“No reconciliation. And I’m not saying another word until you put something in your mouth.”
“In that case,” you counter, “I’ll start with the red soup, if it hasn’t got cold.”
“It’s tomato soup that was cold to begin with, and spicy.”
You dip your spoon into the fragrant red puree dotted with white specks, bring it to your lips, swallow a spoonful and then another, and suddenly your mouth is on fire and the spoon falls from your hand.
“Great soup. Don’t worry,” you tell him, like a child to his mother, “just resting. I can’t help it if my excitement at seeing you kills my appetite.”
“You, Moses, still get excited?” He reverts to mockery.
“Excited, and confused.”
“Confused? The one who should be confused here is me, as I picture the two of you in a bed I slept in. My heart is calm and cold — though I know where you want to lead me, there’s not a chance that I’ll go there. Anyway, objectively, don’t you think it’s pathetic to travel on a winter night to a dangerous area looking for a man you haven’t seen or talked to in many years, all to tell him about the imaginary illness of a woman who has become meaningless to him?”
“It’s not an imaginary illness, believe me, Trigano, it’s real.”
“In what way real?” He reddens. “In that she refuses to play along with the patronage you offer?”
Finally. You knew that Trigano could not conceal indefinitely the root of his pain and jealousy, and you try to maintain a gentle and patient demeanor.
“Again you misinterpret my protectiveness, or call it what you will. Because as I told you, it began as professional care and not personal, and if at times it involves the closeness you’re thinking of, it happens naturally in the course of working together. Which is why there are always boundaries.”
“Nice and decent, but not true.”
“True… believe me.”
“Okay, why not? Really, what do I care how you interpret your patronage and what you do with her and what you don’t do.” But he is still angry. “A scene of two adults, lying in the same bed, and the man senses, without any attempt at touching, just from the edge of the bed, the hidden malady of the woman. I wouldn’t buy such an absurd premise even in a work of literature.”
“Not even in symbolic stories like yours?”
“They have nothing to do with this.”
You change the subject and tell him about the first night, about Distant Station, which the Spaniards turned into The Train and the Village—how astonished you were to discover that the village girl at the center of the plot was a deaf-mute.
“And you forgot that?”
“Evidently.”
“But the critics at the time singled out the deaf-muteness as a daring and original element in the script. It was the only way the villagers could support a diabolical plan without incriminating themselves. Her disability created a twilight zone where meanings were confused and outcomes were blurred. Like linguistic obfuscations created by sly politicians to fool the masses and manipulate them at will.”
You acknowledge the powerful originality of the deaf-muteness in this film but give yourself some credit too, as the director who was able to elicit from the wild, confused gesticulations of a young woman a strange, alluring eroticism.
“Yes”—he is caught up in your words, eyes blazing—“yes, both I and the Spaniards who did the dubbing could feel it when we worked on those scenes. A strange eroticism floating in the studio…”
“In Spain Ruth told me about your sister, who was her model for the character.”
“You didn’t know about my sister?”
“You never mentioned her. Maybe you were embarrassed by her.”
He averts his eyes.
“Maybe…” he says. “In those years I avoided exposing my personal life.”
“Is she still alive?”
“No. She couldn’t keep going after my mother died.”
“I’m sorry…”
He says nothing. Regards you with caution. The thread of conversation has snapped, and he wonders what you’re after.
“I’m afraid of causing you pain,” you say, almost in a whisper.
“Cause me pain? How?”
“You surely remember the final minutes of the film, when she is dragged into the bushes. I was amazed to see how savage and violent it was, how far I let it go, even compared to movies today. I was filled with compassion for the living character, the real one, sitting beside me in the hall.”
He tenses in his chair, his eyes narrowing, his hostility entangled in the web of your story.
“Yair Moses, I have no interest in an account of your feelings or your lust.”
“You’re wrong, this is not about my lust but about her illness, which is why I am here. You wondered how I could sense her illness if I don’t live with her — well, when we got back to the Parador after the screening, she crashed, fully dressed, in her coat and boots, onto that big wide bed, and sank into an unhealthy long sleep. It was as if a dead woman were lying at my side. I took off her clothes and her boots, knowing that she couldn’t feel me. And then, though I had never, ever forced myself on her, not even a light touch, I held her feet and covered them with kisses — just her feet — and by the heat and dryness of the skin I could tell she was sick.”
A strange, evil smile distorts his lips. He gets up as if possessed, then calms down. Pours himself some wine, and pours some in your glass too. He sips it slowly, ceremoniously, looks at you as if you are someone he is seeing for the first time.
“Your lips are that sophisticated?”
“Apparently…”
“Maybe your loneliness, Moses, has bent you completely.”
“Maybe.”
“So why don’t you tell me what really brought you here, so we can say goodbye?”
“A simple request. Pick up the phone and tell her you found out, from me or whoever, that she is neglecting her blood tests, and this is of concern to you — you can phrase it however you think is right — because, though many years have passed since you parted, you still care, and though you are certain, or you hope, that the test results will be reassuring, in any case it’s better for the truth, any truth, to come out earlier rather than later.”
“Bottom line?”
“Bottom line, you’re asking her to get another blood test, if only for your sake.”
“For my sake?” He stretches out the word, as if shocked and insulted. “For my sake?”
“Yes, for your sake. That way you might convince her. And if you want, you can add ‘in memory of our old love.’ I leave that to you.”
“Our love?” he retorts in a hoarse whisper, as if you’ve invaded a vipers’ nest.
“Yes, your love. I still remember its intensity and its joy. That’s why she’ll listen to you. You’ve remained an authority figure for her. Every time your name comes up, I can feel the awe she has for you. More than awe, admiration. I am asking you to talk to her… preferably in person, but it could be on the telephone. If that’s too hard for you, write her a letter. There’s nothing easier.”
“That’s enough!” He raises his voice. “You don’t expect me to believe you came here for her.”
“For her, but also for myself and for you.”
“She does have a son… a grown man. Why don’t you talk to him?”
“Because he’s the alienated, childish hedonist type, and it never dawned on him that he should be taking care of his mother. He has no influence on her at all… Believe me, Trigano, there’s a good reason I took the trouble to come here.”
He gets up, walks a few paces, then comes back and stands facing you.
“Listen carefully: No chance! Never! Not by phone or in writing or any other way. You should know that this request is repugnant and insulting — it’s as if all feeling has gone from the world.”