It turns out that Manuel has gone to speak with a friend who works in the Department of Welfare, and the photographer took a trip to Toledo to see the place that gave its name to his ancestors.
“Everyone these days is looking for remote ancestors to get inspired by or argue with.” Doña Elvira sighs. “Only last night I saw the childish confusion of my younger son, who thought he could help a Muslim family through absurd methods that violate their religion. The evening could have ended in disaster. The obsession to atone for the deeds of the Inquisition is indeed noble, but is that a reason for me not to have grandchildren? I’ve heard that you people serve God differently, and your priests and monks are allowed to marry and even have children.”
“Many children, too many…”
“There is no such thing as too many. How many children do you have, Mr. Moses?”
“A son and daughter, and four grandchildren. Two grandchildren live in Germany and speak a language I don’t understand, but two are in Israel, living nearby and very attached to me. Especially the older one, the grandson.”
“In that case, you can think of yourself as a happy man.”
“Thinking is easy, feeling is harder.”
She smiles. She likes his answer. She lays the pilgrim staff at her feet, takes off her coat, sits down on her round bed, and calls for the housekeeper to bring tea and biscuits for her and the guest. As they drink their tea, Moses interrogates her about her life long ago in silent films. In what ways was it different — the manner of acting, the movements of the body, the relationship between actor and director — and how did music relate to the silent scenes? Ever since he returned to Israel from the retrospective, he’s been thinking of making a silent film in the old style, toward the end of his career. Perhaps not full-length, but silent.
Doña Elvira does not envision great prospects for his silent film. In her day, the inter-titles between the scenes were brief and to the point, so as not to impede the flow of the action. People then were more intelligent and could read between the lines, even when the words were few and the sentences short. Today there is an inflation of words. Unless you repeat the same thing dozens of times, there’s no way to get attention.
In the afternoon Manuel returns with encouraging news. He consulted with his Welfare Department friend, who is in charge of aid to artists in distress, especially foreigners from Eastern Europe recently landed in Spain — musicians, singers, actors. His friend, after Manuel explained the nature of the wish — without, heaven forbid, disclosing the identity of the wisher — promised to locate by this evening an actress who also happens to be a young mother and would consent, perhaps without pay, or for a small sum, to play the role of the daughter in the scene, out of loyalty to the grand classical tradition in which it stands.
“She must be paid,” Moses interjects, “and generously.”
“Yes… you are right… one may not exploit the actress,” agrees Manuel, suggesting that something be given perhaps to the municipal official, who was enthusiastic about the possibility of an artist’s atonement for an artist’s sin. After examining the painting that Manuel showed him, the official proposed a location: the municipal supervisory department cellar, which has a high ceiling and a barred window. Such an atmosphere could enhance the credibility of the reenactment, and should the photographer require technical assistance, say a ladder to hold up the lighting, the guard on duty would be happy to help.
“I see that little by little, all of Spain will hear about my Roman Charity,” jokes Moses. “I came all the way here to stay anonymous. In Israel there are no secrets.”
“Even if all of Spain does hear,” Manuel says, rising to the challenge, “after you leave, this country will forget you, whereas your country is always remembering the forgotten.”
At four in the afternoon Toledano returns from Toledo, exhilarated. He bought another camera there and took dozens of pictures so he could show his younger brother the city that gave its name to their ancestors, then expelled them. I hope, he says to the director, that it was all right for me, without your express permission, to photograph streets and alleys and castles and rivers, and people, with a camera not associated with you, and to keep the pictures for myself.
“I hope so too,” grumbles Moses.
The high spirits the young man brought inspire the older man to get out and breathe fresh air of his own. If the meeting again takes place at night, why wait around for tiny dinner portions served by the housekeeper, and the monk’s theological chatter? Since the tea and biscuits, he has not eaten a thing. To be on the safe side, he asks his host to write the address and phone number of the house on three slips of paper, and briefly considers asking the old lady to lend him her pilgrim staff but deems it too intimate and takes an umbrella, which can serve as a stick if necessary, even though the skies of Madrid are calm and friendly. More people will join my adventure tonight, he thinks dolefully. If only I had settled for a Muslim veil and a hidden face, I could have been on my way back to Israel this evening instead of wandering the streets of a foreign city. Did the photographer’s perfectionism arise merely from loyalty to the original scene, or is he using it to punish both the director and his father? What would it matter to Trigano if he got a picture of the director handcuffed before a veiled black woman? In fact, such a picture, hinting at the North African desert, might have fulfilled the scriptwriter’s wish even more nobly.
With the three slips of paper in three different pockets, he undertakes a brisk walk to the city center. On arrival he slows his pace, strolls from plaza to plaza, contemplating statues of kings and generals, dropping occasional coins into the caps of young people pretending to be statues. He has never visited Madrid before and doesn’t know what’s worth seeing and what’s not; he is not necessarily keen on churches and palaces and would rather soak up daily life. He pauses by shop windows, surveys the Spanish women passing by, in an effort to discover what still arouses him.
Since he has again abandoned his hearing aids by his bed, the city of Madrid feels hushed and mysterious in the reddening winter dusk. Yes, he berates himself, tonight I need to be done with this craziness, no turning back. If she’s a foreign immigrant, a young mother, an actress pining for a job, in exchange for a proper fee, she can inhabit the role. No humiliation, just connection with mythology. The window of a small jewelry shop catches his eye. He looks at distinctive rings, bracelets, and watches, all devoid of price tags. He goes inside to inquire about cost, specifically watches. After protracted haggling he chooses a simple but elegant watch for Ruth, its hands and numbers legible by day and luminescent at night. It’s about time she replaced the little watch with the blurry face she has worn since childhood. Besides, she deserves a portion of the prize, which will soon be down to its last penny. Certainly I am not the first, he says to himself. Directors far greater than I have become entangled in obsessive relationships with actresses they eventually married.
He tucks the gift box in his jacket pocket, pats one of the slips of paper, and decides to satisfy his hunger, selecting a restaurant not far from a big plaza. Though it is earlier than the usual Spanish dinnertime, and the waiters have not yet laid the tablecloths, he is greeted hospitably. His request is modest: a big plate of fried potatoes and a glass of red wine.
He sits at a table overlooking the plaza, where the streetlamps are not yet lighted, and eats with great gusto the potatoes browned gold in olive oil, and when the waiter, gratified by his pleasure, offers another portion, Moses happily accepts. Meanwhile the plaza is filling up with a large crowd. In the half-light, near a flight of steps, he can see the statue of a horse whose rider waves one hand in the air and holds a long spear in the other. “What’s the name of this plaza?” he asks the waiter as he arrives with the bill. Plaza de España is the reply. Moses smiles. “In which case, I’ve come to the heart of Spain — I’ve landed well.” The waiter goes on in English, but between the waiter’s accent and the absence of the hearing aids, Moses doesn’t understand a word. Once again he fears that Doña Elvira’s housekeeper will think they are used earplugs and throw them in the wastebasket. I still refuse to grant them the mandatory status of eyeglasses. The truth is that what I don’t hear is usually not important, but what I don’t see always is. He leaves the waiter a generous tip and decides it’s time to go home, since one can’t call a private home a hotel, can one? He hands the taxi driver not one slip of paper but two, and the driver reads them both and finds a contradiction. As the taxi circles the plaza all the lights go on, and Moses manages a glimpse, alongside the horse and rider, of a mule whose rider’s helmet is skewed backward. Maybe these are Don Quixote and Sancho Panza, he says to himself, and why not? This is the right place.