“That’s why we thought,” interjects the boy, “that my story could be the basis for a film of yours… with some changes, obviously.”
Moses is stunned by the clear willingness of the boy to turn his sin into a film, as if art could atone for his disgrace. Careful to say nothing hurtful, he mumbles softly, “Yes, maybe… but to make a decision I need more details. Like how your classmates have reacted, what they think about what you did or what happened to you…”
“At first they didn’t believe it. Then, when they saw it was real, they were scared, they didn’t want to get near her or me, and after the birth they were even more distant. It wasn’t so much them as their parents, they made us and the baby sound contagious. It was like a boycott. But now it’s not a boycott, now some friends, especially the girls, come to see the baby and want to help. They bring me assignments from classes I missed, and they volunteer to diaper him or give him a bath. Not just girls… boys too…”
“Wonderful,” says Moses, who is devising a scene in his mind, boys and girls getting a bath ready for the baby. “But what does your father say about all this?”
Silence falls. The boy’s face darkens.
“His father doesn’t say anything,” says his mother. “His father abandoned his son, abandoned us all.”
“Abandoned? Why? Religious reasons?”
“Religious? Why religious?”
“No reason… I thought… because I understand you are a bit Orthodox.”
“We are traditional, and if you are traditional you decide for yourself what is forbidden and what is permitted.”
“Beautiful, that’s how it should be,” declares Moses, getting carried away. “I noticed that despite your lovely headscarf you allow yourself to write on Shabbat.”
She seems confused. “Not just write…” she whispers, stopping there, not spelling out what else she does on the Sabbath.
“In any case, why did the father abandon the son?”
“From the start we had agreed that the baby would be given up for adoption. Because Yoav’s father is positive that the girl, the mother of the baby, won’t be coming back.”
“And you believe that she will,” volunteers Moses.
“I don’t know… But how can I not respect the love and loyalty of my son? Would it be right to dismiss his hope that because he is taking care of their baby, she might come back — to him, or even just to the baby?”
The youth gazes at his mother in gratitude, as if this is the first time he is hearing such a strong and clear statement of her support for him.
“And you still don’t believe that this story in our hands can be turned into a marvelous film,” mutters Amsalem, who has been standing behind them.
“I’ll understand once I’ve thought it through.”
“Bravo!” shouts the producer. “Get some rest and do some thinking.”
Amsalem steers him through the crowd to a little room connected to the house through the kitchen, tucked into a rear courtyard and exposed to the arid desert air. A little office of sorts, where Amsalem sequesters himself with account books and documents, most of which he does not care to make public. “The real accounting room,” as he calls it, is furnished with a desk and computer and shelves, and also a big reclining armchair where one may nap while the real and true accounts balance themselves.
“You want a blanket?” the host asks the guest. “Or should I turn on the heat?”
“Both,” says the director, “though I don’t want to fall asleep, just get refreshed.”
“Even if you sleep a little it wouldn’t be so bad. It’s more comfortable here than under my truck.”
“In the days when I would rest under your truck during the shoot I thought it was a way of reviving brain cells that had died that morning. Then I discovered that what dies doesn’t come back to life. If you can, please, have somebody bring me coffee, black, Turkish, strong, of the kind your first wife of blessed memory knew how to make.”
“The second one also knows. I wouldn’t marry a woman who didn’t know how to make good coffee.”
“She does seem like a wonderful woman. Her sister too. Though she is slightly odd.”
“Not odd, stubborn. She injected something religious into the argument with her husband over the baby, got God involved. I said to my wife, Get her off God, but my wife didn’t succeed. We also tried to convince her to give the baby for adoption but we couldn’t. She knows the mother won’t be coming back to Israel but is afraid to ruin the boy’s hopes and doesn’t realize that meanwhile, the baby is robbing him of his youth. Tell me, Moses, the truth: Isn’t this a good story?”
“Slow down, you’re overexcited. So far it sounds like a Bollywood picture.”
“Maybe the basic idea. But if we got a clever screenwriter, a bit crazy, like Trigano, he would upgrade the film from India to Europe, stir the pot and spice it up, maybe even have the lovesick and desperate boy threaten to harm the child, not seriously, but as a way of getting his loved one back.”
Moses closes his eyes.
“What made you think of Trigano?”
“No reason. You didn’t mention him when you told me about Spain?”
“I might have. You still in touch with him?”
“Not at all.”
“Now, for God’s sake, be a good host and get me some coffee. And let’s call a time-out.”
“As you wish. But do me a favor, don’t touch anything here. It’s all organized so that if one piece of paper is moved, I’m a dead man.”
THE HOST IS gone and a sweet silence fills his bookkeeping hideaway. Beyond the barred window, a view of skies as blue as if painted by a child. The power of the desert, thinks Moses. Eighty kilometers away you have rainstorms, and here, pure clear skies. Though the little room is warm, he has no intention of falling asleep, and while he waits for the coffee to revive him, he wraps himself in a checkered woolen blanket, eats the apple he stashed in his pocket, and studies the portrait of the king of Morocco hanging over the desk where Amsalem performs his tax evasions.
He is so accustomed to afternoon naps that despite his decision to rest and not sleep, his eyes snap open only when Amsalem’s sister-in-law, the young grandmother, enters, pulling the baby carriage while balancing a tray of coffee and cookies, the sounds of robust Israeli singing accompanied by accordion trailing behind her.
Moses suspects she took the coffee delivery upon herself so she could continue narrating her family story, but she surprises him with a strange request — she would like to leave the baby with him in this room. The young father wants to unwind a bit in a soccer game with the kids, and she would like to join the group singing in the living room, to lift her spirits a little, and if the baby starts crying he can call her. After all, Moses once had grandchildren this age, didn’t he?