The Retrospective

by A. B. Yehoshua

Moses is startled. Must he again share his bed in Spain, and this time not with a character from his films but with an unfamiliar young man? But if this is the only guest room in the house, how can he embarrass the hostess by requesting another one? And it would not be right to send the young man to a hotel. In the distant past, when filming at an outdoor location, he and the cinematographer would sometimes share a little pup tent, and Toledano Senior had not pushed Moses around in his sleep, so why should the son be any different?

  But the young cameraman can guess his misgivings and quickly announces that he will sleep on the rug, leaving the bed to Moses. And to minimize his presence he goes off to shower and change his clothes. Moses takes his toiletry kit and medicines from his suitcase and considers whether to hang his clothes in the closet, then decides to leave them folded in the valise. This is not a retrospective before a foreign audience or an appearance at a formal dinner but a secretive, revolutionary act that calls for wrinkled clothing. He feels the little bag containing the handcuffs and runs his hand over the red robe he borrowed from Ruth’s studio, which he claimed he needed for his grandson’s Purim costume. How many times, he chastises himself, have I demanded that others, men and women, put on bizarre clothes and accessories and stand shamelessly before the camera? It’s only right that for once I make the same demand of myself. From his jacket pocket he removes an envelope, counts the prize money, deliberates whether to hide it and not risk carrying it in precarious streets, or take it with him and not leave it in a room with no lock on the door. Finally he decides to spread the risk. He hides a third of the money in a woolen sock; a third he shoves through a torn lining in the suitcase; and a third he replaces in his jacket pocket. The white robe and copper cross might be able to protect one thousand euros, but it’s doubtful they could hold their own in the case of three.

  The housekeeper appears in an embroidered apron and white cap straight from an old movie and invites them to supper at the bedside of their frail landlady. The two Israelis tiptoe into the bedroom, which is spacious and splendid enough for a banquet. The armchairs and couch are upholstered in a flowered fabric matching the window curtains, and small tables are arranged among them. In the corner stands a large round bed, and upon it sits a smiling Doña Elvira, the old actress, who seems to have shrunk since their meeting in Santiago. Moses approaches and does not stop at a handshake but lifts her hand to his lips, and holding it close he asks her how he has deserved such warm and devoted care from her and her two sons, for he is not even a descendant of the Spanish exiles and thus not properly entitled to compensation for injustices visited upon his ancestors.

  Doña Elvira smiles feebly. In the evening, her English gets very shaky, and she requires the translation skills of her son, who has removed his robe and in his spotless white shirt looks like an elegant bearded bohemian.

  Carafes of wine and cups are placed before the guests, and a small table is pulled from the side of the round bed. The housekeeper serves a platter of hot and cold tapas, and as they eat, Moses is shown three small ceramic plates embossed with colorful renderings of the Roman Charity scene, each with different characters and poses.

  Moses feels the embossing with his fingertips and passes the plates to the young photographer, who is still unaware of the connection between them and his assignment. Moses explains to his hosts that since his first encounter with the reproduction by his bed at the Parador, he has studied the subject of Roman Charity, finding much material in books and on the Internet, and so when Trigano came to him with his astonishing demand, he knew that this evoked an ancient and venerable topic and did not rebuff his friend’s fantasy with disgust. Indeed, the reproduction in his hotel room had been hung there at the initiative of Juan, who sowed the first seed, the point at which the involvement of the de Viola family in the act of atonement began. The reproduction he saw at the hotel will be the model for the scene he will direct and appear in himself, though in his case the nursing woman’s gaze may be turned to the side—as he saw in some Renaissance paintings, as opposed to the Parador picture—so as not to embarrass her or the man. As to whether the woman should also hold a baby—that will depend on the circumstances. Moses would prefer to play the scene alone so Trigano could not claim afterward that the baby stole the atonement.

  Yes, Trigano had admitted that when he thought of the ending to his script, he had not yet heard of Roman Charity, and after he discovered that his imagination was deeply rooted in classical art, his pain over the lost scene and anger over the insult by the director had flared up again. Clearly, then, at the outset of their renewed collaboration, it makes sense to reenact the scene in keeping with its classical roots. There is no point in masquerading as an old beggar to whom some unrelated woman exposes her breast. Only by getting to basics and re-creating the original source of the scene will it be possible to restore trust that was damaged—albeit in a discreet fashion, as one copy of the picture will be given to Trigano, and the other he will keep for himself, so he can privately enjoy his own daring, but the negative or memory chip will be destroyed so that the picture will never again be reproduced.

  “That’s what we agreed, am I right?” He turns to the young man drinking a glass of wine.

  “Right.”

  He explains to Doña Elvira that David is the son of Toledano, the cinematographer of his early films. He too, like his boyhood friend Trigano, was upset at the time by the elimination of the scene, for which he had specially prepared soft, delicate lighting. But since Toledano the father knew Ruth from childhood, he understood her refusal, or at least accepted it, and unlike his friend, he did not break his tie with Moses but continued to collaborate with him until he lost his life in an unfortunate accident. Moses feels there is symbolic significance in his collaboration with the son who follows in his father’s footsteps in the field of photography and who has carried everything necessary all the way from Israel on his back—except for the prize money, which Moses himself has carried.

  “Do not grieve for the money,” Manuel tells him in Hebrew, “it will be given to those who are truly in need.”

  “The money doesn’t grieve me,” replies Moses, “prizes come and go, but I fear humiliation, even before strangers I will never see again. I am not young nor am I an adventurer. I am a solid citizen in the last stages of his life.”

  Suddenly fearful, he whispers to the Spaniard: “Have you prepared the place? Found a suitable woman?”

  “Don’t worry,” says the monk. “It may happen this very night.”

  2

  THE PORTIONS OF tapas are small but varied, the meal pleasant and relaxed, so Moses is puzzled as to how and why the conversation comes around to the Marranos and the Inquisition, with Manuel trying to convince them that he is related to one of its top officials. He brings from the hallway two large paintings of family members, portraits of middle-aged men, severe-looking priests in white collars, then opens a Spanish encyclopedia of the history of the Inquisition and compares their pictures to that of a churchman from the sixteenth century, a cruel Inquisitor. In his opinion, anyone can see the similarity of the three, and some of their features have filtered down to him. We have a shared genetic destiny, says Manuel, who has switched into English laced with Spanish so his mother can participate in the conversation.

  “Obsession . . .” scoffs his mother, sipping her herbal tea. In the vast round bed she looks like a dwarf. “An obsession to convince yourself you are a cousin of such a man,” she says.

  Manuel smiles sheepishly but carries on. If his ancestors persecuted New Christians and tortured those unable to prove the purity of their blood, then it is his responsibility to cleanse their sins by giving shelter to undocumented people of dubious origin—namely, illegal foreign workers.

  “Obsession . . .” his mother says a third time, but now her tone suggests she has not merely come to terms with her younger son’s obsession but rather enjoys it.

  From the corridor comes the ringtone of the cell phone abandoned in the fo
lds of the monk’s robe. Manuel hurries to answer it, and his voice is heard in the distance, tense and excited. Moses smiles at the elderly hostess, nods his head in friendship, says nothing. David, steadily drinking wine, seems enchanted by the place he has implausibly landed, and he asks the director if he can take pictures of the room and the round bed with the old lady parked in its midst.

  Moses refuses firmly. “No,” he warns the young man, “do not photograph here, or anywhere else either. You have come to Spain for one picture only, which you will take in total secrecy. Limit your artistic passions to Israel, or come back to Spain on your own. As a cameraman you are here for me and subject to my orders.”

  The young man blanches. His eyes spring open, and he clenches his jaw. But he restrains himself and does not respond. Though the words were spoken in Hebrew, Doña Elvira senses the aggressive tone, and to calm the Israelis she dims the lights with a switch hidden by her bed. The darkness that minimizes her wrinkles enables the director’s practiced eye to spot the signs of her former beauty that time has not erased.

  “You, madam,” says Moses in English, “are still very beautiful.” Manuel returns from the corridor in time to repeat Moses’ words in Spanish.

  Doña Elvira does not smile or thank the guest; she throws him a sharp look. “Beauty is still important to you,” she says and rings for the housekeeper, who arrives instantly, clears the dishes, and slides the lady’s table back into the side of the round bed. Then, as they watch, she quickly and skillfully readies the bed for the night’s rest. She tucks the old woman in a big blanket, spreads pillows around her in a circle, and crowns the remains of ancient beauty with a little white cap. The Israelis rise from their seats as the housekeeper is about to turn out the lights. But Moses is not done. He quietly approaches the actress’s bed and says, “Yes, Doña Elvira, beauty is always important to a man, and especially at a hard time. And you know that a hard time awaits me.”

  Manuel guides the director and the photographer to their room and despite the early hour advises them to go to bed. Chances are the moment may be tonight.

  “So soon?” Moses is confused. Manuel reports that a moral tug of war is taking place between financial temptation and the perversity of the quid pro quo. Although there is great hesitation, the people realize others will jump at the opportunity and they will lose out, and they say nighttime would be better for them than day. “After all,” says Manuel, “the original Roman Charity took place in darkness; a prison cell is always dark.”

  Pondering the word original, Moses nods: “Who is the woman? Have you seen her?”

  “I’ve never seen her. I only saw her husband.”

  “Husband,” says Moses, “she has a husband?”

  “Of course. If she is a nursing mother with a baby, there has to be a man, the baby’s father. Pero, the nursing daughter in the Roman story, is not a holy virgin, and the father of her baby may have known that she went to the prison to save her father.”

  “Amazing,” says Moses. “I have read and learned much about Roman Charity but have never come across any mention of the husband of the benevolent daughter.”

  “I exchanged a few words with the husband, and he will be there to supervise the photography and stand guard lest any harm befall his wife.”

  “But what harm could I do?” Moses protests. “My hands will be tied.”

  “Of course . . . of course. I also showed him pictures from art books. He is fearful, nonetheless, because it all seems odd to him. Understandable, no?”

  “The fear is natural and appropriate, I feel it too, and perhaps you do as well. The crucial thing is for the photographer to remain calm.”

  They go into their room. The young Toledano sets up his bed on the rug in the corner, padding it with blankets and pillows, but the director decides to take a long shower. On returning, he finds that the photographer has turned the light off and burrowed beneath the blankets.

  Moses appreciates the darkness. When he gets under the covers, he describes the details of the atonement to the young Toledano, its reasons and purposes. That way the photographer can be prepared mentally, not be surprised or confused. He is willing to undergo this debasement not only to renew his partnership with Shaul Trigano but to bring about Trigano’s reconciliation with Ruth and persuade her to stop ignoring her illness.

  From the sound of the young man’s breathing, Moses senses the emotion of his listener. A long silence followed by a low voice: “All you’ve just said I’ve known all along, so nothing will shock or confuse me. I was surprised that a director of your caliber was willing to atone for what was lost long ago in the imaginary world of another artist. It seems, though, that despite all the films you’ve made without Trigano, collaboration with him is important to you. You are obviously prepared to tie your hands and suck from the breast of a complete stranger, who symbolizes another woman, a woman who made many people miserable.”

  “Many people?”

  “Look, I don’t need to tell you that my father’s addiction to her ruined my mother’s life. And when he died because of her, we were so angry with him that a long time passed before we could speak his name in the house. But if you’re willing to humiliate yourself tonight for that woman, my collaboration can be a gesture toward my father, atonement for having hated him because of his love.”

  “In which case, it’s a good thing I picked you for a partner.” Moses plucks the hearing aids from his ears, tucks them in their little box, and covers his face with the blanket.

  3

  MOSES’ FATIGUE CONQUERS his anxiety, so at three in the morning he needs to be shaken awake to restore his soul to reality. At first he has a hard time understanding that the reality is Spanish, and that he is being summoned to perform the deed that is his sole reason for being here. Manuel wears layman’s clothes, no robe and no cross. Why? The Israeli is disappointed, not least out of concern for his own welfare in dark alleys. But the opposite is the case: they are going to a mixed neighborhood, also home to immigrants from North Africa, and Manuel deems it unwise to raise suspicions that a man of the Church is there to influence Muslims to convert. In that case, it might have been better to invite the man and his wife here and take the photograph in one of the rooms, says Moses. But Manuel cannot entangle his mother or the housekeeper in this story. There is always a chance that someone will be struck with remorse after the picture is taken and will come here and demand the film, or try to extort more money. Manuel believes it best that those involved in the matter not know of any specific place they could return to. Besides, he was careful not to reveal to them the national origin of the photographer and the man to be photographed. He merely spoke in general terms about artists from a faraway continent who wished to re-create a classical picture for a modern museum in their country.

  “A modern museum . . . Nice touch.”

  In civilian clothes, at this hour of night, the monk looks tough and decisive. Before they leave he pours wine for everyone and prays for success, and once the handcuffs and robe join the camera equipment in the photographer’s knapsack, they silently exit the house.

  Wintry cold outside. And as they take their first steps Moses realizes that Manuel has every intention of taking them on foot to the appointed place, which he promises is not far. “No,” says Moses, stopping at the street corner, “I can’t go on foot tonight, let’s take a taxi, even if it’s close. I have plenty of money with me.” But at such a late hour, approaching dawn, there are no taxis around. Manuel leads them on a shortcut through a deserted park, passing seesaws and slides, arriving finally at an apartment building where a few lights are burning.

  Moses stops at the entrance. He demands that the middleman call a halt to secrecy and reveal the identity of the husband before whose wife he must kneel with cuffed hands.

  Manuel is not prepared to supply the man’s name, and the wife’s name he doesn’t know because he never saw her and didn’t ask. He introduced himself to the man at the employment office he visits
from time to time to help the unemployed with their requests. There he met a North African man of about sixty who seemed wary of approaching the clerk. Manuel spoke with him and was able to win his trust. The man is an illegal immigrant who slipped into Spain more than a year ago. He apparently fled his homeland following a run-in with the law and wandered for a few months in the south of Spain. There he met a young woman, also an illegal immigrant, who joined him and supported them both with odd jobs. But recently she bore him a child, and she is still worn out from the delivery, so given no alternative, he summoned his strength and went to the employment bureau. But when he found that they required papers, he was frightened.

  “Does he speak Spanish?”

  “Only a little. We managed the rest in Arabic, which I learned at the same time I learned Hebrew.” At first the man was horrified, but the monk’s robe combined with the Muslim’s distress yielded the faith that proper boundaries would be observed.

  “How much did you promise him?”

  “A thousand euros.”

  “A thousand euros? You overdid it.”

  “But this family has no money for food, and you told me you were willing to sacrifice your entire prize, so I thought it would be best to be generous to the man and woman, even at the expense of others.”

  “Others? Meaning who?”

  “I assumed,” says the monk uneasily, “that the remainder of the money you got from my mother would be donated to charity.”

  Moses smiles. At this hour, at the entrance to this building, Manuel de Viola seems much more clever and practical than he did in the gloom of the confessional booth in the cathedral.

  “You thought correctly,” he says, laying a friendly hand on the monk’s shoulder. “What is left we shall give to other needy people. Since the retrospective took place in Spain, it is right that the prize money also remain in Spain.”