He covers her with the blanket and turns out the light, hoping to catch some sleep in the chair. The next film is about the army, and he has a vague recollection of long nature shots and of soldiers fast asleep. He closes his eyes, pondering his mother’s devotion to the role he entrusted to her. He knows a good many artists who avoid watching their past work. He, too, unless he must, watches his old films rarely. But it now would appear that because of the falling-out with Trigano, he went too far in completely ignoring them. For even in such a beginner’s film, he can see a few moments of beautiful directing, worth going back to for inspiration.
Ruth’s breathing grows deeper. She once told him that sometimes, when sleep eludes her, she imagines that she is in front of the camera, and a cinematographer and director and soundman are watching over her sleep, protecting her — then she relaxes. Now Moses fills all those roles, and in her sleep, she reaches out her hand from under the blanket and touches the director who sits beside her. Age spots that have lately surfaced on her face and hands are visible even in the dim light. But it’s not a liver spot that will deprive her of a part in the next film; it’s that his obligation to her character has been exhausted. Her talents have found expression in every possible role, and in the last stage of a long and varied career like his, one must be wary of repeating oneself.
The base commander’s armchair is stiff and upright, and the priest who inherited it has shunned, perhaps out of asceticism, even a small cushion, so Moses has no hope of dozing or resting. If he wants to be alert during the next screening, he will have to take off his shoes, curl up on the rug at the feet of his companion, and remove his hearing aids.
As her breathing floats over him, so do melancholy thoughts about her future. If he has lately included her, now and then, in his travels, he does so not with an eye to the future, but as his debt to the past: as limited consolation for a career in slow decline. He remembers that Nehama, meaning “consolation,” was her original Hebrew name, given her by her father, the rabbi, who came to Israel from the Moroccan town of Debdou, and who ended up as a farm laborer, planting trees. Sometimes Trigano would tease his lover and call her Debdou. After they parted, she dropped the name Nehama and, on the advice of an actors’ agent, took a simple name, easy to remember, typically Israeli but also well established in the wider world.
But Moses did not forget the original name of the shy, gentle girl whom the usher, his student, introduced as his girlfriend at the movie theater in Jerusalem. Sometimes, in rehearsals, or even during a shoot, as he tried to get a deeper, more credible performance from her, Moses would confront her with her original name, using it as a talismanic word to rescue her from artifice and mannerism and prompt her to broaden her acting with the flavor of the disadvantaged, confused girl who had never finished high school. At first she was angry that he had revealed to the whole crew the old name she’d left behind. But when he persisted, she was forced to listen, through her given name, to the true voice of her identity.
He has no magic word to help her evoke shades of character she has not played in the past and so can help her only at a remove, recommending her to other directors. And because the cinematographer had also expressed his love through concern for her daily well-being, he feels he should take responsibility for the practical aspects of her life, in financial matters and health issues such as the blood test, which must not be neglected when they return to Israel. He covers his face and shuts his eyes tight, then hears soft knocking on the locked door.
“Nehama”—he pats her arm—“wake up, de Viola is here.”
Her forehead furrows, and her eyes open, shining after deep and satisfying sleep. She rises gracefully and stretches her limbs, folds her blanket and his too, puts on her high heels, and adjusts her blouse. She takes a comb and makeup from her bag and does her hair and face before the windowpane, then runs the comb through his white hair to make him look presentable too. The archive director unlocks the door and enters. “What is this,” jokes Moses, “you were afraid we’d run out without saying goodbye? I mean, it’s downright illegal to lock up an old man with an unstable prostate.” De Viola laughs. He serves the institute not only as archive director but also as priest, he explains; teachers and students take the liberty to enter his room at will, as they would a confessional booth. To ensure his guests a proper rest, he thought it wise to lock the door and also put up a Do Not Disturb sign. Two more films await them today, and judging by the reactions to Circular Therapy, there is great interest among faculty and students.
En route to the small hall, they learn of a slight change in the original program. The screening of Slumbering Soldiers, whose title in Spanish is The Installation, has been postponed till tomorrow, and in its place the film known here as Obsession will be screened — it’s probably The Flying Pen, what else could it be? The switch has been made, says the priest, “to show the Spanish people that your early work deals with psychology, not just ethics.”
“The same crowd?”
“Mostly.”
“And I thought they’d had enough, after that superficial film you insisted on starting my retrospective with.”
But Juan de Viola firmly dismisses this self-criticism. “The film is not superficial, simply a first effort, and a first work of art, if motivated by a religious inspiration or at least a metaphysical one, will always possess a certain power.”
“You insist on the religious issue,” protests Moses, “but you should know that neither I nor Trigano would define our work that way.”
The priest is unfazed.
“There are many people with a religious temperament who are ashamed to admit it. Don’t forget when you made the film. In the sixties, a strong secular outlook prevailed in the world, and religious faith was completely out of style. People like you camouflaged their longing for the absolute in foggy allegorical parables. But the world has changed since then, although not always, to my sorrow, for the better.”
“And you see a religious aspect to my amusing little Obsession?”
“Of course,” says the priest without hesitation.
“And this one has also been dubbed?”
“All of them.”
“What is this? Again you’re forcing me to watch a film I already forgot and now can’t understand?”
“When it comes to a creative artist, this is not necessarily a liability. Perhaps you can get some help from the younger memory of your companion.”
“In this movie, if I remember correctly, her role was marginal.”
“But in the film to be screened this evening,” declares the priest, “she’s the star.”
AGAIN, APPLAUSE IN the little theater, more crowded now than at the previous screening. Young people sit on the stairs, and a few older women have arrived, apparently housewives who’ve finished their daily work.
“You don’t have TV reception in your province,” whispers Moses, “so the locals come to see weird films in black-and-white?”
“Mediocre television is readily available, but in recent years we have persuaded the local people to look for something more. The films we screen for them are usually old ones, but admission is free, and sometimes they get a chance to argue with the filmmakers, so some are willing to take the risk.”