The Retrospective

by A. B. Yehoshua

  “What’s the story?”

  “Too early to say. I told you, Ruth, for now it’s just a seed in my mind, or more correctly in Amsalem’s mind. He invited me to a party at his villa in Beersheba on Saturday, where he let me in on a strange drama taking place in his family.”

  “What happened?”

  “Slow down, let me go at my own pace. Not on the phone, and not in a hurry. I’d like to visit your studio, see the kids and how you direct them, then we’ll think together.”

  “It’s a small studio. Three kids at most in a class. But if you insist”—she sighs—“how can I refuse.”

  “You can’t refuse me, and see, I haven’t said a word about blood tests.”

  “Wise of you.”

  “Why? You took them?”

  “I didn’t take them and I won’t. See, you’re at it again.”

  “I’ll say no more.”

  “Good.”

  “Not good, but I’ll say no more. Meanwhile . . . I have a story for you. An amazing story.”

  “The retrospective brought you back to life.”

  “Not life, just curiosity. Yesterday, at Amsalem’s, at the edge of the desert, I was thinking about Slumbering Soldiers and had an urge to see the crater where we filmed it. And guess what: Amsalem not only remembered the place, but encouraged me to hop over, because it’s not so far away on today’s roads. So I said to myself, What have you got to lose? It’s a chance to complete the retrospective, when will you next be going south? You remember how during the shoot we would take the shiny tarp off our installation and go in there and cook, sing, play games?”

  “It was a fun production.”

  “Exactly, that’s why I went back there. On the way, not to get lost, I picked up a Bedouin with one of his wives. It was almost dark by the time we got there—and you won’t believe it, imagination turned into reality: a military camp, reserve soldiers, but no sleeping soldiers, very much awake they were, so awake they didn’t let us go in. Nevertheless, and this is the whole point, beyond the roadblock, in the distance, in the twilight, what do I see? An installation.”

  “The installation?”

  “The same one.”

  “The same one?”

  “With a dome on top, like in our film, but bigger, a solid dome, maybe something connected with the nuclear reactor that isn’t far away, something meant as a warning. And the soldiers, like in the film, they may not even know what they’re guarding. I said to myself, How wonderful, our hallucination turned into reality, back then we had a touch of prophecy—”

  “We? You?” Her sudden outburst cuts him off. “You know it all came from him . . . from Shaul . . . from Trigano.”

  “Trigano started it, planted the first seed, but we were partners and believers who made his hallucination come true. A crazy story, no?”

  “Maybe for you, not for me. Even when we were children I could sense he had these intuitions, almost like prophecy, that in the end made him arrogant, rigid, even cruel . . .”

  “Exactly.” Moses picks up her words. “Rigid and cruel, and he paid for it.”

  “We all paid for it, not just him. But let’s not go there now. Just tell me about our building, the original one, the Nabataean or Turkish one . . . did you find it?”

  “No. It got dark, and they didn’t let us into the camp, and they practically held us for questioning, because they couldn’t understand why we were there in the first place. So I didn’t push it. In any case, when the army takes over a wadi, what’s going to be left of an ancient building?”

  “It’s buildings like that, the truly ancient ones, that they take better care of in this country. But enough, Moses, I have to get up and get going.”

  2

  THAT SAME MORNING, he drives to the hospital to persuade his daughter, before it’s too late, to divert the bar mitzvah trip from Africa to Europe.

  He waits for her, as arranged, in the hospital cafeteria, but Galit phones and asks him to come up to the ultrasound and CT department, because her schedule was switched. “You came all this way, Abba, so let’s spend a little time together and try to understand why Africa annoys you. I warn you, though, you can’t convince us to change our plans, but we can make a date for dinner at our house.”

  Despite her precise directions, he gets lost amid wings and departments, finally arriving at a locked door with a red light flashing above it. Given no choice, and disinclined to absorb someone else’s radiation, he waits for his daughter on a bench in the corridor, squeezed among patients waiting for tests and patients waiting for test results. He has never been here before, for it was only two years ago, after working for years in private clinics, that Galit was given a senior post in the ultrasound and CT institute of this major hospital. Though he is proud of her promotion, he remains disappointed that she quit her medical studies midway because of her pregnancy and hasty marriage to a fellow med student, whom she supported while he completed his studies. During the first years of her marriage, her father tried to coax her to finish medical school, even promising regular financial assistance, but to no avail. With all her family responsibilities, she finally gave up on medicine and settled for the technical side of things, and perhaps to justify that concession she quickly had another baby. And though she is successful in her work, and perhaps even loves it, Moses believes that it was her parents’ divorce that prompted her to hook up in her youthful prime with a fairly unimpressive man and thus fix what was broken in her childhood home.

  Is this another reason he’s trying to persuade her to change her mind in such a marginal matter? Will the shift of a bar mitzvah trip from Africa to Europe serve as a small corrective for a missed medical career? As he sits and waits patiently for a ceasefire in the radiation warning, a gurney with an elderly woman on it comes rolling his way, steered by a male nurse who stops, places her medical record on her stomach, and leaves her lying alone. The sprightly old lady sits up and inquires if Moses is waiting for tests or for results.

  “Neither; I’m waiting for my daughter, who happens to run this clinic.”

  The old lady’s face brightens, and she refers to Galit by her full name, adding the title of Doctor, then praises her to the skies.

  “Your daughter is so patient, sir. This is the fourth appointment I’ve had with her for a CT of my heart.”

  “Fourth? Why is that?”

  “It turns out”—the old woman winks—“that I have a naughty heart that goes wild and makes their machine crazy. Their new scanner can’t decide what’s truly going on, but your wonderful daughter, the director, hasn’t given up.”

  “Yes,” confirms Moses with satisfaction, “even as a child she was stubborn and thorough.”

  “And a good thing you let her be stubborn. What do you do, sir? Are you a teacher?”

  “I was a teacher in the old days, but now I am a film director. An artist.”

  “An artist . . . how unusual. Here she is.”

  The red light has gone out, and his daughter, in a white coat, a sheaf of papers in hand, rushes to hug and kiss her father. “You dropped in on a crazy day,” she says apologetically, “they keep sending me emergency cases. But you’re here, so let’s go inside and chat a bit.”

  She takes him into a room where the new machine, a great white cylinder attached by cables to wall sockets, is installed alongside a bed, on top of which electrodes and wires are bunched. Beyond a glass wall is a console of computer screens that monitor the mapping.

  Galit introduces her father to the other technicians, who greet him cordially. Then she sits him down in a little room and says, “Before you start complaining, tell me about Spain. Was the retrospective in your honor alone, or were there actors and cinematographers along with you? In the newspaper it said that only you got a prize.”

  “Galiti, my dearest, forget the prize, it’s not important, and it’s small besides. If you want, I’ll tell you all about this strange retrospective when I come for dinner. Now is not the time, you’re in a rush,
and I made a special trip to convince you to go to Europe, not Africa.”

  “Why is this so important to you?”

  “It’s a matter of principle. And I’m not talking about your decision not to have a party.”

  “Really, Abba, you shouldn’t get involved in any of this. A party is a pain in the neck that makes nobody happy. Think about it—who gets invited anyway? You and Mother have no mutual friends anymore. So who do we invite? The medical staff here, people we see all the time at the hospital? There’ll always be someone insulted because he wasn’t invited. And believe me, it’s a pain for those invited. Once upon a time, a guest brought a book to a bar mitzvah and it was considered a respectable gift; now everyone has to bring a check that covers the cost of the meal. Isn’t it enough for you that he should say the Torah blessings in the synagogue, followed by a lunch for the close family? Then we’ll go to Africa to forget about the world.”

  “That’s exactly the point. What I came to discuss. Why forget the world and not remember it? You asked me about Spain, and we were in a truly spectacular place, Santiago de Compostela.”

  “Where is that?”

  “In the northwest corner, within earshot of the ocean.”

  “So?”

  “There’s a magnificent cathedral.”

  “So you want us to go there for the cathedral?”

  “I didn’t say there in particular. Anywhere. Europe is full of cathedrals, filled with culture. Great museums, historical sites; this is a chance to give Itay something rich, and you too, you too . . .”

  “He can see all these things on television or the Internet, why travel all that way?”

  “Animals, darling, also roam all the time on TV and the Internet, and if he wants to see them in real life, he can go to the safari park in Ramat Gan, or the biblical zoo in Jerusalem.”

  “We’re not going for the animals, Abba, but for the quiet and the scenery. It’s being out in the wild that we want, the opposite of the civilization that suffocates us here.”

  Moses notices how much his daughter has come to resemble his mother. The sharp gaze, the rapid, self-confident manner of speech that’s warm at the same time.

  “You and Zvi think”—Moses tenses—“that you are profoundly civilized because you can operate all sorts of medical machinery. I’m talking about art, about music, pictures, myths that will enrich you and offer my grandson another aspect of the world as he begins the transition to adulthood.”

  “No rush, Abba, he’s not entering any adulthood. Today the kids stay kids until the age of thirty.”

  “Your mother asked me to increase my gift, and I gladly agreed, but I’m asking what for? Why spend money on lions and elephants?”

  “Also on breathtaking scenery.”

  “Yes, but after his army service he will no doubt travel to India or South America to see the scenery and primitive people. But right now there’s an opportunity for a shared cultural experience with his parents. Something of value that will stay in the family’s memory. By the way, there’s also breathtaking scenery in Europe.”

  “But it’s hard to get to it. In Africa, you get off the plane straight into nature and you don’t have to go looking for it. No, Abba, I understand what you mean but it won’t work. The two of us are tired and run down and we simply want to relax in the heart of nature. Besides, all of his classmates have traveled or will travel to Africa, and he can’t be the one who only went to Europe. What will he talk to them about? And believe me, an African trip is also expensive, and if you increase your gift, it’ll help. By the way, when did you eat breakfast?”

  “This morning. Early.”

  “And since then?”

  “Nothing. I was waiting for you.”

  “Very good. If you ate more than three hours ago, I have an idea. I can put you through the scanner and do a virtual mapping of the heart.”

  “The heart?”

  “Yes, why not? When did you last have your heart checked?”

  “I don’t remember . . . I didn’t . . .”

  “I’m sure your heart is fine even though you’re far from young, but in any case, so you won’t be able to say you took the trouble to come here for nothing, we’ll do a complete mapping of your heart, and you’ll leave here reassured. And we too, of course.”

  “How long does this kind of mapping take?”

  “No time at all, twenty minutes. And it doesn’t hurt. We’ll inject some contrast dye and see what’s happening in your heart. Come, Father, come, give me your hand . . . a little sting, that’s all . . .”

  Galit talks to the technicians, and they happily agree to scan her father. But first they have to get his signature, because the test is considered experimental. After Moses gives his consent, they lay him down on a gurney, attach four electrodes to his upper back, and connect his ankle to a blood pressure machine. Then the daughter maneuvers the father twice through the scanner, each time giving him different breathing instructions, once to hold his breath, then to pant like a dog after a long run, and between the scans, and between the breaths, she circles back to the retrospective in Spain and asks if he was alone or if someone was with him, and he mentions Ruth, and Galit knows about the woman who caused her parents’ divorce. “Are you still with her?” she inquires matter-of-factly, without bitterness. “Not really,” he answers quickly. And when the scanning is completed and he is freed of the electrodes, he says, “You can’t imagine how much you’ve come to resemble my mother.” “Is that good or bad?” she asks apprehensively. “It’s good,” he assures her, “all good.”

  He is sent out to the hall, and the elderly patient, still waiting, with her medical history on her stomach, looks at him malevolently. “So, they did end up checking you,” she says. “Not really,” he tells her, “I came to see my daughter and she insisted on scanning my heart.” “But why not wait your turn?” complains the old woman. “You’re right,” he admits, “I didn’t wait my turn, but what can you do, she’s the director.” He moves away to a bench at the end of the hall, and as he waits for the results, anxiety grips him, draining his energy, and he closes his eyes, and his head drops back. But a hand touches him gently, and there stands his son-in-law, father of his grandchildren, in a white coat, a stethoscope around his neck. He leans over Moses with a warm smile and hands him the results of the virtual mapping of his heart, with his signature as the cardiologist.

  “What is this?” Moses is nervous. “What does it say?”

  “Read it for yourself . . .”

  CTA of coronary arteries

  The examination was conducted on a new 128-slice Cardiac CT scanner as part of a clinical trial with the consent of the examined.

  In the course of the examination two scans were performed:

  One of the entire chest with low radiation and no injection of contrast dye.

  The second a CTA of the heart with the injection of 70 cc Ultravist 370.

  In the course of the scan the heart rate varied in the range of 75 beats per minute and a good imaging of the heart and coronary arteries was obtained.

  The heart is of normal size. No pericardial fluid detected.

  Minor calcification in mitral valve annulus.

  The organs scanned in the upper abdomen are free of gross pathology.

  Calcium score of 186 corresponds to 52nd percentile of subject’s age group.

  Upper aorta with circumference of 35 mm.

  Left-dominant coronary artery system.

  Eccentric calcium plaque in the anterior area without significant stenosis.

  No evidence of defective myocardial perfusion.

  Summary: Non-occlusive sclerosis as described in coronary arteries.

  “So?” asks Moses, but now without anxiety. “So”—the doctor pats his father-in-law’s shoulder—“you won an extra prize, a retrospective of a healthy heart, so you can keep going wild with no worries.”

  3

  IS THE IMAGE of a free and hedonistic person attached to him by family and
friends alike solely the product of his ambiguous relationship with the character abandoned by his former screenwriter? Or does the art of cinema, where directors are always changing characters, locations, and plots while working closely with actors and crew, create the impression that the loneliness of a director cannot be genuine or painful, since he is always surrounded by people? Not even his family members can imagine the depth of his solitude or the magnitude of his misgivings amid his cast and crew. And can he be fairly described as unrestrained if he has no real authority over the character he drags from film to film? For Ruth has made his visit to her studio conditional on getting some idea of the new film, and only after he gives in and tells her, albeit in general terms, is she intrigued enough to set a time for him to visit.

  For Hanukkah, she has suggested to one of the schools in south Tel Aviv where she runs drama clubs that they not settle for some banal holiday skit about the little cruse of oil that lasted eight days but stage a real play about the Maccabees based on a fine novel by Howard Fast, My Glorious Brothers. The school’s principal was concerned that the lofty language of the Hebrew adaptation might prove too difficult for many students. However, when Ruth explained that many years back, in a school in the desert town of Yeruham, she herself as a girl had acted in My Glorious Brothers, and that even though the parents and children were new immigrants the play was received with awe and appreciation, the principal gave her approval, provided that the play run no longer than fifty minutes.

  And so, for several weeks now, Ruth has been coaching the Maccabees at the school, occasionally inviting the lead actors to her studio to polish their performance. She would not, of course, think of inviting Moses to the school, but if he wants to attend the individual coaching sessions, he can come, on two conditions—first, that he not introduce himself as a movie director, as that might generate false hopes; and second, that he not share his comments, positive or negative, with the students, only with her.