Hemdat had told Yael what he thought of Shammai, which was not very much. Shammai’s father was sweating to put him through college, and Shammai was living high and growing a paunch at his father’s expense. He could never make a woman happy. All he could do was stain her honor. And now that he was not in the best of mental states, Hemdat was a danger too. “If you value your peace and quiet,” he told Yael, “stay away from me, because whatever I’ve got may be catching.” He knew she would pass what he said on to Shammai. What else could you expect from a gossip like her? Shammai was sporting her ring. Where was Hemdat going? He was going to tell Shammai he hadn’t meant it.
Hemdat was plagued once more by carnal desires. One sea-blue night followed another. He would have liked to run into Mrs. Ilonit. The summer was almost over. Although the girls still went about in short sleeves, in another week or two you would be able to touch them without feeling the clamor of the flesh. Hemdat had women on his mind. Being with them made him feel worse, though. Sometimes he still thought of the time he had kissed the hands of mothers in public and the lips of their daughters in private, and sometimes he no longer could imagine it.
When his loneliness was too much for him he left his room and went out, but it followed him everywhere. He shrank from the smell of humanity. He wanted to get as far away from it and into himself as he could, oblivious of others and even, in the quiescence of bone and blood, of his own self. And yet someone had only to lay a friendly hand on his neck to make him quiver with hidden bliss.
Hemdat roamed the streets of Jaffa. His days passed with no purpose and his nights with no rest. He must not let it get him down, his friends said. It was the lull before the creative storm. And indeed something great was brewing in the world. He could hear the tread of things to come. And whatever was heard by his dreaming ears was also heard, seen, and smelled by his other senses. Great events were afoot and the palpable world would step aside to make way for them. The dull, sweltering day was nearly over. Soon it would be night.
Hemdat’s room was on the top floor and had five windows. They were open all day, and green curtains rippled on them like the waves of a river, checkering the floor with tufts of light and darkness. Hemdat paced the room, up and down and across and back. Although the windows were open in all directions, the door was shut tight. Hemdat knew that the Blessed Days had come to the world. You could not find him in the streets of Jaffa or down at the beach. He sat in his room in front of his faithful table. How was he celebrating the holiday? With the gift-offering of his poetry. The summer was gone and the winds were starting up again. The eucalyptus trees swayed in the gardens and shed their wilted leaves. A dry leaf flitted in a corner of the room. The wind had blown it in.
The sun was setting, and black clouds flew like birds at summer’s end. Should he light the lamp? Why sit in darkness? Yael would come. He would be good to her. All was forgiven. They would sit close together on the green divan. She was his beloved.
How long have I known Yael? Hemdat wondered. For ages and ages, he told himself. Perhaps a year and perhaps more. On one of those light nights that flared in early summer he had gone for a walk to the dune. Some young ladies were out for a stroll. One of stately step kept laughing and tugging at her hat brim.
Hemdat rose and left his room.
Before he knew it, he had reached the dune.
He circled it at an even distance.
Then he was standing on top of it.
A chill, greenish moon lit the dune. Here, in this place, he first had seen her. Here he had walked with her. The Hill of Love, it was called. He felt a pressure in his heart. How close it all seemed. Her words lingered over the sand. That woman was born with a glass in her mouth. She never got drunk, though. She knew how to hold her liquor.
Hemdat stood on the dune. Just then he saw a shadow. It puzzled him, like an unfamiliar object found by a man returning home. He knew the dune and everything on it well. He tried to comprehend the shadow. Was it a bush or tree that had sprung up miraculously overnight? Perhaps it was a late stroller.
If it is the shadow of a tree, Hemdat told himself, our love is rooted and will last, and if it is the shadow of a person, it soon will be gone. He froze and did not move, willing himself between hope and despair. A sudden calm, like that between a baby’s fall and its cry, came over him. The shadow stirred and moved in his direction. Ah, sighed Hemdat, it’s a living creature. Was it a man or a woman? It was a woman. He took a deep breath and thought:
Thank God it’s not Yael Hayyut, because if it were Yael Hayyut that would be a bad sign.
It was Yael Hayyut.
She did not look his way.
Hemdat came down from the dune.
Knots Upon Knots
Even I was invited to the craftsmen’s convention. Since they had invited me I said, I’ll go. I gathered my overnight things and wrapped them in paper and took along several copies of my new book, for several of those who had requested copies of my book were sure to be at the convention, and by giving it to them I would not have to bother with the mails. It would have been good had I put my belongings in a satchel, except that a satchel is useful only as long as it carries your belongings. Once empty, it is simply a load to be carried.
I came to the city and left my things at the bookbinder’s place as I always do when I come to town, and then I set out for the convention building.
The hall was filled to overflowing. With difficulty I found myself a cramped spot among the many visitors, some invited and some uninvited. When my eyes had become clear of the stuffiness in the air I saw Joseph Eibeschütz standing before me. And since he is smaller than I in height, it seemed to me that I was sheltering him. His ears were red out of the strain of his effort to listen closely. But don’t be surprised, for at that moment the elder of the craftsmen was lecturing about all that had been introduced in his generation, and here Eibeschütz wanted to grasp the essence of the era’s innovations.
I greeted him with a nod, but did not ask him, Surely you wanted to visit me, so why didn’t you come? Nor did he apologize that he had not come. Others came and pushed their way between us, and I was pushed from my spot. And as long as I had been pushed, I left.
Since I had come for the sake of the convention but had not found myself anything to do, it appeared to me as if I had been blessed with a day that was entirely my own. I said to myself, As long as that’s so, I’ll take a little walk.
I took myself toward the Gates of Mercy and went down into the valley behind the houses, and from there I went up the hill that overlooks the valley.
The month of Heshvan was already over. Bands of clouds lay beneath the heavens and hung over the low trees on the hill. Their branches lowered themselves to the earth to form a kind of booth. And within that booth sat a group of men, among them Samuel Emden, who was striking out at adherents of the known craft. It was easy to understand his coming to the craftsmen’s convention but difficult to understand why he was here and not there. Since I knew him I went up to him.
At that moment he was sitting and discussing a matter that as yet had no interpreters, although a few people had begun to be aware of it. As soon as he saw me he greeted me and made room for me at his side. And he went on speaking, setting forth hidden matters as if they were explicit. When he paused I said to him, “That was a nice letter you wrote me. Perhaps I was supposed to have answered it?” This question was hardly necessary, for there had been nothing in the letter that required an answer. But when I asked him his face whitened like that of one who has been insulted. And I knew that I had not done well to leave his letter unanswered.