But Moses doesn’t want a dinner where conversation will inevitably make its way to the film just screened. “No,” he says apologetically, “attending a retrospective is harder for me than making a film, because I’ve lost control. If you want me clear-headed at tomorrow morning’s ceremony, please liberate me from this last supper and enjoy the company of my companion. With the aid of such an accomplished translator she will surely be able to explain anything that needs explaining.”
They readily agree to his request and quickly arrange his transportation, which makes him suspicious. By ten o’clock he has arrived at the Parador, where he is surprised to find the lobby empty save for three guests, whose boisterous laughter suggests their intoxication. He suddenly realizes that his fear of negative criticism has condemned him to go to bed hungry, and tomorrow’s generous breakfast will not compensate for the splendid farewell dinner planned by the priest and his staff. He asks the reception clerk, a pretty young woman, if food might be available at this hour, which is after all not terribly late. She is sorry, the dining hall is closed, the cooks have gone home. But she herself could prepare for him something light.
“Cold and simple food will satisfy me, señorita.”
She leaves behind the math textbook that she had been immersed in. Before long she brings to his room a bottle of wine and a loaf of black bread with a large hunk of goat cheese. Moses sits in front of Caritas Romana, lustily chewing fresh bread and cheese, whose pungency he offsets with slugs of wine straight from the bottle. He removes his shoes but not his clothes before getting into bed.
He glances at his watch; it’s past midnight and Ruth has not returned. There is of course nothing to worry about, she is under the aegis of two men of the cloth, but he keeps his clothes on, so if his presence is needed he can be prompt and presentable. He switches off the bedside light and turns over, like turning a page, in hopes that all his worries will vanish. But the new page in the book of sleep is more unsettling than the last one. For when he next opens his eyes he is startled to find the room lights dim, and himself naked under the blanket. By his side lies Ruth, quiet and content, leafing through the menu of the closing dinner.
“Tell me,” she says to the man awakening beside her, “what scared you so much about the film that you passed up a great meal?”
He pulls the blanket closer. He feels his head is glued to the pillow.
“The truth? This time I was afraid of real anger.”
“Anger over such an old film?”
“All of them are my children”—the director sighs—“even the weak and the pathetic ones. Kafka wrote a story about that, in the first person, called ‘Eleven Sons,’ and the most miserable son is the one he loves best, though he would not want to entrust his life to him. Indeed, Kafka felt most of his works were flawed, but he did not destroy them and instead deposited them with a friend, asking him to burn them after he died. But the friend refused, and rightly so. If Kafka truly wanted to burn his works, he would have done so himself.”
“But why did you think it would arouse anger? You know, the old man, the theoretician, gave his own little interpretation.”
“Good or bad?”
“An interpretation I didn’t understand. Any interpretation is good, no?”
“What else happened at the dinner? Why was it so long?”
“Spaniards are night people. They don’t get up at seven in the morning to listen to the news.”
Moses laughs. “And the food? It really was special?”
“A fabulous meal. Heavenly. What you missed tonight you’ll never have a chance to eat again.”
“And they talked about me?”
“Because you could do without them, they did without you. The cultural attaché from the Israeli embassy phoned from Madrid to apologize for not coming to tomorrow’s prize ceremony.”
“So there’ll still be a prize?”
“If that’s what they promised you.”
“Maybe, between a fabulous course and a heavenly course, you remembered who played the rabbi?”
“I tried, but I couldn’t remember. I also can’t figure out how we lost track of such a compelling actor.”
“Maybe he’ll surprise us in the last movie tomorrow.”
“No, he won’t be in tomorrow’s movie. That one I remember in every detail and will never forget.”
“Meaning what?”
“Juan told me which film was picked for the screening before the ceremony. Believe it or not, it’s The Refusal.”
“The Refusal? Interesting.”
“And this time they kept the original name.”
“Trigano wouldn’t give up on this one, would he?”
“Even though you gave it a different ending…”
“Only for your sake…”
“Partly for my sake.”
She turns off the remaining light.
In the darkness he feels the blanket on his nakedness, and presses on.
“Who took my clothes off?”
“You did. You took them off before I ever got back, but apparently you were woozy and lay here naked, with no blanket. I had to move you over and cover you. But that went smoothly. When you’re asleep, you’re a darling, easy to control.”
FROM THE DEEP well of time floats the face of a young schoolgirl, shaking him from slumber. The question of why she, the girl from north Tel Aviv, of all the characters in tomorrow’s film, is the first to burst into his memory will not let him rest, urging him out of bed. It’s four in the morning; the winter dawn is slow to arrive, yet he succumbs to his waking state. Stark naked, but trustworthy and careful, he checks on his companion, who is sleeping peacefully, then gathers up his clothing, gets dressed, puts on his coat, and pockets his passport and some paper money, but he leaves his hearing aids and wallet on the night table. Taking with him the pilgrim walking stick, he slips silently from the room.
“If my metaphysics tire you and hurt your pocketbook,” Trigano told him after even the little art house in north Tel Aviv refused to show In Our Synagogue, “and you think our collaboration could use something more emotional and popular, the next screenplay will be about the travails of a young woman, and to give it an epic dimension we’ll start with her childhood. But to do that we need to find a girl who looks like her.”
Moses decides to take the stairs down, because if anything should go wrong with the elevator, who would come rescue him in the middle of the night? The stairwell is unlit at this hour, but the stairs are comfortably carpeted, and on the walls curving around them hang pictures, unintelligible in the darkness.
In the hotel lobby, two people doze in a corner in sleeping bags. Strange. Are they young backpackers who arrived late at night, discovered that the room they reserved was given to someone else, and were granted permission to sack out here and wait till morning? The cubbyholes behind the front desk are all empty of keys. The young woman who had brought the wine and cheese to his room is still on duty, and her face, fetching earlier that night, is now ever more radiant and unique. If I were called upon to direct a movie in Spain, thinks Moses, I would come back here and get the inexperienced reception clerk to play a small part in my film, maybe the part of a reception clerk. Even if her appearance in the film totaled just a few seconds, her beauty would be preserved in the archive for generations. He feels an urge to introduce himself to her as a film director and tell her that she may be unaware of her own beauty, but he resists. At that hour, such a compliment from a stranger could be construed by a young woman as harassment. Besides, could she believe that the old man standing before her is still active as an artist, planning for the future?