“Why only from a distance?”
“Soldiers, guards, they didn’t let me get close. Now, would you believe, there’s a similar installation there, sealed off, big and very real. As if our wild imagination had created a reality.”
“My imagination.”
“Yours, that’s right, but also the cinematographer’s, and the set designer’s, and the lighting designer’s, and even the director’s… Go check it out for yourself.”
“There’s nothing to check. It’s not my first metaphor to have turned into reality. What was the point of the metaphor? That a state that turns into a military installation instead of being a living, breathing homeland doesn’t deserve soldiers who want to protect it. In the end they will disrespect it and fall asleep.”
“Yes, I understood that then.”
“Allow me to question that. True enough you were captivated by my fantasy, but you didn’t fathom the deeper meaning that drove it. Not only in that film, but in others as well. I assisted with the dubbing in Spain, so the films would stay faithful to the proper pitch of dialogue, and I realized how many hidden symbols in my screenplays you, the director, were unaware of, even though they proved to be accurate predictions.”
“Really?”
“Of course,” he insists, “and not because of narrow-mindedness but because of the narrowness of your vision, for just like today, you were incapable of deviating from your social background, transcending your safe and steady environment to connect with the outlook of someone like me, who came from the margins of society.”
“Nonsense, Trigano. I was the one who took care of your story, the continuity of the plot, the credibility of the characters, the proper flow of cause and effect. How can you say I didn’t get the hidden meaning of a work in which every scene was my doing?”
“Because you couldn’t identify with a rebellion that sought to undermine fundamental values you grew up on and held holy. In the Spanish archive I took another look at your mother. Behind the weak and lonely old woman she was supposed to be in our film, one can sense a tough and self-confident personality, a high-ranking administrator in the Treasury Department.”
“State comptroller’s office.”
“Better still. But already then, during production, I could detect the rigid value system this Jerusalem lady had imposed on you. Even after you switched from being a son to being a director, you didn’t shake free of your loyalty and submissiveness and were careful to protect her honor—”
“Not so,” you interrupt, “you are wrong — out of pure hatred for me. At the archive, where I didn’t understand a word of dialogue, I noticed other things, important things, beyond words, and contrary to what you think, I was brought to tears to discover how far I had gone to belittle my mother, all because of the script, and how generous she was in humiliating herself.”
“Really,” he says sarcastically, “to tears? You are actually capable of tears?”
“Only if they’re real.”
“The moment has come, Moses”—he leans in close to your face—“for you to understand that your reality, then and now, is shielded and pampered. What you consider humiliation is a pale shadow of humiliation. What you didn’t understand as a young teacher you certainly won’t understand now, at the end of your career. But it’s not the past that makes you chase me here.”
“Not only.”
“Anyway, why aren’t you touching your food? Go on, start eating, or there won’t be any food left. And if you think the food here isn’t clean because of all the animals running around, I promise you not a single dog is allowed in the kitchen.”
“It’s not the food, Trigano, it’s you…”
“Me?” He laughs. “You still get upset by what I say or don’t say? At your age and position in life the time has come to be indifferent to the person who gave up on you long ago.”
“What does it have to do with my age?”
“Because on the road, when the missiles landed and I shoved your head into the ground, I saw something in your ear. What was it? Cotton?”
“A hearing aid. I have another one in the ear you didn’t look at.”
“In that case, let me give you some advice. If people like me annoy you, pull out the gadgets. Believe me, I’d be happy if I had access to such simple disconnection.”
You put down the knife and fork. Fold the napkin and sit up straight. For a second he seems unnerved.
“Thanks for the advice, Trigano, good of you to dispense it at no cost. I’ll give it serious thought. Meanwhile, point me to the toilet.”
A HARD FEELING. The hope over renewed contact is subsiding. Trigano was not an easy person when young, and over the years he has grown more complex and bitter. Is he taunting you so you’ll get up and leave, or does he want to open an old account, want you to stay? It’s past eleven, and you find yourself crossing the main room, now empty. The screens on the walls display a newscaster from Israel Television who oddly resembles an American president. In a maze of corridors and rooms you find three bathrooms, all in use, the residents now being readied for bedtime.
“If you really need to, you can come in,” offers a female caregiver who is bathing a grown youth in a tub. “I’ll step out, and the boy won’t mind.” You smile your thanks but retreat; it still matters to whom you expose yourself. But as urgency mounts, you hurry outdoors, toward the fields. In a patch purplish in the night, past a vegetable garden planted with large cabbages, between tall, tousled bushes not recently pruned, a big-boned horse stands still, regarding you with the sad look of a philosopher as you unburden yourself before him with tremendous relief.
When you return to the arbor table, you find a reddish soup that arrived in your absence and Trigano slurping his with gusto.
“You found what you needed?”
“Everything was occupied, so I went out to the field.”
“Well done. Best that a man hang loose under the starry skies.”
“And next to a quiet horse.”
“A mule, not a horse,” Trigano corrects, “his name is Sancho Panza, and he pulls the children around the moshav in a cart.”
“I see that you’re also a good friend of the animals.”
“I try.”
“How long has your Uriel been here?”
“Almost four years.”
“And your wife doesn’t visit?”
“She comes once in a while, but for her, the visit is harder.”
“Who is your wife?”
“A woman.”
“I hope she’s not a secret.”
“Every woman is a secret, my wife as well. Years ago she was a student in a class of mine. Toledano met her before he died. From the time Uriel was born, she was totally devoted to him — he became the focus of her life at the expense of his brother and sister. Our whole family became disabled. But since we moved him here, she was liberated from her obligation or her guilt and she found herself another mission.”
“Is she also involved in film?”
“No, God forbid, she has no connection with art. She is a healthy soul, with a stable mind.”
“And what’s her new mission?”
“Tell me, Moses,” he snarls, “does my wife really interest you, or are you sticking to small talk because you’re afraid to get to the point?”
He’s right. Going in circles and trying to soften his hostility by showing interest in his life doesn’t merely fail to draw him closer but apparently alienates him further.
“I came to talk about Ruth.”
“Why not eat something first? You said you came here hungry.”