But how did the films get here? Did Trigano ship them over, or bring them himself? The possibility that his scriptwriter had preceded him here as a pilgrim captures Moses’ imagination, so much so that the former collaborator who tore their partnership to shreds hovers in his mind’s eye alongside the kings and saints arrayed in the heights of the distant cathedral.
Does this explain the mischief of the little priest, who every morning sends him a different escort with a new list of films? Trigano doubtless told him about their breakup and advised him to conceal his visit and also not to tell the director in advance what they planned to screen in the retrospective, lest he refuse to come.
The students have returned to the books and notes they left on the grass, except for two fawning girls who find it hard to leave the handsome young teacher.
Yes, Moses is ready to believe that with a bit of tugging, the thread in his hand can be woven into a fuller hypothesis. For if the writer brought the films himself, he also helped with the dubbing. All of this in secret, so that Trigano could construct a hidden reproach to the man who rejected him.
The teacher eventually succeeds in breaking free of the two girls, and he hurries to apologize with a sigh that is also one of satisfaction.
“May I ask you a personal question?” says Moses.
“By all means…”
“Are you married?”
The young man’s laughing face reddens.
“No… but it’s probably time.”
“Because I was also like you, a young teacher in the upper grades of high school, and though I wasn’t as handsome as you, I still felt I was a constant topic in the thoughts of my students.”
Rodrigo laughs. “It’s also a teacher’s job to nourish the imagination of his students.”
“May I ask something else?”
“Please.”
“Was there a visitor recently here at the archive, an Israeli?”
Rodrigo doesn’t remember any Israeli. But Moses persists. “A man around sixty, thin, dark skin, named Shaul Trigano. He wrote screenplays many years ago.”
The Spaniard closes his eyes, plumbing his memory. But for naught. Trigano is a name clearly accessible to the Spanish ear, and yet, no, he doesn’t remember any Trigano.
But Moses has a feeling that even if the Spaniard doesn’t remember the name, he knows who he is, so he presses on and tries to portray the wanted man, picturing the young Trigano in his mind and improvising an up-to-date character, blending all possible changes visited by time since last they met.
The Spaniard turns away and lowers his gaze in one final effort, but he remains faithful to his earlier response. No, there was no Israeli recently at the institute, though of course he cannot claim to know everyone who visits here.
AS MOSES ENTERS the hotel, the desk clerk points to an old woman who is waiting for him. This is the art history teacher enlisted from a neighboring city; she has arrived early. Though she is long retired, she is pleased to oblige the desk clerk, her diligent student, who has proven that after all these years he has not forgotten her. Moses introduces himself, overcome with feeling for this sprightly old lady with the intelligent face and snow-white hair. For a moment it seems his mother has sprung from the film screened the day before and come back to life to educate him.
Carefully he takes her wrinkled hand, fragile as a sparrow, and briefly explains his request and its background.
“Would you like to go up to your room to see the picture, or should we ask that it be brought down here?” she says.
He hesitates, but decides for the room. If the picture was removed from the wall, defects might be discovered in the frame or glass that would have to be fixed before it could be re-hung by his bed. He would also feel uncomfortable hearing the explication of a risqué painting in the hotel lobby, amid the guests coming and going. But as they step out of the elevator on the fourth floor, he suddenly realizes he should warn Ruth of their arrival, even though the visitor is an old woman. He knocks on the door and waits, then inserts the key in the lock.
The dark room looks the same as he had left it, disorderly and unventilated, stuffy with the smell of sleep, and Ruth is wrapped in her blanket like an embryo. This is strange, even worrisome. Sleeping this long is rare for her. Without turning on the light he kneels by the bed and gently touches her face, to wake her and let her know that a visitor is joining them, an art expert, who has meanwhile slipped into the room with feline agility and now faces the reproduction, turning on the little picture lamp affixed to the wall.
The dim light is enough to awaken the sleeper, who opens her eyes and requires a moment to recall where she is. In confusion, she smiles at her companion, who returns an embarrassed grin as he gestures at the old woman with the magnifying glass, scouring the picture for the signature of the artist.
“The picture? Why?”
“To explain the background of the painting to us… the story behind it… who the old man is, and why he is nursing at the breast.”
“The old man?”
“The prisoner, the one kneeling on the ground.”
“The prisoner?”
Has that memory vanished entirely? Can it be that no chord was struck as she stood and stared at the picture that morning, then went back to sleep? Had she truly banished from her mind her little artistic mutiny, to erase the humiliation of abandonment by her lover? Or was she only pretending, to test Moses? With genuine puzzlement he studies the actress, the outline of her breasts beneath her thin cotton nightgown inspiring both compassion and desire. “I’ll explain later,” he whispers, “but say hello, because this woman is an art expert who has made a special trip.”
The actress is bewildered and amused at the sight of the expert whom Moses has parachuted into a room cluttered with clothes and blankets, but she doesn’t get out of bed, merely props herself up, turns on the reading light, and nods a greeting to the elderly white-haired woman, who gives a little bow in return. From the gleam in her eye it appears she has already identified the artist.
“Matthias Meyvogel,” she declares, “no doubt about it. Seventeenth century, born in Zeeland — not New Zealand — a Dutchman who worked in Rome; very little is known about him. From the painting he would appear to be a great admirer of Rembrandt, from whom he copied the sitting position of the prisoner Cimon, and the strong light on his naked back—”
“Just a minute, madam,” implores Moses, still unnerved by the expert’s resemblance to his mother, “please slow down. You say ‘Cimon,’ as if I’m supposed to know who that is, but first of all, what is the act of charity here? And in what way is it Roman?”
“Oh, do forgive me, it didn’t occur to me that you had never heard of Caritas Romana. For it is a truly wonderful and important story that has inspired dozens of writers and artists, if not hundreds.”
“An Italian story?”
“Not Italian, Roman. Rome is greater than Italy, and the original story comes from ancient Rome, one of the thousand stories published in A.D. 30 by Valerius Maximus in his collection Facta et Dicta Memorabilia—in other words, ‘acts and sayings that must be remembered.’ The story is about a young woman named Pero who fed her father from her own breast.”
“Her father? The old man, this prisoner, is her father?”