They are amazed to learn that an Israeli feature film was shot near their home before either of them was born, and they relish the mischief of the cinematographer who crossed the border and stole their village, but they are unsettled by the plot, the act of terrorism that Israelis perpetrate on their own people for no reason, without politics or war.
“This could actually be true?”
“Yes, that’s what we thought at the time,” says Moses, “with no political conflict, just out of human loneliness and emptiness.”
The hosts nod in agreement. Yes, they know people like that. In their village too.
“In any case,” says Moses, pointing at Ruth slumped wearily in an armchair, “she is to blame, she’s the one who incited the villagers, she bewitched them with her beauty.” And he details the deeds of the deaf-mute girl in the old film.
The hosts are excited. There is a deaf-mute woman in the village today, but she is old now. If the Jews would like to meet her, they can bring her.
“Why not?” says Moses. The chance to burrow into another retrospective tunnel appeals to him. But his companion motions him to stop. She’s worn out. It’s time to go.
The Palestinian sees them to their car and asks hesitantly if the film was a hit. His wife, who works in a law office in Bethlehem, thought that the village might be entitled to a share of the profits.
Moses laughs. “Are you mad? You’re talking about profits from a film made more than forty years ago.”
“Why not?” says the young man. “What’s forty years? Our account with you has been open for more than a hundred years, and will surely last a hundred more.”
Ruth gets into the car. Moses waves his hand dismissively and gets in too. But as Moses turns the key, the Palestinian opens the door on the driver’s side. The sunlight on his face uncovers a spark of enmity.
“The movie did well with the critics, but at the box office we only had losses,” Moses says, attempting to reassure him. “But tell your wife that if we’re opening accounts, we can also sue you for losses you dealt us a hundred years ago.”
MOSES SUGGESTS THEY continue on to Jerusalem, but Ruth objects. “Enough,” she says, “for me the retrospective is over, and I urge you to end yours too. In any event, please take me back to Neve Tzedek.” She emphatically pulls a familiar lever, moving her seat to make room for her legs. Then she unpins her hair, leans her head back, shuts her eyes, and turns off.
She is ill, no doubt about it, he thinks as he glances away from the road at her face, which seems distorted by pain.
Is she asleep or only pretending? He’s not sure, but in any case he refrains from speaking and pilots the car smoothly on the open Sabbath roads. Light rain taps the windshield as he navigates the narrow streets of Neve Tzedek, and carefully, so as not to startle his passenger, he stops quietly in front of her place and waits for her to wake up. The redness in her eyes indicates that her sleep was real and deep. She sees her building, straightens her seat, and says with a smile: “You’re a good driver.”
He gets out of the car too, though it is clear he is not invited in. It’s hard for him to part from her because of the sudden hostility she displayed toward him. So he drags out a few extra minutes and asks about the new portrait of her he saw on her table. Who drew her? How did it come about?
She hesitates, then whispers: “Toledano.”
“Toledano?” Moses is taken aback. “I didn’t know he drew.”
“As a hobby. Without telling a soul. Mostly he drew portraits of friends based on photographs. Sometimes he would make miniature drawings of scenes he had filmed.”
“Wonderful.” Moses snorts. “He never so much as hinted to me about it. It’s as if the art of cinematography wasn’t enough for him, he needed to supplement it with another art.”
“Yes, it came to light only recently.”
“He never told you…”
“Hid it from me too… from everyone, used to draw in the film lab.”
“How did this portrait suddenly get to you?”
“His son David gave it to me.”
“David? Really? The family stopped boycotting you?”
“The boycott was only his wife. Against me and also you, and basically the rest of us. She blamed me for his accident, but she was also angry with you.”
“Very angry, because I didn’t keep you away from him. As if I were able to do such a thing. Tough woman, a wounded lioness, wanted no contact at all. Even at the cemetery, at anniversaries of his death, she demanded I stand on the side, till I got tired of it and stopped going. So how did the anger suddenly come to an end, what happened?”
“It didn’t end, it never will. She found herself a husband, a French Jew, newly religious, and left the country with him; the two sons decided to sell the apartment and get rid of everything in it. That’s how they found the drawings, including a few portraits of me, of others too.”
“In that case,” says Moses eagerly, “there might have been a drawing of me. We were close, after all, had a strong common language, especially in the films you were in.”
“That’s true.”
“So what do you say? Get in touch with the son, with David, before he and his brother get rid of the rest? I’ve seen children who throw away hundreds of pictures and entire libraries after the parents die, with no emotion. If Toledano drew a portrait of me, I would be curious to know how he saw me. It’s curious, all the movies he shot, including some marvelous artistic images, that his camera wasn’t enough. Apparently it’s hard for a truly artistic soul to be content with one medium.”
“Apparently so.”
“I loved him too,” Moses says, “I loved him and respected him, though his desire and love for you were sometimes ridiculous.”
Her face reddens. Her jaw tightens.
“Ridiculous? What do you know? It was a love from childhood, pure and genuine. It was a pity I couldn’t reciprocate.”
“A pathetic love.”
“Not pathetic, tragic… What do you know about such a love?”
“Sorry, I apologize… You could be right. I didn’t know what went on between you.”
“Nothing went on. Feeling, just feeling. Precisely what’s so hard for you to fathom.”
They stand in a narrow street in Neve Tzedek. His car is holding up traffic. Someone honks. Moses says, “Wait, wait, don’t run away,” and he gets in the car and moves it onto the sidewalk, goes back to Ruth.
“Listen,” he says, “you must have his son’s address or his phone number. I’ll call him.”
“You don’t have to call him. He’s invited friends to his mother’s apartment Saturday night to give away possessions and pictures. If there happens to be a portrait of you, I’ll take it.”
“Why would you take it? I’ll go there myself.”
“Why do that? You’re not part of their crowd — people from Yeruham in the Negev, from the town in Morocco, friends from school. I’ll be glad to take it for you, if there’s anything to take.”
“I’ll go there myself…”
“Don’t. It’s a private gathering, I’m sorry I mentioned it. David specifically did not invite you.”
“What does that mean? Why does he care if I come?”
“He doesn’t care, but—”
She can’t find the words, but he understands.
“Trigano will be there too?”
“Maybe… Toledano did a number of portraits of him.”
“So what?”
She backs away against the wall of her building.
“Say something… what’s going on? You’re hiding something from me? In Spain we slept in the same bed. What’s happening to you?” He seizes her hand. “Did Trigano say he’d come but only if I wasn’t there?”