At last the door opens. An old dog comes out of the house, begins sniffing among the plants and bushes. Slowly, in widening circles, the dog progresses toward Moses but, oddly, exhibits no excitement or wonder, not a growl or a bark. Moses clucks at him gratefully, and the old dog just perks his ears and wags his tail, then urinates and turns his head loyally toward his master, who has followed him outdoors: an elderly man in a bathrobe, with a little beard like Moses’ and a similar body type. The man takes down several wet items from the clothesline, then goes to fetch the newspaper. He does not hurry back inside but pauses on the doorstep, shielding his eyes for a better look. Can it be that in the back corner of the adjacent property, amid the bushes, is a male figure that resembles him? Now a woman appears from the house, skinny, with a mane of white hair and a watering can, and she begins dousing plants that were sheltered from the rain. Although twenty years have passed since the sale, Moses recognizes the woman lawyer who had bargained with him stubbornly over every detail. In light of this recognition, he is also sure now of the identity of the other man, also a lawyer, her husband. If he is right, the couple have not only maintained his old family home as it was, with all its defects, but also remained true to each other. Have they clung to the house because of its proximity to the president and prime minister, or because they believe that the enigmatic Belgian consulate, which dominates the top of the street like a secular cathedral, enhances the beauty of their own house?
In any event, concludes Moses, a talented if tragic cinematographer like Toledano could certainly have produced three different houses from this one. He might even have placed his camera here, in this very corner, and with delicate shifts left and right, up and down, convinced the audience that in each scene, the main characters were entering a different house in a different area. But was all this done merely to save money in a low-budget film, or was there also a symbolic intention, which only the screenwriter could explain?
The two lawyers summon the dog to the warmth of their home, but before entering, the animal turns its head toward Moses and emits a brief bark, as if to say: I smelled you, don’t you dare cross the fence.
Yes, here at Moses’ family home on a cold Jerusalem morning, his retrospective is finished, and now it’s time to return to routine. As he approaches his car parked in front, he sees that the doors of the theater are wide open, and the lights in the lobby are on. Young people in coats and scarves mill toward a makeshift counter to waken themselves with coffee and bagels. Someone recognizes him from a distance and calls his name. They are actors and singers and dancers, here for the dress rehearsal of a musical play for children to be staged during the Hanukkah vacation.
“A play? By whom, about what?” Moses asks.
“Based on Don Quixote, adapted to an Israeli setting.”
“More Don Quixote?” sniffs Moses. “Enough is enough, no? The eternal hero.”
Other actors recognize the director and flock to him as bears to honey. Among them, a tall young man with a little beard who will apparently dance the part of the Knight of the Sorrowful Face. A few of them have heard about the prize and congratulate him. “Small prize,” he says, thinking, That does it, I’ll have to declare it, but I can reduce it by deducting my expenses, maybe Ruth’s too.
A young and pretty actress, who years ago studied in Ruth’s class for children, brings him coffee and a bagel and asks what he’s doing in Jerusalem at such an early hour. Preparing for a new film? What’s it about? Has the cast already been chosen? Would he like to watch their rehearsal? No new film, just some vague ideas. He is too tired to attend the rehearsal. When the musical begins its run, he will bring his oldest grandson to see it and his sister too, Moses’ little granddaughter.
The group is called inside, and the lobby empties quickly. Moses gets ready to move on, but the cafeteria worker who is collecting the dishes says, “What’s the hurry? Finish your coffee.”
HE KNOWS THAT Hanan, the husband of his ex-wife, gets up late in the morning; at night he usually works on his music. To avoid exchanging pointless pleasantries with his successor, Moses phones Ofra during morning hours.
“I just got back from Spain and I’m returning your call,” he says to her on his mobile.
“How are you, my dear?” she asks.
“Doing my best.”
“I was so happy about the prize.”
“Be only a little happy, it’s a tiny prize.”
“In any case, it’s encouraging. They gave you a retrospective too.”
“A strange retrospective, drilling deep down. But you didn’t leave me a message because you wanted to encourage me.”
“Why not? Absolutely. But also to clarify something about Itay’s bar mitzvah.”
“Clarify what?”
“Not on the telephone, Yairi — let’s meet this evening.”
“Where?”
“At home.”
“Not at home. You know I don’t like being a guest in an apartment that used to be mine.”
“You’re not a guest. You are always the former owner and not a guest. And besides, Hanan is abroad and I’m alone.”
“Alone? Even worse. Better we should meet elsewhere.”
“Why?”
“Remember what happened a few years ago when we were alone in the apartment? I hassled you and lost my self-control and it ended in an ugly scene that hurt us both.”
“But that was years ago. You’ve gotten over me since then. I’m a woman of sixty-three.”
“Sixty-four.”
“Almost. And you’re pushing seventy.”
“I’m already there.”
“Then why get worked up about an old lady like me? You especially, always surrounded by beautiful actresses.”
“No beauties,” he growls, “it’s all fairy tales from the tabloids.”
“Perhaps not beautiful. But good, talented women who undoubtedly like you. Come on, this time let’s meet at home. It’s important to me, and you’ll control yourself. And I will too. Apart from Itay’s bar mitzvah, I have a few things here that require a good eye and smart advice.”
“Like what?”
“No, not on the phone. Come. Early in the evening. For an hour, no more.”
“Even an hour will be hard for me.”
“It won’t be hard. I promise you. We’ve both told the whole world that we’ve stayed good friends.”
“True. Which is probably my mistake.”
The first sounds of music waft from the theater to the lobby. Little by little, they interweave with the delicate lilt of a woman’s voice. Dulcinea. He smiles to himself, briefly tempted to drop in on the rehearsal, maybe discover new acting talent, but then decides no, give the play a chance to take shape, and if the reviews are good take the two grandchildren to see how Don Quixote can be revived in the twenty-first century. He walks out into the plaza and is blinded by the strong Jerusalem light. Conversations with his former wife are painful and exasperating; each time he feels a longing for her. He should not have given in. Following such an invasive retrospective, a meeting in close quarters with the wife of his youth, in their old apartment, will most likely be distressing. To his dying day, he will not be able to decide if his divorce was necessary. Years have gone by, and she has remarried, and he even likes her husband a little, a middling musician, younger than she is by three years, who still dreams of writing music for one of the former husband’s movies.
He starts the ignition, pulls away from the curb, and the car phone rings. It’s Amsalem, who has read the e-mail warning and pledges not to talk about the prize with anyone, but anyway, how much was it?