Shira (20 page)

Shira sat on her chair, becoming one with it, her shoulders contracting, while Herbst sat crushing the cigarette with his fingers. The lines on his palms began to jump and were covered by dry, searing heat. His temples throbbed and sweated. Once or twice he was about to speak, but the words remained on the tip of his tongue. He stared with enmity at the remains of the cigarette in his hand, its embers singeing his fingernails. Again he wanted to say something and didn’t know how to begin, although he knew that, if only he could begin, words would come. He got up and moved his chair, put the remains of his cigarette in the ashtray, snuffed it out, sat down again, passed his tongue over his lips, and asked in a whisper, “What were you talking about and what did you have in mind, Shira?” Shira looked at him, lowering her head and speaking from deep in her chest. “And if I tell you, will you understand?” Herbst said, “Why wouldn’t I understand?” Shira said, “Maybe you will and maybe you won’t. Even if you do, I don’t know why I asked such an odd question. Tell me, don’t you think it’s an odd question?” Herbst said, “It is an odd question, but allow me to ask what led to such a question.” Shira said, “You think I know?” Herbst said, “Don’t you know?” Shira said, “I don’t really know, but, because you asked, I will tell you something.”

Shira touched the tip of her nose, which was colored by the powder she had sprinkled on it, and asked in a leisurely tone, “What was I going to say?” Herbst said, “You were going to answer my question.” Shira said, “You mean about that odd question? I’ll tell you, if you like.”

Shira said, “The event took place a month and a half ago plus two days. Why did I say ‘plus two days,’ when actually it was a month and a half ago plus three days, exactly one night after the curfew. Remember, you were here the night they declared the curfew. So, one night later, a certain person happened by, not to my room but to the landlord’s apartment. A respectable person, healthy, not young but not old. In any case, his age didn’t show. He was an engineer by profession. A marine engineer, or some such thing. What do I know? Until that day, I never knew there were such engineers, though it’s logical that, if there are boats, they didn’t build themselves, and, just as you need someone to build houses, you need someone to build boats. Anyway, the engineer I’m telling about was related to the landlady, or maybe the landlord. For the life of me, I couldn’t say whose relative he was, hers or his. It happened that he came to visit his relatives, but they had gone to some
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because of a tragedy involving their daughter. The night before, her son, a child of about five and a half, had wandered off and encountered a jackal that devoured him, leaving only a headless skeleton. The architect was alone in his relatives’ home. What am I saying? I said ‘architect’ when, in fact, he was an engineer, a marine engineer. That gentleman, the engineer, was here in the home of his relatives, and I was in my room, paying no attention to him. It’s possible that I didn’t even know such a person was in the house with me. After dinner I said to myself: Why sit in the room when I could sit on the balcony? Hadn’t the landlady given me permission to sit out there whenever she and her husband were out? I put on comfortable clothes and went up to the landlady’s apartment and out onto the balcony, where I sat on a chair, allowing the wind to curl my hair and the moon to play hide-and-seek with me. I thought how lucky it was to have such a balcony, and now I was the lucky one. I heard footsteps. I’m not saying the footsteps concerned me. If someone was there, it was his right to move around. After a while, the architect appeared. Manfred, I’m talking, but you’re not listening. Are you listening? If so, I’ll tell you what followed.”

Shira continued. “The engineer came in, straight as a mast. And his shoulders – such shoulders! How can I describe them? Let me just say that, if he were to put me on his shoulders, I wouldn’t say, ‘There’s no room,’ although I would hope he wouldn’t try to add one more like me. He bowed and said, ‘If the lady will allow me, I’ll sit for a while.’ I answered, ‘You have more right to be here than I do.’ He bowed again and said, ‘With your permission.’ And he sat down. I sat as if he weren’t there. He began talking and said roughly this: ‘You don’t seem to be busy, so if I talk, I won’t really be interrupting.’ I looked at my hands, which were idle, and said, ‘I’m not really doing anything.’ He sat in silence, and I was silent too. I thought: Why sit idly? I’ll go get a sock to darn, or the wool I bought when the curfew began, and I can work on my sweater. I was too lazy to get up. I sat staring straight ahead, making a point of not looking at him, so he wouldn’t think I meant to engage him in conversation. I assumed he would take out a thick cigar, which is what that type of powerful man usually smokes. He didn’t take out a cigar but began talking again. What did he talk about? If you like, I could repeat every word, but neither you nor I would be enthralled by his words, would we? So I’ll summarize the whole conversation in two or three words. What did he say?

“He really didn’t say anything. But his voice, Manfred! His voice swept me off to distant places. After sailing with me from sea to sea and from continent to continent, he took me to Paris, which that gentleman was in the habit of visiting every year. To be more concrete let me tell you this: he sat and talked, and I sat and listened. Manfred, anyone who saw us would have said, ‘They’re like a young man and his maid when their time is ripe.’ Manfred, those scowls are uncalled for! What was I saying? He was like a youth courting his girl with engaging words. But I knew that words are one thing, the heart another. After touring those places with me, we were back in Jerusalem. Extending his hand toward Jerusalem, he said, ‘This is no city. It’s a desert, an eternal desert that sprouts earlocks, old men in frock coats stiff as Jerusalem stone, and even its sun is arid as stone.’ After he finished what he had to say about Jerusalem, he started on me. He shook his head at me and said, ‘Imagine, a young girl sitting here, lonely and solitary in this arid desert, under this arid sun, not enjoying what’s been created for her.’ I wanted to say, ‘No, sir, I’m neither young nor lonely,’ but his voice was so lulling that I didn’t say a word. Manfred, I see you are bored. No? Then I’ll continue. So I sat in silence while he sat and talked. He said roughly this: ‘The lady is alone because she ignores those who seek her company.’ All the time he was talking, he held something in his hand – not a cigar, for a cigar is quite thick, but this object was even thicker. All the time, the object kept swinging. Not on its own; the one who held it kept swinging it. I said to myself: I’ll look and see what’s in his hand. I looked and saw it was a whip – a small whip, but even a small whip is a whip. I began to be afraid he would strike me with the whip. He swings the whip without noticing that I’m afraid. I become more and more terrified that he may strike me – more precisely that he will surely strike me. He has only to extend his hand, swing the whip, and strike. With all my strength, I stare at the whip. He leads the whip this way, then that way and I am in terror. I didn’t have the strength to get up. I was too weak to run. What could I do? I could call for help, but even if I was saved from his clutches, I wouldn’t be saved from gossip. If he wants to hit me, let him hit me; I’m sure he won’t kill me. This gentleman – the one we’ve been discussing, the one I’ve been telling you about – is slowly being transformed. His face is malevolent, and there is an evil glare in his eyes. As he gazes at me, malevolently, I see he is reading my mind. I sit there, unable to stir. Every limb contracts. And he – the one I’m telling you about – sits opposite me, staring through those malevolent eyes. And they – those eyes – continue to be transformed, to blaze and glow. I’m not saying his eyes were appealing, but they were powerful. Some serpents immobilize their prey with such eyes. My eyes were drawn to his, so that I forgot the whip and the fear. I knew only that my limbs relaxed. Manfred, are you sleeping? It’s not nice to sit with a woman wringing your paws like a bereaved bear.” Herbst produced a rasping growl that seemed to mean: Tell me more.

Shira continued. “The fear became more intense, and my teeth began to chatter. I asked myself: Why so frightened? He is a polite, intelligent man with a whip in his hand; so what? If there’s a whip in his hand, does that mean I have to be afraid? To convince myself I wasn’t afraid, I got up. As I got up, I heard the sound of a whip and felt a burn on my flesh. That man, my dear Manfred, that engineer, swung his whip and hit my arms, which were bare since it was a warm night and I was wearing a sleeveless shirt. After he did what he did, he asked, ‘Where to, miss?’ He asked in a tender voice, and even his eyes were no longer evil. But, as for me, my dear Manfred, my arms were like torches. Even later, in bed that night, when I looked at them, all the marks of the whip were still coiled around my skin like blue-black snakes. I raised my voice and yelled at him. You’d think he would have panicked and run off. He didn’t panic; he didn’t run off. On the contrary, he sat down again and looked at me with equanimity. I stood there, immobile. Suddenly, another rattle of the whip, followed by a burning sensation on my knees, which were exposed, since it was a warm night and I was wearing shorts. I was stunned into silence and rubbed my flesh; first my arms, then my knees. A tremor of sweetness filtered through, permeating my entire body. He peered at me and asked, ‘Good?’ That was his very word, as if someone had asked him for a favor and, after granting it, he were asking if he had performed it well. Manfred, you’re wringing your paws like a bear again. What do you want to ask?” Herbst muttered, “And then what?”

Shira said, “That’s an odd question. What did you expect? There was nothing further. He threw down the whip and looked at me, his eyes devoid of evil. I asked him, ‘Why did you do that to me?’ He looked at me in dismay, as though I were ungrateful. I changed my tone and shouted, ‘Who gave you permission to do that?’ He answered in a whisper, ‘But, madam, wasn’t it all for you?’ I screamed at him, enraged, ‘Get out of here! Go!’ He got up and said, “With your permission, madam, I am going. Good night, madam.’ I pointed to the chair and said, ‘Sit down.’ He turned and sat down. I said to him, ‘You owe me an explanation.’ He answered, ‘These things are good, and you yourself probably recognize that they’re good, so there’s no need to explain.’ I said to him, ‘I have the right to an explanation.’ He sat and told me things I don’t mean to repeat. What did he tell me?”

Shira told Herbst what the engineer told her, but we will skip the engineer’s story and return to our own.

Shira said, “As he talked, he picked the whip up from the floor. I trembled, thinking he was taking the whip in order to strike me again. Believe it or not, I was ready. What did he do? He bowed graciously and left. I expected him to come back, but he didn’t. Not that night, nor the next day. Not to the balcony, nor to my room, though I didn’t stir from my room. He knew I was there, because I spent the day straightening my room and my things, and when I straighten my room and my things, I always sing. I sometimes sing loudly, though not on purpose, because I know I don’t have much of a voice.”

Herbst asked Shira, “When did you see him again?” Shira tapped her forehead with her hand and said, “Good morning, sir. His Highness has deigned to wake up? What did you ask? If I saw him again? Why should I see him! I didn’t see him; I saw him only three times. Once in the hallway, once on the stairs, and twice in the hall again. When he saw me, he inquired about my health and was supremely polite. I looked at his hands, searching for the whip. His hands were empty. They were firm, smooth, and without hair or wrinkles. When I saw him later on, I asked him where the whip was. He answered in a whisper, ‘It’s in my briefcase. I’m about to leave.’“

Herbst asked Shira, “And before leaving, he came to say goodbye?” Shira said, “If he had come, I would have thrown him out.” “Why?” “You’re asking why? After what he did to me, I suppose I was expected to bow my head to my navel and implore him, ‘Please come to me; please come, my lord and master’? I’ll show you something if you like, Manfred.” She bared her arm, and he saw a scar. Herbst asked Shira, “From his whip?” Shira shook her head and said, “I did it myself.” Herbst said, “And that was sweet, too?” Shira said, “Please, I’m asking you not to be sarcastic.” Herbst said, “But didn’t you yourself say…– “ Shira said, “I said what I said, and you have no right to say things like that to me.” Herbst said, “Come, Shira, don’t fight with me.” He stood up, encircled her hips with his arms, and closed his eyes, leaving a tiny opening. He saw that she was looking at him. He opened his eyes and looked at her. She covered his eyes with her hands and remained in his arms, exhausted.

Chapter twenty-three

L
ate that night, he left her and went on his way. She stood at the window, waving. He waved back and would have run, as it was past the hour when one is normally home in bed. But he couldn’t run, lest she see him and say: He’s running away from me. Also, what he remembered slowed him down. At the same time, he was pondering: When Henrietta asks where I’ve been, what will I say? Actually, she doesn’t usually ask questions, but what if she does? He went through all the possible excuses, how plausible they were, and which ones required caution, for the very person you were counting on for an alibi could have been in your house while you were off with that woman. Anyway, whatever he considered either ruled itself out or had a glaring flaw. An honest person finds it hard to tell a lie even when he wants to. Having failed to find an excuse, he felt pathetic. Not because of Shira, not because of the excuse, but because of Henrietta, who made it necessary to seek an excuse. He reached the end of Shira’s alley and was somewhat relieved; anyone who saw him now would have no reason to suspect he was coming from Shira’s.

There was no one in sight. But the one he had just taken leave of was present, with all her power and intensity. Herbst was not happy. When he was with her, he wasn’t happy. Now that he was rushing home, he wasn’t happy at all.