“One shot. Just for me.”
“What, get actors?”
“A young woman, whoever she may be. But a woman nursing.”
“Nursing?”
“Yes, drops of milk must be seen on the old man’s lips.”
“You’ve gone too far…”
“No, I haven’t.”
“And the man?”
“The man? The man is the actual penitent.”
“You mean—”
“That’s the point. The old man on his knees is you.”
“Me?”
“Why not? You are the man who suckles. You are the prisoner tied up. In body and character.”
“Me!”
“Yes, who else? This is your atonement. The atonement of the director. You’ll be in the scene, tied up and half naked, kneeling before a young woman who will nurse you. Look on the Internet for Roman Charity and you’ll find dozens of pictures, and you can choose the one that suits you best.”
“You’re insane…”
“The insane one is you, who came down south on a winter night and asked to do penance. You junked a scene that was important and precious to me, and I will accept one still picture, on condition that you are the protagonist.”
“Trigano, in the depths of your soul there is madness, and also cruelty.”
“Perhaps. Do as you like. You came to me, not I to you.”
A long silence. He sits stubbornly facing you, puffing smoke from his long pipe.
“You just want to disgrace me, humiliate me.”
“There is no disgrace in art. The hour has come, Moses, at your age, for you to come to terms with that idea. Art makes the disgraceful beautiful and the repulsive meaningful. That’s what I tried to explain to you then and you didn’t understand. But you will understand when you perform the act yourself… with your own body. It will serve you well in the few years left you to make films.”
Did he come up with the idea when he saw you in his studio, or did it crop up as he lay by his son, pretending to be asleep?
Again silence. Is he really waiting for an answer, or has he given up on you?
“And if I present you with such a picture,” you say, challenging him like a partner in crime, “you’ll agree to ask Ruth to repeat her blood tests?”
He tenses.
“Why is that so important to you? Do you intend to marry her?”
“Maybe. Why not? The hour has come.”
He falls silent, shocked.
You put it more strongly. “If I present you with such a picture, you will convince her to repeat her blood tests.”
He looks straight at you with the same hard eyes that were fixed on you long ago in the classroom.
“Yes,” he says.
“Perhaps we’ll renew our partnership—”
“Not so fast,” he interrupts, then adds: “But no one will threaten any baby. Tell Amsalem he should confine his murderous fantasies to his own family.”
Nine. Roman Charity
“CAN AND WOULD you help me turn a verbal confession into a photographed atonement?” Moses asks the Dominican after finally getting through to his mobile. Manuel de Viola, who often makes the rounds of poor neighborhoods in the capital, is required to carry a cell phone to assist him in places where a monk’s robe offers no protection. But Manuel, who has faith in human innocence, generally leaves the device turned off in the folds of his robe, using it only at night to check on his mother’s welfare. So days went by before Moses could speak with him and explain what he needed and why. “I am willing,” Moses tells him, “to dedicate my entire prize to this.”
Manuel, who remembers the Israeli’s confession, subscribes to the religious logic that such a confession demands continuity and perhaps absolution. And although he is appalled by the deviant nature of the screenwriter’s request, he is neither willing nor able to refuse. “I must extinguish the fire I ignited in you,” says the monk, his deliberate Hebrew reverberating in the tiny phone. He also expresses optimism that with the help of the prize money he will be able to cover the needs of a distressed neighborhood in Madrid.
Moses turns next to Toledano’s son David, the photographer, and asks him to join his journey. “I need you to take only one picture in Spain — specifically, an artistic picture of me beside a female character not yet chosen. The picture will be printed in my presence, in two copies. I will take custody of them, along with the film or memory chip of the camera, to make sure that the picture will never be duplicated and with the hope that over time it will be deleted from your memory. Yes, I could have found a Spanish photographer, but I would not trust him as I trust you, not because I know you, but because I knew your father, my friend and collaborator, and I’m certain that were he still alive, he would not hesitate for a minute to agree to my request.
“So, will you come with me?”
“If Abba wouldn’t have hesitated, neither will I,” answers the young man gallantly. He wants to know how many cameras to bring. “Two will be more than enough,” Moses answers confidently, “we’re talking about only one picture, but bring equipment that will work in dark places.”
Moses has come to terms with the fact that he will part with his prize money; when all is said and done, the sum is puny, and spending it this way will not only please Trigano and open the door to a new partnership, but get Ruth to repeat her blood tests. Thus he treats himself to a business-class ticket, seating the young man in coach not so much out of stinginess or frugality but from concern that if the boy sits next to him on the plane, Moses will be forced to answer questions he would rather not yet address. But such worries are unfounded. At the airport it is amply clear that Toledano’s son is a quiet and courteous young man and that the early loss of his father left him heir to the man’s good qualities but not his troubled soul.
The white robe and black jacket, the cowl, the big copper cross dangling from his belt, distinguish Manuel de Viola amid the welcoming crowd. He and Moses bow slightly to each other, and Moses enthusiastically introduces the young cameraman.
“We too, like you Jews, seek to glide in the path of righteousness,” says the Dominican as he takes hold of Moses’ rolling suitcase, but it quickly becomes clear that the pursuit of virtue will not be simple. In an effort to help reduce the level of air pollution in Madrid, the man of God does not take taxis but rather travels by rail, which means they have to pick up the suitcase and carry it down rough and crooked stairs to a lower level, onto a platform from which they and grimy industrial workers, foreign laborers, African peddlers, and students in school uniforms pile into a commuter train that despite its dilapidated appearance takes off with a burst of energy.
Yair Moses is at peace. He is certain the monk knows his way, and that his religious presence shelters them from pickpockets. “Is the hotel in the center of the city?” he inquires hopefully, but it turns out that Manuel has chosen to put up the two Israelis at his mother’s house. Moreover, he explains, Doña Elvira has purchased three small ceramic plates depicting the motif of Roman Charity, to provide the Israeli with added inspiration for his pose in the scene he will soon direct.
“What?” Moses is shocked. “You told your mother?”
“I did,” says Manuel. He can conceal nothing from his mother. Luckily, his monastic vows have sentenced him to a life of bachelorhood, otherwise he would have been compelled to bare his wife’s secrets too. But he reassures Moses: His mother may be trusted with secrets, his and those of others. Speaking frankly to her is like confessing to the Crucified One Who hears and understands everything but speaks not a word.
When they emerge from underground, dusk has fallen, but the streetlights are not yet on in the narrow alleys. The de Viola home is a large and attractive villa where during the civil war, family members remained amicable despite loyalties to opposing camps. But by the end of the century, they were forced to divide the big house into apartments for rental so that the aging actress could maintain her way of life and be dependent on the good graces of no one.