“Something like that… not because of me, I have no contact with him, you know that. That’s what I gathered from David when I asked if I should tell you about the evening. He said best not to, it would be bad if Trigano ignored you, or walked out. In any case he thinks these amateurish drawings by his father won’t be of interest to anyone.”
“He thinks!” His shout bounces off the walls of the narrow street. “Who’s asking him to think for me? And who is this son anyway? What does he do in life?”
“Don’t get angry. David is a sweet and gentle boy. He finished the army, and like his father, he’s a photographer, of stills, not film.”
Moses is carried away with new, unfamiliar rage.
“I don’t care what he does or whether he’s sweet and gentle, he shouldn’t decide what does or doesn’t interest me. His father was my loyal and true partner, not like that madman, so don’t you say a word to anyone. If I decide to come, I’ll come. You know me. But please, give me the address.”
“Same one.”
“Where? Still down in Bat Yam?”
“Rishonim Street,” she says feebly. “I don’t remember the number.”
“Doesn’t matter, I’ll recognize the building, I was there many times.”
SATURDAY’S LIGHT RAIN was prologue to strong winds and rainstorms. After the skies had calmed, the temperature plummeted and bitter cold rattled the world. Yes, he said to himself, the cold weather will chill our minds and freeze stupid delusions. He puts on a heavy coat and an old wool cap and takes the pilgrim staff he has grown so fond of, and guided by memory alone, he finds Rishonim Street in Bat Yam, south of Tel Aviv, and a parking spot not far from the apartment house. For a moment he questions whether he should take the walking stick, then decides, Why not?
In the old times, on an evening prior to a day of filming when Toledano needed to take care of his boys, Moses would come to his home to plan the next day’s work. He can see right away that not much has changed here over all those years.
The noise of the gathering on the second floor can be heard at the entrance to the building. The apartment door is open, and the guests, mostly childhood friends of Toledano, some of whom have come from the south for the occasion, are not here to divide up the loot, which in any case is meager, but to look for portraits of themselves or of friends who have died, to exchange memories in a half-empty apartment thick with cigarette smoke. It seems to the director that since his last visit to his cameraman’s home, the shabby apartment has grown shabbier. There’s a big pile of coats, scarves, and hats near the front door, but Moses refrains from adding his coat to the pile and is above all wary of leaving his pilgrim staff unguarded, lest someone should think it had belonged to the late cinematographer and take it home as a memento.
The apartment is dim. There are few light bulbs and they are weak. It appears that Toledano’s widow had neglected the flat long before she hooked up with the Jew who took her overseas. But the dimness actually heightens the merriment of the crowd as they look at dozens of portraits and other drawings tacked to the bare walls in neat rows by Toledano’s two sons. From afar Moses notices big drawings of Trigano side by side, and Trigano himself — with a short haircut, wearing a khaki shirt and a red vest, straight-backed and thin as ever — holding a large candle and inspecting the portraits of himself, exchanging words with David, the elder son, whose silhouette resembles his father’s, though the father was taller.
Most of those present are middle-aged men and women, younger than Moses, some standing, others seated or reclined on straw mats apparently brought in for the gathering after the furniture was disposed of. Despite the physical discomfort and refreshments consisting of salted snacks, there is palpable fellow feeling among the invited guests, who pour into plastic cups the remnants of alcoholic beverages left behind, colorful liqueurs from old bottles.
Moses knows none of the people seated in one far corner except for Ruth, who is heavily made up and wreathed in the smoke of longtime admirers. A few guests recognize the director, and as the walking stick in his hand suggests a disability, efforts are made to clear him a path.
He anxiously scans the walls for a portrait of himself, but in vain. He does find a few graceful charcoal drawings of scenes he directed, but the figures are only the actors. The director and cinematographer and soundman are nowhere to be seen. Nonetheless, he does not despair of finding himself, if not as a separate drawing, at least as a member of a group portrait. Toledano’s work with charcoal pencil is remarkable for both its precision and simplicity, for in lieu of complex detail he often made do with a line or two that wondrously conveyed the image. In drawings of Ruth, her hands or hips are portrayed only tentatively. He finds that Ruth, like Trigano, is featured in many drawings, but as opposed to Trigano, who stands and eagerly examines his pictures, Ruth is indifferent and huddles in the corner with friends, a glass of something yellowish in hand.
Moses is certain that Trigano is aware of his presence. Presumably incensed that despite his request his archenemy has been invited, he is trying simply to ignore his former partner rather than insult him in public.
But it can’t be, Moses fumes, that he will continue to ignore me after sending me to the far reaches of Spain to defend his screenplays. He grabs Trigano’s shoulder to show that he demands to restore, if only for a moment, the connection broken more than thirty years ago.
As if no hand has touched him, Trigano turns to the young David Toledano — who is embarrassed by the encounter that was not supposed to happen — and asks him to take his portraits down from the wall, since he would like to leave.
The director tugs at the red vest of his former scriptwriter and says, “Hello. I have regards for you from Santiago de Compostela.”
Trigano’s dark eyes have sunk over the years into their sockets, and his forehead has grown with his receding hairline. A strange smile materializes on his lips when he sees that the director will not desist. And with an unfocused glance to the side, he hisses: “You insisted on coming anyway.”
“Yes, why not? Toledano was my cameraman even after you left me.”
“True,” says Trigano, looking straight at him, “and yet he didn’t draw you.”
“How do you know that?”
“I’ve already been through the other rooms. You can relax, you’re not hanging here.”
“Why relax?” Moses is perplexed.
“Because who knows how your portrait might have turned out.”
“How did yours turn out?”
“See for yourself. Each one is different. Supposedly we were good friends for a time, but I seem to have remained a riddle for him. See how he kept drawing me over and over, obsessively.”
“And Ruth too.”
“Debdou? Fine, in her case it’s obvious. He was fixated on her till the day he died. So it’s only natural that he’d pursue her not only with his camera but also with a pencil. But you, despite everything, didn’t stir his soul at all.”
“As opposed to your soul.”
“I broke away from you and blotted you out for good.”
“You’re sure about that.”
“I don’t even have to check.”
“But you unsettle my soul.”
“So why not settle it with another crappy movie?”
The noise level in the room has lessened. It seems some have paused in their conversations and are following the unexpected encounter. Moses is afraid Trigano will not be able to hold back and will let fly an insulting remark that will kill any chance of talking further. With the authority of a teacher, he grasps the arm of a rebellious student and leads him to a corner.