The Retrospective

Seven. Virtual Mapping of the Heart

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.”

“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.”

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.”

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.

He has often visited her apartment in Neve Tzedek, to discuss a new role or as a loving friend who happened to be in the neighborhood, but she has never opened her studio door to him, even though it is across the hall from her flat. More than once, when he inquired about her sources of income and expressed interest in seeing the studio, she refused. “It’s a mess and you will not find what you’re looking for.” “But what am I looking for?” he would protest. “I only want to know you better.” And she would persist in her refusal: “What you know is more than enough.”

But today, in hopes of being a partner in his new film, she will open the door of her studio to him and let him observe her work. In so doing she forces him to go without his afternoon nap and get to her place before the students arrive, and she repeats the stipulation that he must sit on the side and not intervene and, most important of all, not introduce himself as a film director.

The studio is not nearly as small as he had been warned. It’s a fair-sized room, with an adjacent kitchenette used for storage. Though the room has only one window, it’s large and faces the sea, admitting mellow afternoon light. True, there are lots of costumes in the studio — some that she and other actors had worm in his films — alongside props meant to stimulate the imagination of children: masks, swords and spears of tin or wood, toy guns and hand grenades, all stuffed into the kitchenette. She seats him beside a tiny bathroom partitioned by a curtain, near a white tunic worn by the cantor in In Our Synagogue.

“To hide you completely would be dangerous,” she says, “because if you sneeze or cough it will scare the children, but for once in your life, try to minimize your presence.”

Before long, three students pile into the room, two boys and a girl, quickly removing their coats and overstuffed backpacks, dumping them in a heap in the corner by Moses. He smiles at them but is careful not to say a word. Ruth, contradicting her own instructions, introduces him as an old friend, a famous film director, who has come to observe the rehearsal.

Predictably, the kids, for whom film is the pinnacle of all the arts, are excited, and one of them, a dark-complexioned boy of about thirteen, wants to know the director’s name and film credits. Moses, with a sheepish smile, lists a few from his retrospective, but Ruth interrupts and says, “That’s enough, kids, let’s get down to work.” The two boys are apparently of Middle Eastern extraction, but the girl’s coloring suggests the Far East. A tall, slim Asian with a finely sculpted face and big slanted eyes — perhaps she’s the child of foreign workers who put down roots here, or a member of some tribe from deepest Asia that qualified as Jews under the Law of Return. Their drama teacher has them perform a few warm-up exercises to loosen their bodies and wake them from the torpor of their school day, and then she seats them on a bench to refresh their knowledge of the text before they perform the scene.

The boy who took an interest in Moses plays Simon the Hasmonean, the main character, and has mastered his lines of dialogue. The girl, who is called Ruth in the play, is still a bit shaky in her part, but the traces of a foreign accent in her delivery add to her charm and beauty.

He will need to get her name and address, decides Moses. Even if she had no dialogue, a close-up of her marvelous face would captivate the audience.

A nighttime conversation ensues between Simon the Hasmonean and the girl who courts him, while the other boy, Judah Maccabee, sits still on the side, staring at the young lovers.

RUTH: Simon, where art thou?

SIMON: Who calls Simon?

RUTH: A moonstruck lad like you, sitting and dreaming of a lovely lass — were you bored, Simon?

SIMON: I feared that jackals had broken into the corral. It is not proper, Ruth, that you sit here with me.

RUTH: Why? Why is it not proper that I should sit with you, Simon, and is it not a lion you wait for and not a jackal?

It is three hundred years since a lion has arisen in Judea.

You never smile, you are never amused, is this not so, Simon, son of Mattathias? There is no one unhappier than you in all of Modi’in — in all of Judea — in all the world. Methinks I would give the best years of my life to see a lion leap hither and swallow you up.

SIMON: That is most doubtful…

RUTH: There was a time that you liked me, Simon, or did I just imagine it… Each time I came to Mattathias’ house, my heart asked me — will Simon be there? Will he look at me? Smile at me? Speak to me? Touch my hand?

SIMON: Not four days have passed since Judah went away.

RUTH: What?

SIMON: You heard my words.

RUTH: Simon, what have I to do with Judah? Simon, what troubles you? What harm have I done to you? You are a block of ice, not only with me, with your father and Judah as well!

SIMON: And for no reason?

RUTH: I do not know for what, Simon.

SIMON: When you went out with Judah, before he left—

RUTH: I do not love Judah.

SIMON: And he, does he know this?

RUTH: He knows.

SIMON: But he loves you, I do know this, I know my brother Judah, every gesture, every look of his eyes, every thought of his heart. All his life he has received what he has wished. I know his accursed humility—

RUTH: And for this you hateth him.

SIMON: I do not hate him.

RUTH: Simon, Simon, Simon son of Mattathias, Simon of Modi’in. Many are the names I have called you in my heart. My Simon, ah, how wise you are, yet such a fool. It has always been only you for me, and I dream that one day you will love me. Even if you do not love me, I will live near to you. So that you will look at me, speak to me. Am I not even worthy of this?

SIMON: And Judah loves you.

RUTH: Simon, is Judah the purpose of your life? Have you nothing else in your world except for him? Judah took me in his arms and I took pity on him. I am not his and not another’s. Simon son of Mattathias — there is but one man to whom I could belong.

SIMON: You took pity on him? You took pity on Judah?

RUTH: I took pity on him, Simon, do you truly not understand?

And here the director stops them, as impassioned and excited as if she herself has poured out the love-talk of two ancient youths into her small studio space. And the visitor is pleased by the ability to turn stilted and archaic dialogue into flowing, living conversation, and despite the caution not to react, he cannot hold back and claps his hands.

The two youngsters smile. But the third one, serious and gloomy — Judah Maccabee, who morosely listened to the others speak, a rejected lover before he even enters the play — casts a cold eye at Yair Moses, who stands up as he tries to recall in the mist of memory where and when he encountered such a serious gaze.

BECAUSE HE WOULD never consider using a toilet meant for children and concealed by a curtain, he hints to his hostess that he would like to enter her apartment. And she gives him the key and asks in a whisper: “Will you manage by yourself?” “Of course,” replies the guest. “What kind of question is that?”

He does know the apartment well. Past the living room is a charming bedroom, in which a few years ago he sometimes spent the night. Not much has changed. Colorfully upholstered sofas and armchairs with scattered pillows cheerfully complement framed posters on the walls of films she had appeared in.

Admittedly there is something tacky about an apartment whose walls are covered with street ads, yet the occupational narcissism doesn’t detract from the aesthetic of the flat, especially since its owner anticipated that Moses would not miss the chance to get inside and made sure to tidy it up.

Before returning to the studio to see how the children manage the lovers’ dialogue scene, he sinks into a favorite armchair and pours himself a glass of cognac from a bottle he brought here years ago. He looks around at the familiar walls and at the table. Among various papers is a new, unfamiliar drawing, a charcoal portrait of Ruth as a young woman, almost a girl. Clearly this is not by a professional artist but by a barely trained amateur, whose pencil made one eye a little bigger than the other and raised the forehead too high. The actress’s smile in the portrait indicates the artist knew her well. Maybe the results of that first blood test are also on the table. If he showed them to his son-in-law, Zvi could tell what was ominous and what wasn’t. But he doesn’t touch anything. There was a time when he felt at home in this apartment, but that’s over. The gaze of Judah Maccabee, the boy who had not spoken a word, flashes in his mind’s eye. Can it be? Or was it just an illusion?

Ruth enters to see what’s taking him so long.

“I felt weak, watching your young actors…”

“Well, get over it. Because now they want you to watch the rehearsal. I knew they would get all excited over a film director. Even in the most out-of-the-way school in this country, everybody wants to be a star.”

“Excuse me, but I’m not the one who revealed my identity.”

“That’s true. But someone had to explain to them why an old man like you suddenly materialized in the studio, and I couldn’t think of another identity for you. But what made you tired?”

“You just said I was old. Also, I missed my afternoon nap. Nice to see how patient you are with children. Though don’t you think you ought to simplify the text a wee bit for them?”

“Simplify how?”

“Cut back the ‘where art thou’ and ‘hateth’ and ‘hither.’ I’m afraid the audiences of kids will get lost in the stilted language.”

“Don’t be so sure. Most of the students from south Tel Aviv come from traditional homes and their parents take them on Shabbat and holidays to the synagogue, where they are exposed to such words.”

“What about that boy?”

“Which boy?”

“The third one, the silent one, Judah Maccabee.”

“What about him?”

“He hasn’t said a word. He doesn’t have any lines?”

“Not today. I invited him to suffer in silence witnessing the love that grows between his beloved and his brother. To bring him closer to despair so he convincingly performs his death in tomorrow’s rehearsal.”

“It’s wonderful how you work as director. You seem to have learned something from me after all.”

“Maybe, a little.”

“By the way, doesn’t that boy remind you of someone? That look of his… the way he stares…”

“You mean Trigano.”

“Exactly.” Moses is agitated. “I was afraid to say anything…”

“Afraid?”

“I don’t know…”

“When I started to work with them I did notice a certain resemblance, and I checked whether there was a connection. Didn’t find any. Though his grandfather came to Israel from the same region. But in the course of working with him, the resemblance got blurrier. He’s a complicated child, not easy, uptight…”

“What’s his name?”

“Elisha.”

“I didn’t dare to say he reminds me of Trigano, it’s been so many years since I’ve seen him.”

“Yes, there is something… You’re not imagining it.”

“You see, I’m not yet completely senile. Let’s go back to the studio. I’m eager to see you directing that scene. Will you ask the kids to touch physically, or does their love remain hanging in the air?”

“Kids today touch each other with ease. With love and also violence. Aren’t you planning some serious touching in your next film?”

“Don’t put the cart before the horse.”

IN THE STUDIO, the two students have shed their clothes and are dressed in white robes. Elisha continues to brood in his corner, warming his hands on a cup of tea. But the drama coach gets him on his feet and tells him to put on a robe too.

“Why?” he complains. “You said that today I’m here only to watch.”

“Yes, watch, but not as an outside observer. If you’re dressed like them, you’ll participate with your body and not just by looking and inflame the jealousy in your heart at both brother and lover. This will help build the character you’ll be playing tomorrow.”

The boy shrugs, skeptical, but goes to the corner, picks out a big embroidered robe, puts it on over his clothes, and returns to his place.

Ruth stacks pillows by the window and seats the Hasmonean lad on them, gently angling his head to the sky, and she asks the girl in love to remove her shoes, stand barefoot in the corner, and call in a whisper: “Simon, where art thou?”

The scene progresses, and regresses, and Ruth doesn’t just instruct but demonstrates the gestures and expresses the feelings, moving from character to character. She knows the script from memory, she is free to act and explain at the same time, and toward the end of the scene, after Simon’s heart acknowledges his love and succumbs, she asks the boy and the girl to draw closer, to touch and stroke, to put a head on a shoulder, and encourages them to venture a gentle kiss on the forehead and cheek. The children are embarrassed. “Ruth,” they protest, “the kids will laugh at us; we know them.” But the coach dismisses their concerns. In her youth, her school had put on My Glorious Brothers, and when the giggling began, the principal stifled it at once.

The day wanes and grayness descends, auguring rain. But Ruth still does not turn on the light — she takes advantage of the darkness to deepen the feelings of her actors. The visitor in his corner is fascinated by real and imaginary intimacies between the two youngsters and glances at the sorrowful doppelgänger of the young Trigano, who closely studies his two friends to cultivate pain and despair for tomorrow.

She is deliberately tormenting and abusing that boy, he thinks, a strange, fleeting thought.

When the rehearsal is over he is careful not to applaud, and his mind has already wandered to Amsalem’s idea. Can the story of the sudden parenthood of two children be told with psychological realism, or does such deviant subject matter need a different key, and if it does, who will find it?

The young actors in their white robes move about the dark studio like ghosts. Moses feels they are looking to him for a reaction, but he smiles and keeps silent. The next rehearsal is scheduled for tomorrow, and the students get dressed, put on their backpacks, and say goodbye.

The actress collapses on the pillows by the window.

“Nice work,” praises the visitor, “you give me hope.”

“Hope for what?”

“For the new film, about the children who suddenly become parents.”

“Why a movie like that?” she says with eyes closed, her face pale.

“Why not? It’s a contemporary drama, in the spirit of the age. A period that’s full of sex and violence among kids.”

She opens her eyes, looks at him.

“That’s the spirit of the age?”

“That’s what they say, that’s what I hear.”

Silence. He tries again.

“It’ll be like your Glorious Brothers, only a different kind of glory, more like infamy.”

“That’s what you and Amsalem are plotting?” A shadow of derision in her voice.

“And what do you think?”

She doesn’t answer. She is exhausted, can’t keep her eyes open, and he knows she’d be happy if he just left, but he wants to stay, go back into her apartment.

“Let’s go out and eat…”

“No, I’m dead, I’m going to bed, and don’t you dare mention the blood tests.”

“Not another word. May I invite myself to the next rehearsal? I want to see pain and despair in Judah Maccabee, that little Trigano. You seem to be picking on him.”

“Could be.”

“Please let me drop in on the next rehearsal?”

“No, Moses, I’m sorry. You could tell the kids were excited by the presence of a film director. You’re confusing them with possibilities that kids acting in a school play don’t need. If you want to see the final results, you’ll have to come with all the parents.”

“Which parents?”

“The parents of these children and their grandparents too. Why not? You have a grandson their age.”

He nods, says nothing. As darkness pervades the studio, he recalls the musty smell of the confessional booth in the cathedral. There, behind the leather lattice, opposite the monk who spoke to him in ancient Hebrew, his heart opened wide. He had forgotten to tell the monk about the time he nearly married her. He didn’t, and not because he feared the revenge of Trigano, but because he was afraid of shackling himself to a character who would appear and reappear in his work. But that happened anyway, without his marrying her.

He stands up, absent-mindedly reaches for the pointed walking stick he bought her in Santiago, approaches the woman sprawled by the window, and says: “They were like a dream, the three days in Santiago.”

“How so?” She is surprised. “I remember every minute of the retrospective they put on for you and, actually, for me too.”

“Of course,” he affirms warmly, “it was a retrospective for us both.”

“Why a dream, then?”

“Because our three nights in one bed passed by like a dream.”

“The dream was yours, Moses, and in a dream you have no right to get near me.”

“Why? Because you saw the rape scene in the wadi and your old anger came back?”

“Not anger, disappointment,” she explains. “I understood that with the savage violence against the deaf-mute girl you made Trigano’s darkest fantasies come true. So I was disappointed in you, in the young man you were then, a teacher and educator who was prepared to throw away his values and surrender to someone else’s story — to hand over a young woman, barely an actress, to an actor who used the camera as an alibi for his lust. And Trigano, who was at your elbow the whole time to protect his script, was pleased with your submissiveness as a director, which encouraged him to go to extremes with me in his screenplays from then on.”

He turns around, puts on his jacket, and goes back to Ruth, who has wrapped herself in a light blanket as if determined to stay on her pillows and not return to her apartment lest Moses try to follow.

“So if you were right, if the retrospective in Spain was not only mine but also yours, let’s go down together to the abandoned station and see what became of our railroad tracks.”

“Why?”

“Why not? The old border is gone, and the Arab village Toledano annexed with his camera is now under Israeli control. We can get a new angle on the place we shot the film.”

“Why do you care?”

“Because we have to finish the retrospective before we can start thinking about a new film. And that’s why you have to come with me. Down there in the desert, in the darkness, I was alone with the Bedouin and his wife, but this time we’ll be there in daylight, we’ll walk by the tracks, and even go down in the wadi where I failed you as a human being.”

She perks up, but tugs the blanket tighter.

“Could you find your way around after so many years?”

“Between your memory and mine, we’ll manage. Besides, we do have a map.”

“But when? I work every day.”

“We’ll go Saturday. First thing in the morning.”

“If it’s important to you, I’ll come. Though that young girl’s pain could come back.”

He grins. “We’ll explain to her that we needed that scene for the sake of the story, that in actuality, no harm was done.”

“You explain that to her. I’m not so sure that she will understand.”

“She will understand. That deaf-mute that Trigano brought to the film was clever.”

A little smile flickers on her face, heartbreakingly pale in the darkness.

“One more thing, and don’t get angry.”

“No… not that again.”

“One short sentence. Please.”

“Very short.”

“If you’re sure there’s nothing wrong with you, don’t do another blood test, but why don’t we just remove your name from the tests you did and show them to Zvi, my son-in-law, so we can rest assured.”

She says nothing. Closes her eyes again.

“For example,” he says, advancing his case, “I happened to visit Galit at her radiology clinic and she, on her own initiative, took the opportunity to do a virtual mapping of my heart, and now I can relax.”

“And you weren’t relaxed before? Your heart is so relaxed it barely works.”

“Relaxed, but for no good reason. Now I have confidence in my heart, I can let it get more emotional. So you too, with one quick peek by an understanding eye, can maintain your serenity.”

“I don’t need an understanding eye, and that’s final.” She is fuming. “You promised one short sentence and you’ve already come up with five long ones. Goodbye.”

MOSES’ ROAD MAP is plainly outdated, giving no indication that Israeli control over the Jordanian village conquered in the Six-Day War has more recently been transferred to the Palestinian Authority. After the two enjoy a scenic drive on a fine Shabbat morning, winding on a repaved road from the Ayalon Valley into the terraced hills south of Jerusalem, in the company of cyclists serenely climbing or coasting below snowy puffs of cloud, they run into an army roadblock at the turnoff to the village. And though the barrier is splintered and essentially symbolic, Moses honors it and waits. A female police officer and male soldier come out yawning and rumpled and ask: “Where to?”

He gives them the name of the village, and they ask what he plans to do there. And though the director would like to tell the security forces about a retrospective that began in Spain and aims to end here, the car behind is honking, and they wave Moses through, warning him that Israelis visiting this village do so at their own risk.

“Should we go on?” Moses wonders after passing the checkpoint. “Is it worth the risk just for one more look?”

“Turn back now?” scolds his companion, her cheeks ruddy in the mountain air. “What’s to be afraid of? If the Jerusalem train doesn’t stop here anymore, the only way to the station is through the village, and from there we can look down into the wadi. If not now, when? Once you’re immersed in the next picture, you’ll forget the retrospective. And life is short.”

“For whom?”

“Not just for someone with a problematic blood picture, but also someone who discovers his heart is fine and capable of emotion.”

For a moment happy laughter fills the car.

He gently touches her hair. Since Santiago she is linked in his soul not only with the characters she acted in his early films but also with the bare-breasted young woman nursing her own father. And though he still believes that all shades of her character have been exhausted and that even her remaining fans and followers would be wary of his giving her a new part, he fears that if he doesn’t, he will lose her forever.

After a few kilometers, they reach the sign pointing in Arabic and Hebrew to the village, and he deliberates whether to be content with an overview from afar or to snake down a steep, narrow old road into the belly of a village that was turned from foe to friend in the editing room. Positioned not far from a sleepy Jordanian guard post, Toledano’s camera captured houses, alleys, courtyards, and animals, and sometimes villagers, who in the editing room were annexed into the Israeli film and became involuntary collaborators in the daring allegory of a nightmare screenplay. Might they run into trouble at the entrance to the village? For if the village is no longer under Israeli occupation, it will surely assert its sovereignty.

He pulls over to the side and goes out in search of a secure lookout. But Ruth, protesting the undignified vacillation, stays in the car.

A portentous cloud glides above the village, filtering sunbeams that cast a golden glow on homes and olive groves. From what he can tell, the village has grown over the years, and though he can locate the wadi and see the tracks, he can’t find the little railroad station.

“So what if it disappeared?” says Ruth when Moses again suggests skipping the descent into the village. “The tracks are still there, so is the wadi, and anyway, what are you afraid of? Do the Palestinians care about you? And if they ask what it is you’re looking for, they’ll be glad to hear that we once included them as partners in an art film.”

He puts a hand on her shoulder. Ever since he watched her work with the young actors, he can’t get her out of his mind; he is worried, he wants to be good to her. And so, despite the fear of entering a place where safety cannot be guaranteed, he starts the car and heads slowly down the narrow road, braving half-filled potholes. And what was once simulated appears now in full force — a square and a well, a donkey tethered to the rusty remains of a car, chickens pecking peacefully, and also a gleaming, late-model motorcycle parked beside a top-quality tractor, with a satellite dish on every house. The locals, mainly women, look at the Israelis with no particular interest. As the two walk down to the tracks, escorted by a barking dog, the clouds sink lower and the air thickens.

But here they face a clear border. A high fence separates the village and the tracks. It is strange that in the past what was porous between enemies is now a firm barrier between neighbors.

In any case, what happened to the little train station? They ask a young Palestinian who sits on the steps of his house reading the sports section of the Hebrew paper Israel Today and learn that a few years back the villagers used the building stones of the station to expand their homes. “But until the new tracks are laid between Modi’in and Jerusalem, doesn’t the train still pass by here?” “Passes but doesn’t stop,” explains the young man, “and on Shabbat doesn’t even pass.” “So how can we get down to the tracks and walk a bit in the wadi alongside?” “It’s not possible and also not permitted,” says the Palestinian, “because it’s a border fence, so we have a bit of independence. But for you,” he adds with a sly smile, “since you belong to the other side, I’ll show you how you get into Israel without a passport.”

He folds up the sports section and leads the actress and the director, pilgrim stick in hand, down an alley and then another, to a field of green alfalfa. Reaching what looks very much like a fence, he grabs the border with both hands, shakes it hard, and opens a wide entry.

“Well done,” says Moses, “but please close it in a way that we can open easily on our way back. Better yet, if you could wait for us here, we’re only going for a short walk, to retrieve something from the past.”

“Okay, I’ll wait for you,” agrees the young man, who seems amused by two older Israelis eager to take a Sabbath-morning stroll on a desolate railroad track near his village. “But to get back into Palestine”—he grins—“you’ll have to undergo a security check and pay a fee.”

“We’ll pay the fee”—Moses chuckles—“on condition that you not budge from here.”

The young man finds a big rock, sits down, and opens the sports pages. Meanwhile the director and the actress make their way single file along the tracks, first he in the lead, then she, stepping on the gray concrete railroad ties, trying to find the spot where the imaginary train plunged into the imaginary abyss. But it’s not so simple to reconstruct a reality that was imaginary to begin with, and the actress trips and the heel of her shoe gets stuck in a gap between the rail and one of the ties. Moses quickly grabs her and sets her aright, pausing a second before kneeling to pry out the shoe and fit it back on her bare foot. Holding her in his arms, in the here and now, he can feel the tenderness of the woman who took part in so many of his films. And even as she smiles at him with gratitude, she wants to be released from his embrace. Perhaps she suspects that it’s not her the old director desires, but rather the lithe, dark young woman whose lover had demanded she portray the character of an inscrutable deaf-mute.

“So what are we actually doing here?” Ruth asks.

Moses finds it hard to explain his urge to reconnect with the shooting locations of his early films. Does he just want to get the feel of them, or does he want to repair them?

“Can they be repaired?”

“It’s impossible,” admits the director. “But one can try calming the old anger.”

“Not anger, just disappointment.”

“And even if just disappointment,” he insists, “disappointment hurts no less.” This is why he has brought her here, to soften the disappointment.

“To soften it? How?” Her eyes flash mild disdain.

Maybe, as they walk near the village that is again beyond the border, she will understand why Distant Station could only have ended with a scene of violent rape. Even a foreign audience in a distant land was sympathetic to the film.

“The sympathy of the audience doesn’t compensate for the humiliation of the actor.”

“Hold on. I didn’t write the screenplay, I only interpreted it.”

“An extreme interpretation, far beyond what was only hinted in the script.”

“But Trigano was there with us and could have restrained me.”

“He couldn’t, because of the agreement that you could change nothing in the script once it was done and that he would not meddle in the directing once it began. His hands were tied.”

“Tied even when I, as you claim, degraded you?”

“Fine, maybe the agreement didn’t stop him, maybe that was just his excuse. But understand this: your creative partnership with him was thanks to your normalcy, your sense of proportion, on the assumption that you, as director, would impose credibility and restraint on his wild imagination, that you would calm the disquiet raging inside him, clarify the symbols that raced around in his soul. But then, as we’re filming the last scenes of Distant Station, he suddenly sees that your flexibility is not so simple. That it has a different mindset, broader margins, than he expected. He understood that the bourgeois values you brought from your Jerusalem were less stable than he imagined and that normalcy could also be violent and cruel. That’s why he didn’t want to interfere with the rape scene. He liked the idea of going to extremes with you… to dare more. With me, or through me…”

“With you. Mainly with you.” Her words have moved him. “We all knew how close a bond he had with you.”

“It wasn’t just a bond, Moses, it was much more than a bond, much more than the love of a man for a woman. Love wasn’t enough for him. It had a purpose beyond itself. To turn me into a symbol, into a character.”

“A character?” he says disingenuously. “In what sense?”

“A character,” she continues confidently, “a character who, because of her own uniqueness and regardless of the part she is playing, is able to force people to think a little differently about the world. And despite what happened in Distant Station, I took it upon myself to be a character, not just because of Trigano, but because I saw that you were on his side, supporting him and loyal to him. But when you both sent me out into the street after I handed over the baby, and you expected me to force an old dirty beggar to nurse from me, and you degraded me in front of the girl who was me in the past, I felt that if I didn’t stop, the two of you would push me even farther. Because love that tries to go beyond a woman and make her into a character, a symbol, is a love gone wrong.”

They keep walking carefully along railroad ties. Moses listens in silence.

“That’s why I tried to stop the momentum of the final scene. I wanted to test your reaction.”

“You only tried?”

“Yes, I only tried. But instead of offering a solution — perhaps promising that through the camera work you would inject some compassion into the scene to shield me from the weirdness — you simply switched sides and joined my refusal. You canceled the scene so fast that neither I nor you had a chance to reconsider.”

“I was quick to support you, to protect you.”

“Yes, but the support was so ferocious that it insulted Trigano, wounded him.”

“Because of his pride, his delusions of grandeur. He was sure my ‘normalcy’ would defer to him and accept everything he fed you.”

“You were ready to do that scene. That was not the point.”

“Then what was the point?”

“You created in him, and in me as well, an impression that you supported me because you wanted me for yourself, wanted to take me away from him. But you didn’t really want me — you certainly didn’t love me then.”

Moses kicks a small stone. “That’s true.”

“So you should have appeased him, suggested a compromise, calmed my anxiety, most of all. You could have tried harder and found a way to remedy the scene that was scaring me. Why didn’t you try to make peace between me and him? You were the director, you were the strong one. You were the native Israeli, you controlled the production. You should never have allowed him to cut off ties with you and with me. But you wanted to exploit the argument to be rid of him once and for all, so you wouldn’t have to keep dealing with his crazy ideas.”

In that case, he realizes with a shudder, the picture of Caritas Romana by the bed at the Parador had hit a deep nerve after all, though she hadn’t said a word.

“Yes,” he confesses, “I did want to break away from him, or at least keep my distance for a while. I was afraid he was leading me down a blind alley.”

THEY HEAR DISTANT buzzing, the sound of a saw or a lathe, but it gets louder, closer, and the walkers on the tracks, who assumed they were protected by the Sabbath from any trains, freight trains included, are surprised as a little yellow railcar barrels toward them from around a bend, shrieking like a bird of prey. Moses grabs Ruth by the arm and pulls her aside. “You can’t even rely on the chief rabbi in this country,” he grumbles.

The two exchange a grin as an old man in coveralls, bald and heavyset, brakes the railcar and hollers: “What’s going on? How’d you get here? This isn’t a hiking trail! Get out of here or I’ll call the police forces.” It’s hard to pin down his nationality; he says “police forces” as if he’s a bi-national with double protection. Moses jests, “Is it not the Sabbath, sir? You want us to inform the religious authorities that Israel Railways rides on Shabbat?” Except the railroad man doesn’t get the joke. He climbs down from the railcar and waves his hands. “Yalla, kishteh, scat,” he commands in three languages, then gets back in the car, blows the whistle, and heads for the coastal plain.

The young Palestinian, their border guard, is still immersed in the sports section. He sees the two approaching and takes his time getting up and going to the breach in the fence. Moses hands him a hundred-shekel note with a smile and says, “Here’s the fee, you can skip the security check, because we’re at peace with each other.” The young man fingers the unexpected bill and yanks open the border with two hands, singing, “Peace, peace, there is no peace.” He invites the Israelis for a cup of coffee, included in the entrance fee. “Why not?” The director is enthusiastic. “We have time.”

Yes, Moses wants to prolong the Sabbath excursion. Especially since from the neat, pleasant living room, there is a fine view of the route of the Israeli railroad tracks till they vanish around a mountain bend. He sips the excellent coffee and tells the young man and his wife about the film of long ago.

They are amazed to learn that an Israeli feature film was shot near their home before either of them was born, and they relish the mischief of the cinematographer who crossed the border and stole their village, but they are unsettled by the plot, the act of terrorism that Israelis perpetrate on their own people for no reason, without politics or war.

“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.”

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.”

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, Independence 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.”