Shira (81 page)

But every strategy has its limits. Basileios took sick. He was stricken with leprosy, for which there is no cure, and quarantined. He couldn’t come into the city, nor was he allowed into the royal court. He wished to warn the girl, his mistress, that it would be very risky to meet with Yohanan the nobleman. The emperor would seek to avenge his lust, not merely through Yohanan the nobleman, but, should he discover that the girl had given her heart to someone else, even as he, the emperor, lusted after her, his powerful hand would strike out at her as well. So Basileios, the faithful servant, sat in solitude, thinking only of his mistress and how to save her from the misfortune in store for her should the emperor discover her connection with the nobleman Yohanan.

Basileios devised many schemes to enable him to sneak into the city and into the emperor’s court, so he could see either his mistress or the nobleman Yohanan and warn them that, should their love be discovered, the emperor would have them killed because of his own love for the girl.

One day, Basileios heard about a holy man who lived in the desert, in a home he had made for himself in a broom plant. He was a great and holy man, whose name was celebrated throughout the land. Long before he settled in the desert, making himself a nest in a hollow broom plant, he had served the emperor. He had been a leading general and one of the emperor’s favorites. But then he began to disdain the ways of the world and to reject temporal life, in order to secure a place for his soul in a world that is totally good – the afterworld. He traded this world and all its goods for the afterworld, for the infinite bliss it offered to those who fear God and choose to trade this fleeting existence for a timeless one. He left the emperor’s court, the city and all its diversions, and all those who loved him – friends and intimates – for the desert wastes. There, he sustained his body with wild grasses and swamp water, so he would be able to sustain his soul with eternal pleasure, for the sake of the Redeemer who saves the souls of those Christians who are true to Him.

Basileios devised many plans in an effort to contact this man of God, to tell him about the emperor’s designs on the girl, so that the man of God could rescue her and the nobleman Yohanan, who loved the girl but didn’t know what was in store for him because of his love. Basileios had many fine plans. But what use are such plans when a man isn’t free and is forbidden to leave his quarters? Basilieos, the faithful servant, was not like all the other lepers, who were permitted to come as far as the city limits to collect bread thrown to them by individuals with compassion for those stricken by God. This was not the case with Basilieos, the girl’s servant. For this gracious girl, wishing to be kind to her servant Basileios, had bought a house for him to live in and arranged for him to be taken care of and provided for. Those who were in charge of him assumed the girl wouldn’t want him to leave the house and guarded him so vigilantly that what was meant to serve his interests became a hindrance. Now, it happened, just by chance, that the Arians in the state became more and more powerful, and the Christians were afraid they would win the emperor’s support and take over. The bishops and other leading clerics decided to approach him (the man of God) and to urge him to have a word with the king. He (the holy man) had seen no other human being in twenty years. He had received no one in all this time. Whenever he heard footsteps approaching his shelter, he quickly hid himself away, so he wouldn’t be found. Now that the bishops had decided to turn to the holy man, they didn’t know how to approach him, for he had isolated himself from human society and allowed no one an audience. When Basileios found out about this from the servants who looked after him, he decided to undertake to convey the bishops’ request to the holy man. He was certain that, when he saw his affliction, the holy man would pity him and allow him to approach.

Chapter seventeen

W
hat had happened to Anita Brik happened to Manfred Herbst. When he arrived at Shira’s, he found the door locked. The door was locked, and there was no sound from inside. Where is she? She isn’t at the hospital. Then where is she? His question recurred like a gnawing refrain. He didn’t realize that he had asked the same question many times. He had certainly knocked on the door, but he probably hadn’t knocked hard enough, which explains why she didn’t open it. Perhaps she was asleep and didn’t hear, and, if he were to knock again, she would hear and get out of bed to open the door, as she had done that Shabbat when they went to visit Anita Brik. Until that day, Herbst wasn’t aware that Anita Brik knew Shira. That day, he discovered that she knew Shira, and today that information was very useful, for it was she who had told him where Shira lived, at a time when no one knew Shira’s whereabouts. But what use is it to us to know where Shira lives if we don’t find her in. Still, though we didn’t succeed today, we will surely succeed tomorrow. Was it excessive optimism or fear of the truth, was it the suspicion that even tomorrow we wouldn’t really know where Shira is, that led Herbst to say what he said? In either case, we must take our mind off Shira, so we will be free to attend to our real concerns, our work and our book, which we have so frivolously postponed. Now that something has come up, reminding us of our work, let us put Shira out of mind and get back to it.

What was it that led Herbst to turn his thoughts to his work once again? It was Ernst Weltfremdt’s book that led Herbst’s mind back to his work and his book. There are many books one can read and emerge from with nothing; then there are books whose very name stirs the heart. Not because we find something in them that engages us. There are certainly many books that occupy the mind but leave a vacuum in the heart. This is a secret that remains concealed from us. Since it can’t be revealed, let us return to our story, which both conceals and reveals.

Herbst tried to put Shira out of mind, along with her new apartment and locked door, as he muttered to himself, “It’s good that I didn’t leave a note. The witch will never know I came knocking at her door. She has the capacity to observe a person and know what is in his heart. Since she hasn’t seen me, since she hasn’t observed me, since she doesn’t know I was looking for her, she can’t see or know what is in my heart. In fact, if I were to analyze the matter, I was merely curious to know where she is.”

Herbst left that alley, which was nameless, like most alleys in Jerusalem in those days. In order to give it an identity, we’ll refer to it as Shira’s Alley. In those days, most alleys in Jerusalem were known by the name of a man or woman who lived there.

And so, Herbst left Shira’s Alley, whispering, “I called her a witch. She is truly a witch, seeing how tormented I am because of her and not lifting a finger to relieve me. She’s not a coquette or a sadist. She’s not one of those women who torture their lovers, only to cast them aside. I’m no expert when it comes to women, but, judging by the ones I know, whether from history, fiction, or at first hand, I see that Shira is different. I say this not to praise Shira nor to disparage her, but because her character makes her different from the rest of her sex.”

Throughout the ages, poets have created many characters and imbued them with spirit and soul. The men and women who were created from the verbal breath of poetry have produced offspring of their own. Not only in literature, but in life. A man meets a woman who seems familiar to him, although he has never met anyone like her. But he knows her from the work of some poet. That woman found a woman, described in a book, who was so attractive that she decided to fashion herself after her; she found a model and followed it. Where was Shira created? Shira is a totally new creature, created out of her very own essence.

Herbst remembered some of the things he had heard from her about her early life, things she had told him when they were getting to know each other, when she was still open with him. She didn’t say that much about herself. What she did say came out in pieces, and she never repeated the facts or provided further details. Nonetheless, he was able to put the pieces together and extract the story of her life, though many chapters were missing. The facts were not pleasant. They didn’t add to her glory, but they hung together and were consistent. What emerged from the facts was a coherent image.

Much as we contemplate the facts Shira related about herself, we find nothing pleasant. Only a question: Is it Shira’s self-confidence that allows her to relate such unflattering facts, or is it out of disdain for us that she reveals what any other woman would conceal? Is what she has told us largely invented, things she wishes were true? In that case, we can learn about her feelings from these inventions, the sort of life she desires. If this is the case, the life you have chosen is ugly, Nurse Shira.

I will continue to do what I have been doing. I will transmit the rest of Herbst’s thoughts in words. If they themselves aren’t new, then they are new in form, sometimes leaping beyond the realm of thought to sight, becoming elevated and transformed into a vision. But he didn’t begin to intone that poem again, “Flesh such as yours, et cetera.”

The life force is very powerful. Each and every event generates new ways to interpret human experience. Sometimes to one’s regret, sometimes to one’s relief. How did Herbst interpret Shira’s willingness to present herself in a bad light? It is clever of her, he thought. Shira knows her way of life is not exactly proper, that those who hear about it will disapprove. So she takes the initiative and tells her version of the facts, adjusting them to suit herself. What does Shira gain? When someone hears her life story, it won’t make quite such an impact; having already heard it, it will have less of a sting. When it comes to rumor, the old can’t compare to the new. One is already stale; the other grips our heart.

Chapter eighteen

T
he next day, he went back and knocked on the door again. The door was locked, and no one opened it. Did I make a mistake? Is this the wrong house? He stood looking at the house, scrutinizing it intently, then took out his notebook and strained to decode the address under the erasures. The address was gone. He couldn’t discern the shape of a single letter. But the building took shape, as Anita had described it: there it was, in all its reality. It stood there, in all its reality, solid and unmovable. So this is the building. This is where she lives. I couldn’t be mistaken; there’s no way to make a mistake. This is the house, and this is where she lives. He bent down and peered through the keyhole. He went to each window and looked inside. The curtains were drawn. All he could see was the shape of a skull and a strip of neck. It was his own skull and a strip of his own neck that were visible to him. The shape of his skull was inside the house, and he was outside. He went back to the door and banged on it. No response. Not a sound was heard from the house, except for a hollow echo. He turned away from the door and left, with faltering knees and a dejected heart. I’ll find her, I’ll find her, Herbst assured himself. I’ll have no rest, no peace, until I find her. If not today, then tomorrow. He suddenly shifted pronouns and said: I’ll find you, I’ll find you. But he didn’t find her. Not the next day and not the day after.

As it happened, he happened to meet a young man when he was coming back from Shira’s, one of the young men one meets on the streets of Jerusalem who are not from the new communities. It wasn’t obvious, at first glance, whether the coat he was wrapped in was long or short. He himself was long. His shoulders were broad and his stance self-assured. He was blond, with golden yellow hair. But the black hat on his head, the zeal in his face, the tightness in his eyes gave the misleading impression that his mind and mood tended toward darkness. Herbst didn’t recognize him, although he recognized Herbst. Herbst really should have recognized him; it would have been only right. Since he didn’t recognize him, I’ll let him remain puzzled until he does.

The young man addressed Herbst. “Dr. Herbst, what are you doing in this neighborhood? You must be lost. You are probably looking for an address and unable to find it. If you would allow me, I would be glad to take you wherever you want to go. I know Jerusalem well. I’m familiar with every byway.” Herbst pondered: How do I answer him? If I don’t say anything, will he realize that I don’t welcome his company? When these people ask a question, they don’t notice if you don’t answer. But Herbst was polite, and his heart was more generous than his mind. Having decided to be silent, he went on to answer him, “I’m out for a walk. I’m not looking for anything. I see there is nothing new here. This alley looks as it always did, no different. Or am I mistaken?” As he talked, he was thinking: All these alibis won’t convince him that I’m simply out for a walk. I’ll say something to convince him that I’m here because of my work. He continued, “I have to prepare a lecture that demands concentration, and I expected that here, where I don’t know anyone, I would be able to concentrate.” The young man laughed abruptly and said, “In the end, professor, in the very place you were so sure you wouldn’t be stopped by an acquaintance, some joker intercepts you. I’ll be gone, leaving you to enjoy this neutral territory.” Herbst was thinking: If only he would go without any further talk. But if I were to let him go now, my conscience would plague me for offending him. I might as well let him keep chattering until he gets tired and moves on. Hard as I try to figure out who he is, I can’t remember. I don’t even know which set of people he belongs to. But I won’t ask, for, like most people in this country, who make things harder when they ought to make them easier, he might say, “Imagine not recognizing me. We were together once, and we had such-and-such a conversation.” If, after all that, I ask him his name, he will surely be offended that I have so little regard for him that I don’t remember it. As he continued to search his mind, he remembered seeing him with Tamara. If so, Herbst thought, he must be the yeshiva student Henrietta told me about. In any case, I won’t change my manner with him; then he won’t realize I didn’t recognize him from the start. To extricate the young man from his confusion, for he was still standing there, silent, making no move to go, he added, “There are so many different patterns of concentration. Some people need total inactivity to concentrate; others could be stuck between two millstones, and their concentration would remain unaffected. Wallenstein used to close down half of Prague, lest the echo of an echo of a sound disturb his mental processes. On the other hand, some old man told me about a Reform rabbi in Berlin, who used to preach in their temple. He delivered marvelous sermons that he planned as he walked through the city, choosing to follow the most crowded streets. A Reform rabbi doesn’t have much work to do. His congregants don’t ask for rulings on milk and meat or ritual baths. Apart from saying a few words at weddings and delivering eulogies for the dead, his main task is the sermon on Shabbat, which they observe on Sunday, the Christian Sabbath. And he did very well with these sermons. He was a great scholar, an expert in Midrash, kabbalah, and philosophy. He had a head full of ideas. One thing was missing: the ability to suspend most of his learning and, at the same time, organize the remainder. Such an enterprise demands enormous concentration. At home, he was unable to marshal his thoughts and organize a sermon, as every corner of his home was filled with books, and he loved to read good books. Some people love science; some love poetry, even if it’s their own. So what did he do? Every Shabbat, after lunch, when it was time to plan the Shabbat sermon to be delivered on Sunday, he left home. Where did he go? To Friedrichstrasse, near the train station, the busiest spot in Berlin. This is what he used to do: He used to go to the cigar store, choose the thickest cigar, stick it in his mouth, light it up, and venture into that endless and infinitely bustling throng. He would then choose a verse from the prophets, or a line from Goethe or Angelus Silesius, to which he would give a timely turn, rephrasing it to catch the ear of his listeners. Old-timers, who were there, report that he himself was the size of a dwarf, that his top hat was as tall as half of his body, that his cigar was as long as the other half, that he moved like a squirrel, that, in this manner, he forged himself a path, advancing through the bustle of Berlin. They report that they had never heard sermons as magnificent as his, though Berlin was not short on great preachers. As you see, Mr. Schlesinger,” Herbst said with a flourish, having finally managed to identify the young man, “there are all kinds of people with all kinds of ways. Insofar as I am a Berlin Jew, I ought to behave like that Berlin rabbi, my compatriot, but I am more like the Gentile, Wallenstein. And because I don’t, alas, have the power to close off half the city, I have come to this quiet spot to organize my lecture.”