He took a folio of drawings off the shelf and leafed through it aimlessly, not bothering to see who the artist was. Putting down one folio and opening another, his mind wandered back to Ernst Weltfremdt’s book. He found himself thinking about a chapter that had already appeared in some collection, the chapter about the major forces that impelled Valens to allow thirty thousand Goths to cross… As he examined Ernst Weltfremdt’s argument, he began to wonder why he hadn’t emphasized the fact that Valens had allowed the Goths to enter Roman territory so that some of their regiments could fight the Persians. While he was considering this idea, he opened a folio containing the work of several artists. He gazed at the drawings and muttered: “They’re from Bruegel’s school, but, unlike Bruegel, they don’t give one pleasure. Now I’ll go and see what the clerk is doing.”
His eyes were pulled in several directions. He stood trembling and astonished. What is this? A leper. A painting of a leper standing at the city gate, ringing a bell to warn the people to keep their distance. Herbst picked up the picture and stood it up so he could see it better. The eyes were awesome and sad. Their sockets had, for the most part, been consumed by leprosy, yet they were alive and wished to live. Sadder and more awesome was the hand holding the bell, a hand consumed by disease that could not be reversed. Even sadder and more awesome was the bell, warning people to keep their distance. The painter was a great artist to see the bell as the source of pestilence. Why? This cannot be explained, but it is surely correct.
Herbst stood before the picture, examining it first from one angle, then from another, looking into the leper’s eyes, at his hands, at the open city gates. Within the city, on one side of the gate, people were milling about, on the way to church, to a tavern, to do business, or just to pass the time. The infected man stood on the other side. In his leprous hand, he held a little bell, and it alone was unblighted, although it was the source of all blight. Who painted this picture? What is the name of the great painter who imbued the inanimate with the breath of life? The men and women of the town fade in and out of view, yet the figure of the afflicted man is extremely clear; he, his hand, his bell. The entire city – the men, the women, the houses, the marketplace, the well – are serene and unconcerned. But the sound of the bell is already disengaged from it, rattling, tinkling, moving out of the afflicted man’s hand. A great calamity is imminent. Herbst looked at the picture once again; at the leper, at his hand, but not at the bell, because by now he recognized that the blight was not in the bell. All this time, Herbst had avoided touching the picture, as if it were alive and afflicted. Readers, you know me by now. You know that I don’t exaggerate. And if I tell you something, don’t say, “What an exaggeration!” At that instant, it was clear to Herbst that he heard a voice from within the bell the leper was holding, cautioning, “Go away, don’t touch me.” Herbst listened to the cautionary voice and didn’t touch the picture. But he looked at it, again and again, with panic in his eyes and desire in his heart. Then he took down another folio, which he placed on top of the picture of the leper, and left. He came back again, exposed the picture, but didn’t look at it. Then he took down a folio of Rembrandt drawings. He looked at several reproductions, then took out
The Night Watch
and studied it. What happens to anyone with a discerning eye happened to Herbst. The melancholy that emanates from Rembrandt’s work soothed his spirit and brought on tranquility – a tranquility known as harmony, though I call it understanding and certainty.
The clerk appeared and apologized to Herbst for having abandoned him in mid-conversation. Some consulate or other called about some dictionary or other for some language or other. When the conversation with the consulate was over, the phone had rung again, and someone from the high commissioner’s office inquired about the new location of a certain bookbinder, a woman to whom the high commissioner always sent his books.
“The high commissioner is a celebrated collector. He haunts the bookstores, especially this one. His car swallows up an infinite number of volumes. He doesn’t admit Jews to Palestine, but he craves their books. I see you have been leafing through the pictures, Dr. Herbst.” Herbst pointed to
The Night Watch
and asked the price. He told him. He said, “Wrap it up and add it to my account. I want to send a gift to a doctor I once consulted, who refused to accept a fee. I’ll leave it with you for now. Tomorrow or the next day, I’ll pick it up.”
Herbst lit another cigarette. After putting the case back in his pocket, he took it out again and offered the clerk a cigarette. “They’re black,” he said. “Since I came to this country, I haven’t smoked a black cigarette.” The clerk put down
The Night Watch
and lit his cigarette. He studied it, then he said, “Actually, it’s not black, it’s dark brown.” Herbst stood in front of
The Night Watch
, considering: Shira told me she wanted a reproduction of
The Night Watch
but couldn’t find one. I’ll take it to her tomorrow; she’ll be pleased. Henrietta is eating lunch now. Firadeus is eating with her, watching Mrs. Herbst’s gestures to learn how to handle herself. Firadeus is a good student. She learns the manners of the Ashkenazim very fast and regards them as the only truly well-mannered people. If I were to go back now, Henrietta would say, “But, Fred, you told me you wouldn’t be back for lunch, so I wasn’t expecting you and I didn’t prepare anything. But, if you give me a minute, I’ll fix something for you.” Herbst looked at his watch and considered: It’s lunchtime, and I really ought to leave. The clerk is probably eager to be rid of me, so he can have his lunch. He looked at his watch again, not that he had forgotten what time it was, but to be sure he was right. It crossed his mind that he ought to go to Gethsemane, not because of the monk, but because he had told Henrietta he was going to Gethsemane. He knew he wouldn’t go to Gethsemane, that, if he did set out, he would turn back midway. In that case, Herbst told himself, I won’t go, and I won’t have to turn back. I’ll go to a café, have some coffee, and look at the newspapers. Then I’ll go home and get back to my work. Work that follows leisure is twice as pleasant.
He left the old books and went down the steps to the main store below. Like all modern establishments, it was closed for lunch, but the display windows were exposed to view. He stood looking at Weltfremdt’s book, thinking: I suppose I’ll have to buy it. He had another thought: I have mentioned Gethsemane a hundred times without thinking of those two brothers, the brothers who were killed together near Gethsemane. It wouldn’t surprise me to find a study of this phenomenon: certain place-names evoke memories of events that have occurred there, while other places can be mentioned without evoking any such events. With regard to Gethsemane and the murdered brothers, I blame Sacharson, whose name I don’t like to invoke. Having mentioned him only in order to resolve a dilemma, he has been mentioned, and I won’t pursue the paradox any further. I’ll just go into the café, sit down, and have some coffee.
He went into the café and ordered hot, not iced, coffee. He waited for it to cool, then drank it up all at once, took out his cigarette case, and sat smoking and reading the paper he had found on the table. He was watching the office girls who were taking a break. They wore good clothes that they couldn’t afford to buy on an office salary. They sat over coffee, tea, or cocoa. Their faces, dimmed by clouds of cigarette smoke, were weary from work and from the weight of the fine clothes on their backs.
One of them approached Herbst and asked for the newspaper that was next to him. He handed her the one he was reading, assuming that was the one she meant, when actually she had meant the one on the table. She returned his paper to him and picked up the other one. As soon as she was gone, Herbst went back to his paper, but he didn’t continue to read, because his mind was now on her. He hadn’t had occasion to talk to her, but he knew she was married and had children, maybe two, maybe three. She spends eight hours in the office, leaving her husband and children to depend on a housekeeper, who, one imagines, behaves as if she were the lady of the house. What moves this woman to leave her husband and children, to wear herself out eight hours a day in an office, surrounded by the rattle of typewriters, shrieking telephones, squabbles with office mates? If she is competent, her friends are annoyed. And the males in an office still find it hard to accept a woman who surpasses them in skill or earnings. He looked at her and saw that she was sitting with her cup in front of her, a cigarette dangling from her mouth, the newspaper slipping out of her hands as her eyes opened and closed, opened and closed, eager for sleep but afraid to doze off, lest she be late getting back to the office. Herbst looked at his watch and was overwhelmed by sympathy for her and for all the weary workers who would soon have to go back to work. He, too, went back to what he was occupied with earlier: Weltfremdt’s book, the spread of the Goths into Roman territory, and the famine they were confronted with almost as soon as they arrived. The famine was so great that, after the Germans had used up all their resources, offering their cash, carriages, and armor in return for food, Syrian merchants brought emaciated dogs to their camp and traded them for a male or female child.
Herbst suddenly found himself watching a particular young woman, though there was nothing special about her that would account for his interest, except for her face, which was quite childlike. This young woman, Herbst thought, works for a printer; she works in the office of a printing press. She looks German, but she isn’t. Anyway, I’m clearly right about the work she does. She works in the office of a printing press, and I can even describe what she does there. Henrietta would say, “You have such great intuition, Fred.” While he was celebrating the fact that he had guessed her line of work from her face, she was called to the telephone. Now that she was gone, Herbst turned to the waitress and asked who she was. She told him. Herbst said, “A lawyer, just as I thought. It’s perfectly obvious. What was I about to say?” The waitress stood waiting for him to say it. Herbst noticed and said, “Excuse me. I was going to say something to myself, not to you.” Because she was so tired, she wasn’t paying attention and didn’t find this odd. When she left, he whispered to himself, without letting the words reach any ears other than his own, “Another day is gone. What did I accomplish today? I didn’t accomplish anything. I got up in the morning, picked up half a donkey’s load of books, took them in to breakfast, and told Henrietta I was going to Gethsemane. Henrietta didn’t say, ‘Why go to Gethsemane on such a hot day?’ When I arrived in town, I didn’t go to Gethsemane, because I had no wish to go to Gethsemane. When I met Julian Weltfremdt, I went to a café with him and drank iced coffee. While we sat over the iced coffee, he mentioned that he had heard I was being considered for a promotion. When he said that the kindergartens in this country will become universities, did he mean to irritate me, because I may be about to be promoted? Another day is gone, one of those days that give us nothing beyond the knowledge that our lifetime is now one day shorter. What significance does this have for a man like me whose days have been decreased by one? How did I use this day? I looked at pictures. True, it’s good for a person to look at a fine picture every now and then. How successful that painter was, how vivid the colors on the dead flesh. However, I should say this: I was exaggerating when I said I could hear the voice of the bell in the leper’s hand. Tomorrow or the day after, I’ll get
The Night Watch
and take it to Shira. If I find her, good. If I don’t find her, I’ll leave the picture with one of her neighbors. In any case, I can say one thing: It doesn’t matter if I find her or not. Wait a minute! Shira was looking for that picture of a doctor, some students, and the patient who is the object of their lesson while all this time I’ve been thinking of
The Night Watch
.”
He suddenly began to feel the pinch of hunger. He called the waitress and asked for some food that could be considered lunch. “As for bread,” he said, “it doesn’t matter whether it’s black or white.” Though he preferred black bread, he had found that, in this country, one often has to make do with wheat bread, wheat being one of the native species. He learned about this from Gandhi, who wrote that every land produces the bread best suited to its inhabitants. He ate, drank, paid his bill, lit another cigarette, and left.
His limbs were light, as they tend to be after a light meal and two cups of coffee. The air outside was not light; burnt gasoline, scorched dust, human sweat, the stench of garbage and tobacco produced a mess of smells; the din that filled the air included traffic noise, the clatter of typewriters, the shouts of newspaper boys, the malevolent eyes of policemen, the bold footsteps of young Arabs, the howl of stray dogs, the anguish of human beings wondering what to do next. All this had the potential to unsettle one’s mind, but Herbst’s mind remained composed. His mind was on many things, even on the waitress who had served him in the café, who must have left work by now, put on good clothes, and looked so different that one would barely recognize her. Finally, he too was unsettled. His capacity to be a simple observer was lost, along with his physical lightness, a lightness he used to enjoy without being quite aware of it, a lightness that was once his characteristic mode. Once, before he knew Shira.
What began to unsettle him again was the tragedy he had wanted to write but never wrote. When he was with Henrietta in Kfar Ahinoam, after the birth of Dani, his daughter’s son, he had decided to abandon the project, and he had done so. Suddenly, all of a sudden, it was on his mind again, suggesting that he take it on. Isn’t it odd that, the minute I give up the idea of writing the tragedy, just then I happen to see a painting of a leper, a painting that could serve as a model for the faithful slave Basileios?
Chapter sixteen
T
he day passed, as most days do, partly in eating, drinking, and sleeping; partly in reading books, articles, and dissertations, and adding to the body of notes. Some notes are definitive; others, tentative, in that the writer jots them down and stores them in a box until he finds better ones. There are days when the writing process demands a certain note, even points it out. On that particular day, most of the new notes were problematic from the outset. Some, he labored over both before and while writing them down, only to tear them up and write them over again, and then continue to vacillate about putting them in the box. We don’t know how he benefited from such a day. Only that his book on burial customs of the poor in Byzantium gained nothing.