The Retrospective

by A. B. Yehoshua

  Moses closes his eyes.

  “What made you think of Trigano?”

  “No reason. You didn’t mention him when you told me about Spain?”

  “I might have. You still in touch with him?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Now, for God’s sake, be a good host and get me some coffee. And let’s call a time-out.”

  “As you wish. But do me a favor, don’t touch anything here. It’s all organized so that if one piece of paper is moved, I’m a dead man.”

  9

  THE HOST IS gone and a sweet silence fills his bookkeeping hideaway. Beyond the barred window, a view of skies as blue as if painted by a child. The power of the desert, thinks Moses. Eighty kilometers away you have rainstorms, and here, pure clear skies. Though the little room is warm, he has no intention of falling asleep, and while he waits for the coffee to revive him, he wraps himself in a checkered woolen blanket, eats the apple he stashed in his pocket, and studies the portrait of the king of Morocco hanging over the desk where Amsalem performs his tax evasions.

  He is so accustomed to afternoon naps that despite his decision to rest and not sleep, his eyes snap open only when Amsalem’s sister-in-law, the young grandmother, enters, pulling the baby carriage while balancing a tray of coffee and cookies, the sounds of robust Israeli singing accompanied by accordion trailing behind her.

  Moses suspects she took the coffee delivery upon herself so she could continue narrating her family story, but she surprises him with a strange request—she would like to leave the baby with him in this room. The young father wants to unwind a bit in a soccer game with the kids, and she would like to join the group singing in the living room, to lift her spirits a little, and if the baby starts crying he can call her. After all, Moses once had grandchildren this age, didn’t he?

  “Four,” he proudly declares, “with more to come, I hope.”

  “Good, then.” The woman smiles.

  What’s good? He is baffled by the rather presumptuous request for him to babysit this problematic child—perhaps to tempt him to make a film that will alleviate the indignity. But he smiles kindly, helps the attractive woman find a suitable place for the carriage, and takes charge of the pacifier, making it clear that he will seek help at the first signs of yowling.

  “Thank you, Yair.” Suddenly they are on a first-name basis. She hurries back to the singing, he closes the door after her. Before checking on the uninvited guest, he gulps several small cups of hot coffee. Now, wide awake, he takes a close look at the baby whose name nobody has bothered to tell him.

  The baby is awake and gives the director a quiet, knowing look. Is the blue-black color of his eyes a joint venture of America and Israel or something temporary, likely to change? Moses considers whether to stick in the pacifier right away to head off a scream, or wait for one patiently so he can put a quick end to babysitting and restore the child to his grandmother, who didn’t leave him milk. He offers the baby the pacifier, and the little one hesitates before accepting it as consolation for the breast that had gone all the way to America. But even as he sucks at it avidly, he maintains a curious gaze at the unfamiliar old man who might make him a character in his next film.

  Moses knows from experience that the pacifier will not prevent a round of wailing, nor will smiling or making funny faces. He leans over and picks up the baby in his arms, amazed how light he is.

  He takes him to the window, to the vista of the gleaming desert in the noonday sun, carefully holding the child’s head lest it fall back, though he seems already able to hold it up on his own. The baby is quiet. Moses points at the blue skies stretched over the desert, and the pacifier falls out as the child gapes with wonder. A new, urgent idea crosses the director’s mind, and he replaces the baby in his carriage.

  The baby, disappointed, produces a slight wail of protest, a clear enough sign for Moses, who will not do battle with any child. He picks him up again and carries him through the kitchen, its air thick with the smell of leftovers, to the front yard, looking for the young father, who is indeed there, a boy among boys, excitedly chasing a ball, and Moses suddenly laments the lost childhood of this lad trapped by love, and he retreats to the house with the baby in his arms and sternly scans the group of singers, and as he searches for the young grandmother, she hurries toward him, takes her grandson, and says, disappointed: “What happened? So fast?”

  “Nothing I could do; you didn’t leave any milk, and besides, I have to be going, because I’m paying another visit on the way back.”

  10

  IT’S STILL EARLY afternoon, and Moses asks Amsalem, who escorts him to his car, if he remembers the location of the wadi where Slumbering Soldiers was filmed. Amsalem remembers, for it was he who supplied fresh food during the shoot. “It’s no more than forty-five kilometers from here, and the road has surely been improved.”

  “It’s been more than forty years,” says Moses, “so find me the place on the map. When I saw the film in Spain I got all nostalgic for the Nabataean ruin we turned into a secret installation.”

  “Let’s hope it hasn’t been razed.”

  Moses takes out an old map from the trunk and follows Amsalem’s thick finger as it moves from the Ohalim junction by the Ohalei Kedar prison, to the Nokdim junction by Ramat Hovav, to the forest of Nahal Secher, to the Negev junction, then heads left from there to the old oil pipeline road that passes at the foot of Hyena Hill to the vicinity of Yeruham and then straight to the Big Crater, where it plunges down to Wadi Matmor. “This is where we made that crazy movie,” says Amsalem.

  “Matmor?”

  “Or maybe it was Hatira. When you get there you’ll remember, or just ask any Bedouin. If I didn’t have guests, I would gladly drive you, but since you’re already in Beersheba, why not go there? The roads are empty on Shabbat and the police don’t go there, you can speed down and back in an hour.”

  Given such encouragement, Moses heads south and not north. He drives the route of Amsalem’s finger and finds that the late-afternoon road is indeed empty, taking a holy Sabbath nap. Here and there, an old pickup truck emerges from a distant Bedouin encampment. Sometimes Bedouins cross the road, raising a hand in greeting or just wanting to hitch a ride.

  Yellow dominates the desert scenery, dotted here and there by reddish bushes and green shoots, encouraged by infrequent rain. The mountains in the distance look like a giant accordion, their foothills arranged like loaves of dough awaiting a blazing oven. The view is joined by the whistle of a new wind, which thickens the haze and fans the road with a fine coating of sand.

  At the Negev junction he is uncertain about the turn onto the oil road; he slows down and looks for a human being who can assure him he is not lost. A small group of Bedouins, men standing and women sitting, are gathered by the shell of an old bus stop. He pauses for them to confirm the route, which they do, and they also take an interest in his destination. Wadi Matmor or Wadi Hatira in the Big Crater. Does any of them know the place? And if so, does anyone know if the old Nabataean ruin is still there? They pass the question back and forth, and finally a dark skinny man pushes his way to the car window and swears he knows the wadi and the ruin and is able to guide the driver there. But why?

  “Just to see it.”

  “And to stay?”

  “No, just to look.”

  In that case, the Bedouin offers his services as tour guide, but for a fee, since it is a long way. “Long?” Moses is apprehensive. “How long?” He waves the map. “Long,” insists the Bedouin. Long for him, for he lives not far from here. “A hundred shekels,” offers Moses. “A hundred each way,” counters the Bedouin, “you also have to come back.” Moses closes the window and shifts into drive. “Let’s go, a hundred shekels, final price.” The Bedouin knocks on the window. “Okay, a hundred and thirty, final price.”

  Does he really know the place, or is he just pretending? It’s too late, though; the Bedouin hops into the front seat and signals to three veiled women, dressed all i
n black, to get into the back seat. “Only one,” shouts Moses, lifting one finger, regretting the whole business, “only one!” The Bedouin starts to bargain. “Two, only two.” “No.” Moses holds firm. “Not two, only one. We are coming back. The others can wait for you here. One woman, or none at all.”

  The Bedouin considers this and finally gestures to one woman, the smallest, who like a quivering bird squeezes into the back seat with her bundle, only her eyes visible, sparkling in the rearview mirror.

  Meanwhile, the day has darkened, with a big cloud drifting from the north and devouring the sun. According to Moses’ calculation there are only twenty kilometers to go, and though it’s early winter, and the days are shorter, there’ll be enough light for the round trip.

  They drive along the old pipeline road, filling up the gas tank on the outskirts of Yeruham, and silence reigns in the car, but the eyes of the Bedouin woman scorch the nape of the driver’s neck. The Bedouin man indeed knows the way, and as soon as they begin their descent into the Big Crater and turn onto a dirt road, Moses recognizes a few bits of the route traveled by the officer in the open jeep on his way to impose law and order on the sleeping army unit. Dusk falls more quickly than he expected, and when they arrive at the spot where the Nabataean structure ought to be standing, darkness prevails throughout the Big Crater, except for beams of light that reach out to them from a watchtower near a double roadblock. Three reserve soldiers, who in their uniforms look like extras from his old film, except they are alert and tough and armed. They stop the car and order its three occupants to get out and stand in a line.

  Before them is a sizable military base, well guarded, where no soldier sleeps without permission. Tents and buildings surround an inscrutable installation with an iron dome, which thrills the director in its resemblance to his original vision. Except the real installation is ten times bigger. Is this just a facility intended to provide early warning to the nearby nuclear plant, or is it a new reactor?

  There is no one here willing to disclose the secret even if he knew it. In fact, it is the unexpected guests who are suspected of knowing something and coming to sniff around. They are requested to identify themselves. Even the woman is not exempt from reaching into her robes and producing her identity card. Moses tells the soldiers about the film that was shot here decades ago and is curious whether an ancient Nabataean ruin might have been swallowed by the facility at this base. His question is ignored; no one has heard of the film, but they still express respect for a director who proudly lists the names of two of his recent films. Yes, one of the guards has heard the titles.

  If you’ve come to make a new movie here, we’re ready to be in it, they joke, and call their commander, an officer wearing a knitted skullcap, who considers what to do with the improbable visitors, deciding in the end to release the director and detain the Bedouin for further questioning. As for the woman, she can do whatever she wants.

  Moses is upset and fights for the release of his tour guide. “What do you want from him? What did he do? He helped me get here. Besides, we didn’t go into your base, we’re in a public area, open to all citizens.”

  The commander calms him down. “Don’t worry, we just want to get to know this man a little better.” “What’s to know?” screams Moses. “You can see, he’s an ordinary innocent person I happened to meet.” But the commander again calms him down. “Every person holds a surprise. No one is out to harm him. In the morning he will surely be set free. Meanwhile he’ll get food and lodging, but someone who understands Bedouins needs to find out how and why this man happened to take you to this place, and to clarify what he knows and what he doesn’t know. A few small questions before we let him go.”

  As they take the man away, he remains composed and impassive, and he says to Moses, “No big deal, don’t get upset, I know them, this is nothing. But take the woman with you and bring her back to the place you took her from, and from there she can make her own way. Now, pay me what we agreed.”

  Moses compensates for the inconvenience by paying him double and checks whether the woman, whose identity and status remain unclear, may sit in the front seat beside him so he doesn’t get lost. “No need,” says the Bedouin, “from the rear she can tell if you are going the right way.”

  11

  THOUGH IT IS not yet five in the afternoon, they drive in total darkness, the headlights revealing one dirt road, which takes them to the main road. In the darkness of the back seat sits not an actress but a real woman, a slender Bedouin whom a husband, brother, or uncle has left unsupervised, and she is relieved to drop her veil and gaze brightly at the world. Moses studies her delicate face in the rearview mirror and inhales her scent but is wary of speaking to her. Finally he dares, almost shouting: “Do you know a little Hebrew? You learned a little Hebrew?”

  “A very little,” she answers in singsong, suddenly adding, “next to nothing.”

  Maybe she knows more Hebrew than she lets on, he says to himself, but would rather concentrate now on the glittering lights of the world than be cross-examined by an old Jew. Yet Moses feels an urge to talk to her for the few kilometers they will be together, so he asks if she belongs to the al-Azama.

  When she hears the Jew mention the name of the strongest and most famous tribe in the area, she flinches. “La al-Azama,” no, and hastily wraps her face in her veil. “Al-Jarjawi.” She defiantly pronounces the correct name.

  He decides to back off and leave her foreignness free of interpretation. And from then on the ride takes place in silence, till he feels the woman’s light touch on the back of his neck, as the time has come and this is the place. “Here?” He is bewildered, for the place is entirely barren. “Here, here,” she asserts with utter confidence, and even before the car comes to a complete halt the rear door opens, and she escapes with a moan that might be Arabic or Hebrew, her dress flapping till she vanishes in the darkness.

  The storm in Tel Aviv has abated, but the street is carpeted in twigs and leaves plucked by its force; water runs along gutters and collects in puddles. He turns on his apartment lights and heat and listens to his voicemail, but no one needs him. He looks at his e-mail but is too weary to answer or delete. He has an urge to surprise Amsalem with the real installation that sprang from the ruins of Trigano’s creative vision, but he resists. First I have to digest the truth myself before I share it with anyone else. He takes off his clothes for a shower and feels the scent of the Bedouin woman whispering to him. Has she reached her encampment yet? Or did she take advantage of the ride to join up with another tribe?

  Slowly Ruth assumes her character, a temporary Bedouin in the small screening room of the Spanish archive, veiled and laughing, until she is shot by the commander. “Debdou,” he says to himself, Debdou, and the unfulfilled passion of the hotel room shoots through his body. He goes to the shelf that holds the twenty movies he has made since Trigano left him and pulls out the film that might be the only one he is still able to watch. He puts it in the video player and finds the scene he desires.

  The film is not one of his best known or most highly praised, but it does have some strong scenes. Ruth was about thirty then, eight years after the break from Trigano, still finding her own way. In this scene she played a young woman waiting in a hotel room for an older married man who has expressed interest in her. The scene wasn’t long, not more than a minute, but once it became clear to her and the audience that she was waiting in vain, Moses had her remove her clothes and get into bed naked, then wrap herself in a sheet.

  They had to reshoot the scene three times to get the right camera angle, the right light, and the precise mood. This was not the first time that Ruth had bared her body to the camera, and she usually did it easily and calmly. But in this scene, sadness and loneliness shrouded the breathtaking nudity. Maybe it was the small, neglected room contrasted with her beauty, or maybe the pensive, disappointed gaze directed at the camera.

  In the studio, made to resemble a hotel room, Toledano and the soundman were w
ith him. But because the scene was supposed to take place mostly in silence, Moses decided to remove the soundman and do the sound himself, thus making it easier for Ruth to undress. But Toledano, who had been in love with Ruth since childhood, grew more excited by the moment, as did the director, and thus it happened that the nudity, lasting no more than ten seconds, shimmered with intense eroticism even after Ruth was wrapped in the sheet.

  Now the Bedouin woman disappearing in the darkness blends again with the actress of his film, and he himself stands before her naked, for he knows that he wants and can bring relief, and he does.

  seven

  Virtual Mapping of the Heart

  1

  THE FOLLOWING MORNING, when he’s sure she’s awake, he calls to ask how she is.

  “You again?” Ruth is surprised to hear the voice of someone who has just spent three nights beside her in the same bed without incident. “And I thought you wanted a little time off.”

  “Time off for what?”

  “Time off before I get the news that there won’t be a part for me in your next film.”

  He is uneasy. “That’s an original way of putting it, but it’s not so; in fact, there might be a part for you after all in my next film. The concept is barely in gestation, but when I think of it I also think of you, not as a fictional character but as a real character.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “In other words, not as an actress but as an assistant director. Because the main roles would be for young people, boys and girls. And who’s got more experience than you in teaching acting to children?”

  “Assistant director?”

  “Not just an assistant, but a partner. You would decide how it would appear in the credits of the film. That’s a long way off, though. Meanwhile, I’d like to visit you sometime at your studio to watch you direct children, to get a feeling for how far one can go. This has to be a daring film. And as you know, I have used children very little in my films.”