Shira (45 page)

When speaking to his students, Herbst adopted a modest tone. This modesty, at first a defense against pomposity, was now a subtle sort of bribery, for he was aware that his students risked their lives to protect the country and that he had opted not to join them.

As he talked, the old days came back to him, when Zahara was a baby beginning to say words and make sentences. She understood most of what was said to her, and, when she heard a word she didn’t understand, she used to look at him, baffled, and ask, “What, Daddy?” He did not derive the same pleasure from Tamara or, needless to say, from Sarah, because from the day of her birth he had been in a state of distraction. Although he wrote down words he heard Sarah say, he wrote them not on a special pad but on scraps of paper that happened to be at hand, which he never put together. As he jotted them down, he already knew he would not look at them again.

His students saw the gloom on his face and were afraid they had offended him by not answering his question. They didn’t know his face was gloomy for another reason; because he paid so little attention to Sarah. And he paid so little attention to Sarah because of Shira, whom he knew because of Sarah’s birth. Both of these facts – the fact that he paid so little attention to Sarah and the fact that his attention was fixed on Shira – made his face gloomy.

The students looked at one another and said, “You speak first.”

The small, dark-haired student was the one who began. “As I was telling my friend here, Hebrew is unlike other languages, and Hebrew poetry is not like any other. Were we to spot a familiar set of words in a poem in some other language, we would disapprove of this borrowed finery. In Hebrew, the more such combinations, the better. Since Hebrew is not a spoken language, its richness is contained in books, and whoever makes literary allusions in his writing imbues the older text with new life that generates and produces in its own image and form. Nonetheless, I can’t forget something that happened to me, which, on the face of it, ought to have been resolved by this approach. But that’s not how it turned out. I have been reading Hebrew since childhood. One day I happened on Bialik’s poem ‘O heavens, seek pity for me.’ I read it, trembling and marveling at this poet who had the audacity to turn to the heavens and ask them to speak for him, who considered himself deserving enough to trouble the heavens on his own behalf. I reviewed those six words again and again. Each time, my soul was stunned by their splendor. Days later, I opened the Midrash and found those very same words. ‘What’s this?’ I cried in alarm. ‘How did those words get into the Midrash?’ I stood bent over the book, my eyes clutching at each word, astonished, for the phrase had lost its impact; it no longer moved me. Was it because I knew it from the poem that it had no effect?”

Herbst lowered his head and reached across the table, touched a dish, withdrew his hand, touched it again, withdrew again. He studied his empty hand, muttering, “Anyone with credit can afford to turn to whomever he wants.” The tall, thin student laughed and said, “The author of the Midrash certainly didn’t lack the means to cover his words. This is probably equally true of our teacher Moses, to whom these words were attributed. He probably didn’t have to look for credit elsewhere.” To which his friend added, “Surely both Moses and the author of the Midrash said only what their credit would support.” The tall, thin student interrupted. “Since we were talking about language earlier, let me say something on that subject. It seems likely to me that those ancient languages that are no longer spoken, the ones we call Semitic, were pronounced without vowels, exactly as they appear in the early inscriptions. SDNM, for example, should be read as it stands, without adding vowels to make SiDoNiM.” Herbst, who was uncomfortable with theories and didn’t enjoy speculating in a field that was not his, smoked in silence, putting out one cigarette and smoking another, dropping the ashes everywhere except in the ashtray. Once or twice he looked in the direction of Shira’s table. Shira wasn’t there. Could she have gone off and left him without saying a word? Then she reappeared. He wanted to leave his students and go to her; he also wanted to invite his students to come sit with him and Shira. These two thoughts were accompanied by a third thought: I have provided more witnesses who could testify that they saw me with Shira.

He got up, went over to Shira, and said, “Come, Shira, let’s sit with those two young men. They’re intelligent people who express their ideas in vigorous language. I know that you’ll enjoy their conversation. This day has been dedicated to literature. On the way here, we discussed hasidic tales; at Anita Brik’s, we discussed poetry. Now, what are these two fellows discussing? Poetics.” Shira said, “Go back to them. I’m too tired to join you.” Herbst said, “Then I’ll call the waiter. I’ll pay, and we can go.” Shira said, “I’ve already paid. Go back and say goodbye to your students, or, if you like, you can sit with them and I’ll find my way home alone.” Herbst said, “I dragged you out of the house, and I’ll return you to it.” Shira said, “Whatever you like.” Herbst said, “If it’s entirely up to me, I choose to go home with you and stay awhile.” Shira said, “I already told you I don’t feel well today.”

Herbst ignored her words. Since the day he met her, he had considered her totally dependent on him, in every aspect of her being, as if she lived through him alone. And, as long as she pleased him, all was well with her. It was merely her obstinacy speaking now, an obstinacy he wished to break. His soul suddenly began to sway, and he was on the verge of falling. He dragged behind her, feebly, accompanied by the memory of her affection, which took several forms. “What’s the matter?” Shira asked. He was overcome with rage. She asks what’s the matter; can’t she see, can’t she tell? He suppressed his anger and asked, “What did you say?” She answered, “I was asking you if anything is the matter.” Herbst glared at her in astonishment and said, “Why do you ask?” Shira said, “You seem to be having trouble walking.” “Yes,” Herbst answered angrily. “My shoelace is loose.” “Your shoelace is loose?” “It’s loose, and it broke off.” “It broke off?” “Not really. Since it was loose, I thought it was broken.” “But it didn’t break?” “It didn’t break, and it isn’t loose. Tell me, Shira, has that never happened to you?” Shira said, “Neither that nor anything similar.” Herbst repeated her words and said, “Please, Shira, explain that to me.” Shira said, “I always tie a knot.” Herbst said, “Even when the shoe has a strap? What sort of shoes are you wearing now?” Shira said, “Do you know what I’d like to say to you?” “What?” Herbst cried, excited. Shira said, “No more questions.” “Why?” “Because they bore me.” Herbst said, “Believe it or not, I see great things in my questions.” Shira said, “In that case, enjoy them yourself; in fact, don’t bother putting them into words.” Herbst said, “It’s not just my thoughts that I want to enjoy, I want – “ Shira interrupted him and said, “I thought a scholar’s chief joy was his thoughts.” Herbst said, “And what about the rest of humanity?” Shira said, “As for the rest of humanity, everyone has his own idea of enjoyment.” Herbst said, “See, Shira, in this respect I’m like the rest of humanity; I’m not satisfied with fantasy.” Shira said, “In that case, you have my blessing. I hope you find what satisfies you.” Herbst said, “Actions speak louder than blessings.” Shira looked at him with open displeasure. Herbst said, “I’ll explain myself.” Shira said, “Don’t be angry with me, Herbst. My head hurts, and my brain won’t tolerate complicated explanations. I’m almost home. The road has never been so long as it is now.” Herbst said, “Is my company so oppressive?” Shira said, “Herbst, let me tell you this: not everything in the world depends on you. There are disruptive factors other than your company. Please, spare me further explanations. Every word I say is fraught with pain.” Herbst said, “It’s that bad?” Shira said, “Please, don’t bother to act surprised. Just give me a chance to recover. I’m glad to be so near home.”

Herbst was in the midst of a vexing muddle. He had already given up on the gratification implicit in staying with Shira. Now all he wanted was to talk. He had nothing specific to say to her, but it was hard for him to let her go. He wanted to engage her in conversation in order to hold on to her, another hour, another half an hour. He remembered Anita Brik and was about to make her a topic of conversation. Before he had a chance to set his tongue in motion, she was forgotten. He recalled Shira’s disdainful remarks about the Hasidim, among them the statement that no one had ever accused her of neglecting them in the hospital, and was going to bring up the subject of sympathies and antipathies – how they don’t always govern our actions. Before he said a word, he forgot what was in his mind. Various other matters muddled his thoughts. Before being transformed into words, they were lost in a muddle. He remembered his students: that he had invited her to sit with them and listen to their talk about language and poetry, and she had refused to join them. He said to her, “Do you ever read essays or articles about authors and books?” Shira said, “Why all of a sudden?” Herbst said, “It’s not so sudden. I’m asking because you rejected the opportunity to hear a discussion of poetry.” Shira said, “I was tired, and I’m still tired.” Herbst said, “Yes, Shira, you are tired. Still, you could answer my question.” Shira said, “What did you ask?” Herbst said, “When a good book about poetry or poets comes your way, do you read it?” Shira said, “Why read books about books?” Herbst said, “A good essay can sharpen a reader’s perception of a poem.” Shira said, “If I can read the poems themselves, why bother with the critics’ opinions? If I can master something with my own mind, why do I need other people’s?” Herbst said, “True, but they might reveal meanings you wouldn’t be aware of on your own.” Shira shrugged her shoulders and said, “You know something, Manfred? Since my teeth grew in, I’ve been in the habit of chewing my own food. Dear doctor, I see that metaphor seems crude to you, so I won’t speak in metaphor. From the day I learned to read, I read without inviting critics and essayists to chew the words of storytellers or poets beforehand and thrust the results into my mouth.” Herbst said, “You don’t admit that there are some things essayists and critics can elucidate for us?” Shira said, “My dear Manfred, when I was in nursing school and my fellow students used to sit around discussing the professors, the doctors, and the head nurses, I paid no attention. I haven’t changed in this respect, even now that I’m a licensed nurse. Their chatter and opinions had no effect on the doctors’ behavior. What they had in common was the fact that they all went right on doing what they did, and, since the nurses were so used to the doctors, they went right on making them the subject of their conversation.”

Herbst was at a loss for words. His tongue set itself in motion, uttering nothing. Herbst knew that at some point he would challenge her, but there was no way to eradicate her opinions. Your metaphors are certainly crude, Miss Shira, Herbst thought to himself. “Good night,” Shira said, her key in hand. “Good night,” Herbst answered. Shira said, “I should have stopped by the pharmacy.” Herbst said, “Then let’s go back.” Shira said, “I can’t.” “Why?” “Why? Because I’m too tired.” Herbst said, “Say the word and I’ll go.” Shira said, “My dear doctor, I’ll forgo the pharmacy and you’ll forgo the good deed.”

Chapter fifteen

A
s always when coming from Shira’s, he made his way on foot. Although the roads were desolate because of Arab shells, and Herbst was not without imagination, it didn’t occur to him that the perils that menaced others menaced him as well.

The bus was still running. In fact, service was more frequent, so those in outlying districts who had to congratulate a friend on some joyous occasion and couldn’t call on him on Shabbat because of the distance could go in the evening. But Herbst, as always, was on foot. His mind was brimming with the day’s events, and he didn’t want to be distracted by the crowd on the bus.

Sacharson attached himself to Herbst. Before he could hide from him, there he was. Enraged, Herbst lowered his eyelids and reflected: Only the devil could calculate the precise moment when just about anyone would be unwelcome and then proceed to inflict this nut on me. But he said, “I’m glad I ran into you, Mr. Sacharson. My daughter Tamara went to Greece, and her mother would like to trace her route. If you’re done with the Baedeker and no longer need it, I would like to have it back. Right now, if possible.” Hell, he was annoyed with himself. That nut deserves to be scolded for not returning my book, and I pamper him with words as if I’m asking a favor.

Sacharson smiled abjectly, which was how he responded when he saw someone stumble, and scratched his mouth to camouflage the smile, as he always did at such times. While scratching his lip, his fingers found their way into his mouth, and he began to gnaw at his nails. It was a dark night, and one couldn’t really distinguish his fingernails from his skin, so it wasn’t necessary to camouflage the smile. But, out of habit, he scratched his lip and gnawed at his nails. After spitting out some bits of nail, he coughed to clear his throat and threw out a word, as if adding to what had already been said. It was Sacharson’s style to begin in the middle, as if he were adding to a previous statement. After he had talked for a while, Herbst perked up and said, “You mentioned Norway. What does Norway have to do with us?”

Sacharson’s smile could be seen again, and then it was gone. He said, “I was recounting some of what happened to me a few years back, when I still bore the yoke of the commandments accepted by our people. I say ‘our people’; yes, our people, my dear Mr. Herbst. I still consider myself absolutely Jewish – more so than those who are regarded as proper Jews, more than ever since I associated myself with the new covenant between God and Our Savior, and even more so now that I have the privilege of considering myself faithful to God and His people Israel.” Herbst fixed his eyes on an approaching bus, hoping to be able to flee homeward on it and get rid of Sacharson. But it was headed elsewhere, and Sacharson tagged along behind him, walking and talking. Herbst looked back at him and said hastily, “So, Mr. Sacharson, what were you going to say?”