village too.
“In any case,” says Moses, pointing at Ruth slumped wearily in an armchair, “she is to blame, she’s the one who incited the villagers, she bewitched them with her beauty.” And he details the deeds of the deaf-mute girl in the old film.
The hosts are excited. There is a deaf-mute woman in the village today, but she is old now. If the Jews would like to meet her, they can bring her.
“Why not?” says Moses. The chance to burrow into another retrospective tunnel appeals to him. But his companion motions him to stop. She’s worn out. It’s time to go.
The Palestinian sees them to their car and asks hesitantly if the film was a hit. His wife, who works in a law office in Bethlehem, thought that the village might be entitled to a share of the profits.
Moses laughs. “Are you mad? You’re talking about profits from a film made more than forty years ago.”
“Why not?” says the young man. “What’s forty years? Our account with you has been open for more than a hundred years, and will surely last a hundred more.”
Ruth gets into the car. Moses waves his hand dismissively and gets in too. But as Moses turns the key, the Palestinian opens the door on the driver’s side. The sunlight on his face uncovers a spark of enmity.
“The movie did well with the critics, but at the box office we only had losses,” Moses says, attempting to reassure him. “But tell your wife that if we’re opening accounts, we can also sue you for losses you dealt us a hundred years ago.”
8
MOSES SUGGESTS THEY continue on to Jerusalem, but Ruth objects. “Enough,” she says, “for me the retrospective is over, and I urge you to end yours too. In any event, please take me back to Neve Tzedek.” She emphatically pulls a familiar lever, moving her seat to make room for her legs. Then she unpins her hair, leans her head back, shuts her eyes, and turns off.
She is ill, no doubt about it, he thinks as he glances away from the road at her face, which seems distorted by pain.
Is she asleep or only pretending? He’s not sure, but in any case he refrains from speaking and pilots the car smoothly on the open Sabbath roads. Light rain taps the windshield as he navigates the narrow streets of Neve Tzedek, and carefully, so as not to startle his passenger, he stops quietly in front of her place and waits for her to wake up. The redness in her eyes indicates that her sleep was real and deep. She sees her building, straightens her seat, and says with a smile: “You’re a good driver.”
He gets out of the car too, though it is clear he is not invited in. It’s hard for him to part from her because of the sudden hostility she displayed toward him. So he drags out a few extra minutes and asks about the new portrait of her he saw on her table. Who drew her? How did it come about?
She hesitates, then whispers: “Toledano.”
“Toledano?” Moses is taken aback. “I didn’t know he drew.”
“As a hobby. Without telling a soul. Mostly he drew portraits of friends based on photographs. Sometimes he would make miniature drawings of scenes he had filmed.”
“Wonderful.” Moses snorts. “He never so much as hinted to me about it. It’s as if the art of cinematography wasn’t enough for him, he needed to supplement it with another art.”
“Yes, it came to light only recently.”
“He never told you . . .”
“Hid it from me too . . . from everyone, used to draw in the film lab.”
“How did this portrait suddenly get to you?”
“His son David gave it to me.”
“David? Really? The family stopped boycotting you?”
“The boycott was only his wife. Against me and also you, and basically the rest of us. She blamed me for his accident, but she was also angry with you.”
“Very angry, because I didn’t keep you away from him. As if I were able to do such a thing. Tough woman, a wounded lioness, wanted no contact at all. Even at the cemetery, at anniversaries of his death, she demanded I stand on the side, till I got tired of it and stopped going. So how did the anger suddenly come to an end, what happened?”
“It didn’t end, it never will. She found herself a husband, a French Jew, newly religious, and left the country with him; the two sons decided to sell the apartment and get rid of everything in it. That’s how they found the drawings, including a few portraits of me, of others too.”
“In that case,” says Moses eagerly, “there might have been a drawing of me. We were close, after all, had a strong common language, especially in the films you were in.”
“That’s true.”
“So what do you say? Get in touch with the son, with David, before he and his brother get rid of the rest? I’ve seen children who throw away hundreds of pictures and entire libraries after the parents die, with no emotion. If Toledano drew a portrait of me, I would be curious to know how he saw me. It’s curious, all the movies he shot, including some marvelous artistic images, that his camera wasn’t enough. Apparently it’s hard for a truly artistic soul to be content with one medium.”
“Apparently so.”
“I loved him too,” Moses says, “I loved him and respected him, though his desire and love for you were sometimes ridiculous.”
Her face reddens. Her jaw tightens.
“Ridiculous? What do you know? It was a love from childhood, pure and genuine. It was a pity I couldn’t reciprocate.”
“A pathetic love.”
“Not pathetic, tragic . . . What do you know about such a love?”
“Sorry, I apologize . . . You could be right. I didn’t know what went on between you.”
“Nothing went on. Feeling, just feeling. Precisely what’s so hard for you to fathom.”
They stand in a narrow street in Neve Tzedek. His car is holding up traffic. Someone honks. Moses says, “Wait, wait, don’t run away,” and he gets in the car and moves it onto the sidewalk, goes back to Ruth.
“Listen,” he says, “you must have his son’s address or his phone number. I’ll call him.”
“You don’t have to call him. He’s invited friends to his mother’s apartment Saturday night to give away possessions and pictures. If there happens to be a portrait of you, I’ll take it.”
“Why would you take it? I’ll go there myself.”
“Why do that? You’re not part of their crowd—people from Yeruham in the Negev, from the town in Morocco, friends from school. I’ll be glad to take it for you, if there’s anything to take.”
“I’ll go there myself . . .”
“Don’t. It’s a private gathering, I’m sorry I mentioned it. David specifically did not invite you.”
“What does that mean? Why does he care if I come?”
“He doesn’t care, but—”
She can’t find the words, but he understands.
“Trigano will be there too?”
“Maybe . . . Toledano did a number of portraits of him.”
“So what?”
She backs away against the wall of her building.
“Say something . . . what’s going on? You’re hiding something from me? In Spain we slept in the same bed. What’s happening to you?” He seizes her hand. “Did Trigano say he’d come but only if I wasn’t there?”
“Something like that . . . not because of me, I have no contact with him, you know that. That’s what I gathered from David when I asked if I should tell you about the evening. He said best not to, it would be bad if Trigano ignored you, or walked out. In any case he thinks these amateurish drawings by his father won’t be of interest to anyone.”
“He thinks!” His shout bounces off the walls of the narrow street. “Who’s asking him to think for me? And who is this son anyway? What does he do in life?”
“Don’t get angry. David
is a sweet and gentle boy. He finished the army, and like his father, he’s a photographer, of stills, not film.”
Moses is carried away with new, unfamiliar rage.
“I don’t care what he does or whether he’s sweet and gentle, he shouldn’t decide what does or doesn’t interest me. His father was my loyal and true partner, not like that madman, so don’t you say a word to anyone. If I decide to come, I’ll come. You know me. But please, give me the address.”
“Same one.”
“Where? Still down in Bat Yam?”
“Rishonim Street,” she says feebly. “I don’t remember the number.”
“Doesn’t matter, I’ll recognize the building, I was there many times.”
9
SATURDAY’S LIGHT RAIN was prologue to strong winds and rainstorms. After the skies had calmed, the temperature plummeted and bitter cold rattled the world. Yes, he said to himself, the cold weather will chill our minds and freeze stupid delusions. He puts on a heavy coat and an old wool cap and takes the pilgrim staff he has grown so fond of, and guided by memory alone, he finds Rishonim Street in Bat Yam, south of Tel Aviv, and a parking spot not far from the apartment house. For a moment he questions whether he should take the walking stick, then decides, Why not?
In the old times, on an evening prior to a day of filming when Toledano needed to take care of his boys, Moses would come to his home to plan the next day’s work. He can see right away that not much has changed here over all those years.
The noise of the gathering on the second floor can be heard at the entrance to the building. The apartment door is open, and the guests, mostly childhood friends of Toledano, some of whom have come from the south for the occasion, are not here to divide up the loot, which in any case is meager, but to look for portraits of themselves or of friends who have died, to exchange memories in a half-empty apartment thick with cigarette smoke. It seems to the director that since his last visit to his cameraman’s home, the shabby apartment has grown shabbier. There’s a big pile of coats, scarves, and hats near the front door, but Moses refrains from adding his coat to the pile and is above all wary of leaving his pilgrim staff unguarded, lest someone should think it had belonged to the late cinematographer and take it home as a memento.
The apartment is dim. There are few light bulbs and they are weak. It appears that Toledano’s widow had neglected the flat long before she hooked up with the Jew who took her overseas. But the dimness actually heightens the merriment of the crowd as they look at dozens of portraits and other drawings tacked to the bare walls in neat rows by Toledano’s two sons. From afar Moses notices big drawings of Trigano side by side, and Trigano himself—with a short haircut, wearing a khaki shirt and a red vest, straight-backed and thin as ever—holding a large candle and inspecting the portraits of himself, exchanging words with David, the elder son, whose silhouette resembles his father’s, though the father was taller.
Most of those present are middle-aged men and women, younger than Moses, some standing, others seated or reclined on straw mats apparently brought in for the gathering after the furniture was disposed of. Despite the physical discomfort and refreshments consisting of salted snacks, there is palpable fellow feeling among the invited guests, who pour into plastic cups the remnants of alcoholic beverages left behind, colorful liqueurs from old bottles.
Moses knows none of the people seated in one far corner except for Ruth, who is heavily made up and wreathed in the smoke of longtime admirers. A few guests recognize the director, and as the walking stick in his hand suggests a disability, efforts are made to clear him a path.
He anxiously scans the walls for a portrait of himself, but in vain. He does find a few graceful charcoal drawings of scenes he directed, but the figures are only the actors. The director and cinematographer and soundman are nowhere to be seen. Nonetheless, he does not despair of finding himself, if not as a separate drawing, at least as a member of a group portrait. Toledano’s work with charcoal pencil is remarkable for both its precision and simplicity, for in lieu of complex detail he often made do with a line or two that wondrously conveyed the image. In drawings of Ruth, her hands or hips are portrayed only tentatively. He finds that Ruth, like Trigano, is featured in many drawings, but as opposed to Trigano, who stands and eagerly examines his pictures, Ruth is indifferent and huddles in the corner with friends, a glass of something yellowish in hand.
Moses is certain that Trigano is aware of his presence. Presumably incensed that despite his request his archenemy has been invited, he is trying simply to ignore his former partner rather than insult him in public.
But it can’t be, Moses fumes, that he will continue to ignore me after sending me to the far reaches of Spain to defend his screenplays. He grabs Trigano’s shoulder to show that he demands to restore, if only for a moment, the connection broken more than thirty years ago.
As if no hand has touched him, Trigano turns to the young David Toledano—who is embarrassed by the encounter that was not supposed to happen—and asks him to take his portraits down from the wall, since he would like to leave.
The director tugs at the red vest of his former scriptwriter and says, “Hello. I have regards for you from Santiago de Compostela.”
Trigano’s dark eyes have sunk over the years into their sockets, and his forehead has grown with his receding hairline. A strange smile materializes on his lips when he sees that the director will not desist. And with an unfocused glance to the side, he hisses: “You insisted on coming anyway.”
“Yes, why not? Toledano was my cameraman even after you left me.”
“True,” says Trigano, looking straight at him, “and yet he didn’t draw you.”
“How do you know that?”
“I’ve already been through the other rooms. You can relax, you’re not hanging here.”
“Why relax?” Moses is perplexed.
“Because who knows how your portrait might have turned out.”
“How did yours turn out?”
“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, Independenc
e 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.”
eight
Supper with Your Former Screenwriter
1
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.
The Retrospective Page 27