by Bart Midwood
“But that doesn’t imply that you yourself are not reasonable. After all, Surah, you have managed to live to be forty-six years old, and you look well, and are in obvious good health and so on, and all this suggests to me that probably you are reasonable.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, believe me. On this matter, though, I have to grant you I’m expressing only an opinion.”
“I see. My reasonableness is only a matter of opinion. It’s not, like Mister Rubin’s view of the local Arabs, a fact.”
“Correct. Whether or not you’re reasonable, this is a matter of opinion; but that the local Arabs have murdered many in our community, even our children, this is a fact, and no opinion in the world can undo it.”
Here Surah gave me a fierce look, with a kind of stupid imperiousness, but kept silent.
“So you see, Surah,” I went on, “we must all be very careful here, and always vigilant.”
“But did you ever stop to think,” said Surah, “that maybe this vigilance of yours is what causes the Arabs to attack you in the first place?”
“You mean that because we’re vigilant, they attack?”
“Yes.”
“And that if we were not vigilant, they would say, ‘Let’s make peace with the Jews?’”
“Exactly.”
In the face of this incredible idea, I had to take a breath. Then I glanced at Anchel to see what he was making of his wife’s imbecility, but all I saw was an impassive expression in the face.
“So what do you think of our little argument, Anchel?” I said.
“Anchel gets very upset by such arguments,” said Surah at once.
“Yes, well, we all do.”
“This is why we shouldn’t talk about such things. We will all just get upset, and what good can come of that? Just think of how many pleasant things we can talk about, things we agree on. In fact, I’m sure that if you and the local Arabs only tried a little harder, you could all find so many things to agree on, that you would no longer have even the time to run around killing one another. You see?”
“Perfectly. And now maybe you could let Anchel answer for himself, because now, as you can see, we’re not arguing anymore, and so to talk it shouldn’t be too upsetting for him. Am I right, Anchel?”
“Of course,” said Anchel with a nice transcendent smile. “Surah she worries too much about me on account of a stupid stomach ulcer I had ten years ago when I was too intense about every little thing.”
“So tell me then, what do you think of Surah’s idea, that we should put away our vigilance and try to find things to agree on with the local Arabs?”
“I think it’s a fine idea.”
“You think that maybe all the fighting was a big mistake?”
“I don’t like to talk about mistakes. People do what they do, and that’s all you can say about what people do.”
Here there was a pause, and it was unclear if Anchel intended to proceed with his thought or had completed it. So we all waited a few moments, with a sort of collective irritability, and then Rubin reentered the discussion.
“So people do what they do,” he said. “This is a very mystical statement, Mister Brody.”
“Thank you,” said Anchel.
“You’re welcome! Believe me! But tell me, is this the full expression of your idea?”
“Yes.”
“Anchel reads The Bible every day,” said Surah, as if by way of some sort of explanation.
“The Bible!” said Rubin. “Well, I’m impressed! Every day you say he reads it?”
“In the evening.”
“You too read The Bible, Missus Brody?”
“A little now and then. But not every day.”
“So then, your husband is a devoted Bible scholar and you are not.”
“I’d hardly call myself a devoted scholar,” said Anchel.
“I’m sure you’re being too modest. A man who reads the same book every day, this already is almost a definition of the term ‘devoted scholar.’ In any case, now I’m beginning to see the basis of the radical disagreement between the two of you.”
“Between me and Surah?”
“Yes. Regarding political matters.”
You can’t imagine with what a power this remark affected Anchel. So amazed he looked. And all of a sudden he got like an hysterical tic in his eye.
“What disagreement?” he said. “Surah and I have no disagreement about politics. In fact, we hardly ever even talk about politics.”
“And I can see why you don’t,” said Rubin. “In some sense talking is practically impossible between two people with such opposite views.”
“I don’t know how you formed this opinion,” said Surah, “but I can tell you quite frankly that Anchel and I are are not opposite at all in our politics. In fact, we’re very much the same.”
“But if you don’t talk about politics, how would you know?”
“That we don’t talk about politics is an exaggeration. Politics does come up now and then, but we never find any reason to argue about it.”
“But you see, Missus Brody, your husband he says, ‘People do what they do.’ And that’s that! Nothing more to say! That’s his position.”
“So? I don’t see anything to object to in that.”
“Of course not. Who could object? That you can’t object, this is the very heart of such a position, that it is beyond argument, beyond criticism. This is the position of certain mystics, certain religious leaders. But your position, Missus Brody, it is quite different. Your position it is intensely moralistic. It is something like this: ‘Be good in the face of the bad!’ Which, by the way, is something like the position of the philosopher Immanuel Kant.”
“Really? But I never read Kant.”
“No? Well, if you ever do, believe me, he will be your man. Your husband, though, he’s a horse of another color. Your husband he transcends these ideas of yours and Kant’s and even holds them in contempt.”
“You’re going much too far with all this, Mister Rubin,” said Anchel. “I agree absolutely with Surah’s views, believe me.”
“If that’s the case, then you’re not being honest with us when you say that people do what they do, and that this sums up your whole morality.”
“You don’t understand, Mister Rubin,” interrupted Surah. “Anchel just says such things to avoid arguments that upset him.”
“But I understand that perfectly.”
“The fact is, as he has just told you, that he does agree with me on my main point, that people should make every effort to be not only good, but agreeable!”
“Good and agreeable, yes,” said Rubin.
“You’re laughing at me, aren’t you.”
“Not at all. In fact, as difficult as it is, I’m trying not only to be good, but also agreeable, and at the very same time.”
“And that’s exactly what you should be trying to do, Mister Rubin,” said Surah, suddenly trembling with indignation. “Specially with guests from a foreign country!”
“Do you hear this, everybody? I’ve been justly reproved. Not agreeably, of course, but definitely justly.”
“Surah doesn’t mean any harm with her moralizing, Mister Rubin,” said Anchel. “Honestly, you mustn’t take offense.”
“Of course I don’t mean any harm,” said Surah. “What are you saying, Anchel?”
“Nothing, I … never mind …”
“And what do you mean by ‘moralizing?’ Is that what you think I’m doing? Moralizing?”
“No, no, this was a bad choice of words on my part.”
“Well then, what do you mean?”
“Nothing. It’s not important, Surah!”
“What’s not important?”
“This whole … argument!”
“Not important to who? To you? If that’s the case, then maybe Mister Rubin is right. Maybe you do hold my ideas in contempt.”
“No, no, Surah, honestly, I don’t!”
At this cam
e a burst of laughter from the kibbutzniks. That laughter it was inhospitable, yes, but also irresistible, because such a spectacle, of the great mystic Anchel trying so nervously to preserve a status quo with his Surah, it was for us patently ridiculous; besides, we were all very happy frankly to see the stupid assumption of moral superiority that the two of them had been wounding us with go to pieces in front of our eyes.
I say all, but Lo Yadua he was full of powerful mixed feelings here, and he did not laugh. These were his parents, after all, and no matter how badly they had used him, still there was for him the natural pain that a son will feel when he sees the humiliation of the parents. This pain I could see in his eyes, in the tightness around the lips, in the whole posture, and suddenly I was worried. Until now, what Rubin had done was productive. He had disturbed the composure of Anchel and Surah and so took the sting out of their poisonous message. And this much was helpful. But more perhaps could be something not so good.
Do you see what I’m saying? Well, I don’t know. It’s so delicate, Mister Midwood, so complicated! But of course, to you who is already a professional writer I don’t need to give lectures about how delicate and complicated is the life of human relations.
In any case, it appears the gods were with us at this particular instant, because just then, as I was beginning to have anxiety that maybe Rubin could go too far and make for Lo Yadua even more grief than already existed, Cesare came bursting through the door.
The Danger of Coffee
Now, this day it was one of the days in the period when Cesare was constructing the kindergarten room that I told you about, and for this project always he got up very early, even earlier than usual, and so as he entered the dining hall, you could see in his face the strain the long morning labor had put on him. Three or four hours already he had been laying bricks at the school, and he was sweating and out of sorts, mopping his face with the towel he had a habit to carry in a back pocket during work hours.
“So there you are!” he said to me in that gruff way that he had when he had his temper up. “Didn’t you tell me you’d be eating the breakfast at home this morning?”
“Yes,” I said, “but we changed our minds.”
Well, you can’t imagine how offended he was by this, as if we had changed our minds just for the purpose of personally insulting him.
“All the way to your house I went just now to look for you,” he said.
“So I’m sorry, Cesare! But who knew you were coming? Did you tell us you were coming? No! So what are you getting so exercised about!”
As soon as I said this, he blushed and was right away ashamed of himself.
Now, what was going on here with Cesare?
Yesterday we had arranged with him that today after breakfast we would bring to his house Anchel and Surah. Frieda, however, was distressed that they hadn’t been brought immediately, and she took the delay as a sign that maybe they disapproved of her; so now Cesare feared that if there were to be also a second delay, even just ten or fifteen minutes, this could be too much for her, and that by the time we got to the house, we might find her in one of her terrible depressions. To live with Frieda, you see, it was like living with a really crazy absolutely defenseless child, and Cesare he had to be working all the time to be protecting, negotiating.
“We should be going,” he said, directing his gaze at Lo Yadua. “Frieda is expecting us.”
“Sit and have a coffee, Cesare,” said Rubin. “We’re just in the middle of a very interesting discussion here.”
“I had my coffee already.”
“So have another.”
“Frieda is expecting us in fifteen minutes.”
“So still there’s time. And even if not, she can’t wait two minutes? She has such a busy schedule, your Frieda?”
To this Cesare did not respond and there was a terrible pause that made me crazy. “Come,” I said, “we should go with Cesare now.”
And I got up from my chair.
So then Anchel and Surah also got up, but apologetically, awkwardly, and Surah said to Rubin something about how good it had been to meet him and the others and how she would like to finish the discussion soon, and meanwhile Anchel smiled and nodded, to show his agreement, and his agreeableness.
“In any case,” said Cesare, “look at the time. All of you should have been on the job forty-five minutes ago. What kind of socialists are you anyway? With socialists like you, the capitalists have nothing to worry about, believe me!”
“Why do you exaggerate like this, Cesare?” said Rubin. “If a kibbutznik sits down for two minutes with a cup of coffee, already it’s a coup d’etat.”
“It’s not two minutes. It’s forty-five!”
A Moment of Foreboding
On the way to Cesare’s house, Cesare walked with Lo Yadua, and I with the in-laws. The walk was maybe fifteen minutes, and the whole time I was sullen and hardly said a word, which I regret, insofar as I can see now that a few words here, particularly about Orsino, might have prevented some of the trouble that was about to fall on us. Lo Yadua, you see, he had never told his parents about the killing of Orsino. And Cesare too had never told them. Over the years he had written them maybe a dozen letters, and so certainly he could have told them, had many times even wanted to tell them, but Frieda had forbidden him, had forbidden him absolutely, fanatically, on account of that she had this lunatic certainty that if ever Anchel and Surah were to learn about Orsino, about his death, they would as a consequence be so sick with fear all the time for the safety of their own son, they wouldn’t be able to live their lives.
The closer we got to the Levi house, the more I began to worry about this problem. When Anchel and Surah meet Frieda, I thought, they’re not going to understand anything about why she is the way she is, and God knows what they could say to her! True, the death of Orsino had come up just a few minutes ago, in the dining hall, in connection with the hero stories; but Rubin had spoken the name Orsino only once, and since neither Anchel nor Surah had indicated that it meant anything to them one way or another, I couldn’t be sure whether they had registered it.
So, I thought, what should we do? Shouldn’t we maybe say two words here to Anchel and Surah about the Orsino problem before they see Frieda? Yes, I thought, we should! But I came to this decision too slowly, arriving at it just at the same moment that we arrived at the house, and I didn’t have the presence of mind there on the front steps to speak up, to stop everyone here for a minute, and maybe say something useful.
Cesare he opened the door confidently, expansively, like a king, with a proud smile, for the benefit of his guests, you see; but then, after hesitating a moment on the threshold to have a look inside, he muttered something under his breath in Italian, some kind of curse, and right away it was clear to me that we were in for a surprise that would be not so good.
“What’s wrong, Cesare?” I said.
Here he turned to look at me with such a grief and bewilderment in his eyes that I wanted that quick we should take Anchel and Surah and run away, but it was too late; the door was already open, and before either Cesare or I could speak what was in our hearts, we heard Frieda call out, “Come in, come in! Why are you standing like a statue, Cesare?”
And so there was nothing to do now but go in.
The Splendors of Capital
In the room we found all the walls covered with Frieda’s paintings. The whole room was lit up with them, very bright colors and big canvasses. When I say big, I mean big for the room.
All these paintings she must have put up very quickly that morning in the few hours since Cesare left the house. Never before in twenty years did she hang paintings in the house. Always she kept them in the little studio Cesare had built for her in the backyard just past the well where he planted the three fig trees.
But now on the walls in the living room she had put up maybe twenty paintings. The biggest was a portrait of Orsino that she had finished in 1941 only a month before he was killed. This portrait I had
not seen since that time. All the other pictures were from a later time and were the products of the madness.
In these the colors were much brighter, the brush strokes wilder, so wild that they could make you dizzy. Though you could see here a tendency to abstraction, still no painting was without figures of some kind, people, tractors, bicycles, fruits and flowers, all sorts of objects from the local area.
The most dramatic picture was a self-portrait, a nude, Portrait Of The Naked Arist, you see, standing at the easel with a brush in the hand and looking right at you. In reality of course you have to suppose that when Frieda painted this, she was looking at a mirror, but in the painting itself you have no mirror.
On the body there is not a blemish, and unlike the figures in the other pictures, this one has no distortion, and the strokes of the brush are undetectable. In the background though you have some chairs, a table, a window with curtains, and all these things they’re painted with the same wild strokes and crazy violent distortions you see everywhere else.
I have to make a point here that the figure in the painting was not an idealized Frieda, but in fact was just how she was in life, for it was in life that an idealization occurred. How this came about, though, had nothing to do with calisthenics or special diets or any of these other things that so many people are becoming fanatic about nowadays. Frieda never troubled herself with any sort of regimented exercises and to her diet she hardly paid attention. By Cesare’s account she ate erratically, one day like a bird, the next like a horse, and all sorts of junk she would put in her stomach. No, this physical beauty of hers it was all manufactured by some demon in the machine of the psyche without any effort of the conscious will.
How true the self-portrait was to life, that morning you could see very plainly and at once, because though she herself was not naked in the strict sense, still she was clad in something that revealed the body so boldly that the sight could take your breath away. This was a dress, or rather a gown, with a smoky mauve color, very satiny and sleek, with the throat and the shoulders bare.
As we entered, we found her in a weirdly studied aristocratic pose, with one hand on the hip and the other on the dining table. This table she had covered with an embroidered white cloth and set with the same silver tea service that I hadn’t seen since the afternoon a year ago when she made a special lunch for me a few days before my wedding; and she had now the same basket with fresh biscuits, which from the aroma you could tell she had just taken out of the oven; also she had the same crystal saucers with jams, one raspberry, one blueberry and one marmalade, and the same oval dish with yogurt and slices of cucumber.
