“One more thing, and don’t get angry.”
“No… not that again.”
“One short sentence. Please.”
“Very short.”
“If you’re sure there’s nothing wrong with you, don’t do another blood test, but why don’t we just remove your name from the tests you did and show them to Zvi, my son-in-law, so we can rest assured.”
She says nothing. Closes her eyes again.
“For example,” he says, advancing his case, “I happened to visit Galit at her radiology clinic and she, on her own initiative, took the opportunity to do a virtual mapping of my heart, and now I can relax.”
“And you weren’t relaxed before? Your heart is so relaxed it barely works.”
“Relaxed, but for no good reason. Now I have confidence in my heart, I can let it get more emotional. So you too, with one quick peek by an understanding eye, can maintain your serenity.”
“I don’t need an understanding eye, and that’s final.” She is fuming. “You promised one short sentence and you’ve already come up with five long ones. Goodbye.”
MOSES’ ROAD MAP is plainly outdated, giving no indication that Israeli control over the Jordanian village conquered in the Six-Day War has more recently been transferred to the Palestinian Authority. After the two enjoy a scenic drive on a fine Shabbat morning, winding on a repaved road from the Ayalon Valley into the terraced hills south of Jerusalem, in the company of cyclists serenely climbing or coasting below snowy puffs of cloud, they run into an army roadblock at the turnoff to the village. And though the barrier is splintered and essentially symbolic, Moses honors it and waits. A female police officer and male soldier come out yawning and rumpled and ask: “Where to?”
He gives them the name of the village, and they ask what he plans to do there. And though the director would like to tell the security forces about a retrospective that began in Spain and aims to end here, the car behind is honking, and they wave Moses through, warning him that Israelis visiting this village do so at their own risk.
“Should we go on?” Moses wonders after passing the checkpoint. “Is it worth the risk just for one more look?”
“Turn back now?” scolds his companion, her cheeks ruddy in the mountain air. “What’s to be afraid of? If the Jerusalem train doesn’t stop here anymore, the only way to the station is through the village, and from there we can look down into the wadi. If not now, when? Once you’re immersed in the next picture, you’ll forget the retrospective. And life is short.”
“For whom?”
“Not just for someone with a problematic blood picture, but also someone who discovers his heart is fine and capable of emotion.”
For a moment happy laughter fills the car.
He gently touches her hair. Since Santiago she is linked in his soul not only with the characters she acted in his early films but also with the bare-breasted young woman nursing her own father. And though he still believes that all shades of her character have been exhausted and that even her remaining fans and followers would be wary of his giving her a new part, he fears that if he doesn’t, he will lose her forever.
After a few kilometers, they reach the sign pointing in Arabic and Hebrew to the village, and he deliberates whether to be content with an overview from afar or to snake down a steep, narrow old road into the belly of a village that was turned from foe to friend in the editing room. Positioned not far from a sleepy Jordanian guard post, Toledano’s camera captured houses, alleys, courtyards, and animals, and sometimes villagers, who in the editing room were annexed into the Israeli film and became involuntary collaborators in the daring allegory of a nightmare screenplay. Might they run into trouble at the entrance to the village? For if the village is no longer under Israeli occupation, it will surely assert its sovereignty.
He pulls over to the side and goes out in search of a secure lookout. But Ruth, protesting the undignified vacillation, stays in the car.
A portentous cloud glides above the village, filtering sunbeams that cast a golden glow on homes and olive groves. From what he can tell, the village has grown over the years, and though he can locate the wadi and see the tracks, he can’t find the little railroad station.
“So what if it disappeared?” says Ruth when Moses again suggests skipping the descent into the village. “The tracks are still there, so is the wadi, and anyway, what are you afraid of? Do the Palestinians care about you? And if they ask what it is you’re looking for, they’ll be glad to hear that we once included them as partners in an art film.”
He puts a hand on her shoulder. Ever since he watched her work with the young actors, he can’t get her out of his mind; he is worried, he wants to be good to her. And so, despite the fear of entering a place where safety cannot be guaranteed, he starts the car and heads slowly down the narrow road, braving half-filled potholes. And what was once simulated appears now in full force — a square and a well, a donkey tethered to the rusty remains of a car, chickens pecking peacefully, and also a gleaming, late-model motorcycle parked beside a top-quality tractor, with a satellite dish on every house. The locals, mainly women, look at the Israelis with no particular interest. As the two walk down to the tracks, escorted by a barking dog, the clouds sink lower and the air thickens.
But here they face a clear border. A high fence separates the village and the tracks. It is strange that in the past what was porous between enemies is now a firm barrier between neighbors.
In any case, what happened to the little train station? They ask a young Palestinian who sits on the steps of his house reading the sports section of the Hebrew paper Israel Today and learn that a few years back the villagers used the building stones of the station to expand their homes. “But until the new tracks are laid between Modi’in and Jerusalem, doesn’t the train still pass by here?” “Passes but doesn’t stop,” explains the young man, “and on Shabbat doesn’t even pass.” “So how can we get down to the tracks and walk a bit in the wadi alongside?” “It’s not possible and also not permitted,” says the Palestinian, “because it’s a border fence, so we have a bit of independence. But for you,” he adds with a sly smile, “since you belong to the other side, I’ll show you how you get into Israel without a passport.”
He folds up the sports section and leads the actress and the director, pilgrim stick in hand, down an alley and then another, to a field of green alfalfa. Reaching what looks very much like a fence, he grabs the border with both hands, shakes it hard, and opens a wide entry.
“Well done,” says Moses, “but please close it in a way that we can open easily on our way back. Better yet, if you could wait for us here, we’re only going for a short walk, to retrieve something from the past.”
“Okay, I’ll wait for you,” agrees the young man, who seems amused by two older Israelis eager to take a Sabbath-morning stroll on a desolate railroad track near his village. “But to get back into Palestine”—he grins—“you’ll have to undergo a security check and pay a fee.”
“We’ll pay the fee”—Moses chuckles—“on condition that you not budge from here.”
The young man finds a big rock, sits down, and opens the sports pages. Meanwhile the director and the actress make their way single file along the tracks, first he in the lead, then she, stepping on the gray concrete railroad ties, trying to find the spot where the imaginary train plunged into the imaginary abyss. But it’s not so simple to reconstruct a reality that was imaginary to begin with, and the actress trips and the heel of her shoe gets stuck in a gap between the rail and one of the ties. Moses quickly grabs her and sets her aright, pausing a second before kneeling to pry out the shoe and fit it back on her bare foot. Holding her in his arms, in the here and now, he can feel the tenderness of the woman who took part in so many of his films. And even as she smiles at him with gratitude, she wants to be released from his embrace. Perhaps she suspects that it’s not her the old director desires, but rather the lithe, dark young woman whose lover had demanded she portray the character of an inscrutable deaf-mute.