All this time, Herbst sat thinking a variety of thoughts. One thought was: Something could have happened to Shira; she could have become pregnant and gone off to a place where she is unknown. When was he last with her? He did the calculation more than once. She had been putting him off for years. If she was pregnant, he wasn’t responsible. He felt gloomy. He sat with Anita, unaware of her and of everyone. But he was aware that something had happened to him.
He smoothed his hair with his hand. Then he looked at the hand and extended it toward Anita. He had the impression that his hair had turned gray, and he thought about asking Anita for a mirror. Seeing that he had extended his hand to her, Anita said, “Dr. Herbst, would you like me to write down Shira’s new address?” Herbst looked at her and said, “Shira’s address? I might as well write down Shira’s address.” But his face indicated that the gesture would be wasted, that, even if he knew where she lived, he would not find her.
He took out a notebook and pen, and handed them to Anita. She wrote down the address and drew a map of the street, on which she marked the position of the house. Herbst took back his pen and notebook, and stuck them in his pocket, looking neither at the address nor at Anita. After a while, he stole a sideward glance at her, to see if she had seen that he was keeping Shira’s address. After a further while, he took a spoon and began tapping on the glass. Trudel appeared and gave him the check. He stood up, then sat down again. All of a sudden, he roused himself, looked at Anita Brik, and said, “How are you, my dear?” As he spoke, he realized that, in light of their lengthy conversation, the question was superfluous. He smiled, an odd smile, and said, “Actually, you have told me everything, but is all of everything really everything? I talked so much without mentioning that my wife asked about you. You know where we live. We are still in Baka. You can take either the number six or the number seven bus. If you’re ready to leave now, I’m ready too. I’m sorry I troubled you to write down the address of Shira the nurse. It was a waste. If I show you my book, you’ll find a thousand addresses in it, and I doubt that I’ve used a single one. I wrote down the nurse Shira’s address out of sheer habit. In this country, we do so much writing. I was told about a consul who said he had never been in a country where people write as much as they do in Palestine. It is common that, when a child begins to write, he writes a lot, his hands become skilled, and he learns to write nicely. It’s the same with a young nation. What I just said doesn’t pertain to writing good poems. So, goodbye, my dear. Oh, I have inundated you with words, as if I were some sort of a Bachlam-and-a-half. I did actually visit Bachlam a few days ago. I suspect his manner is contagious. Goodbye, my dear. Goodbye.”
Chapter eleven
The shock that had overwhelmed him began to dissipate. By the time he took leave of Anita, there was no discernible trace of what had agitated him a short time earlier. Herbst found some consolation in the new address he had written in his notebook; should he want to, he could go to Shira. There was no need to go immediately, but, whenever he wanted to, he could go.
He left Ben Yehuda Street, turned to the left, and walked as far as the Café Europa. Before the shoeshine boys who were stationed there had a chance to grab his feet and begin shining his shoes, he himself placed one foot on the box that was set up for the purpose. While the boy was at work, Herbst took out his little book, noted the new address, and studied the drawing, picturing the precise location of Shira’s new apartment, the place where she now resided. It was easy for Herbst to imagine the place, but it was hard for him to imagine what sort of people lived there. Jerusalem is unlike cities in other countries, where rich neighborhoods and poor neighborhoods are distinct, so that where one lives is predetermined. In Jerusalem, people live anywhere, without such distinctions, and the population is not segregated. In fact, one actually finds, in all the older alleys of the new city, dilapidated structures alongside new ones. Here, the rich and the poor — all the social classes — are considered equal. There are areas where we assume no one we know would live; still, when we happen to be there, we are sure to run into two or three familiar faces, the ones we least expected to see. Herbst, who had been trying for years to hide his affair with Shira from his friends, was interested in knowing who her neighbors were, as a precaution. But, as I said, he was after the impossible.
The shoeshine boy pressed the bell on his stand to announce that one shoe was done and he was ready for the next one. Herbst put the notebook back in his pocket and switched feet. The shoeshine boy began again, dipped his finger in polish, smeared it on the shoe, spread it all around, and rubbed it with a rag, until the shoe began to shine. The bell sounded again, announcing that it was shined too, but that the gentleman should put the first foot up again so both of his shoes would have the same amount of shine. Meanwhile, being fond of experiments, Herbst tried to test himself, to see to what extent he was capable of taking his mind off Shira, who was troubling him once again. He began to chat with the shoeshine boy, asking him what he earns in a day. He told Herbst his earnings, as well as his expenses. He earns up to forty grush a day; sometimes more, sometimes less. Before Shabbat and on holidays, he makes more than seventy grush. But expenses are high: six lirot for rent, six grush for six tins of water. And now that his wife has given birth to a new daughter, there are even more expenses. He has to buy seven tins of water, because the nurse at the clinic instructed his wife to bathe the child every day. So they have to buy an extra tin of water in addition to the first six. Herbst made many errors in the course of that conversation. He assumed that the six lirot for rent covered a quarter of the year, whereas actually they covered the entire year. He assumed the boy was a boy, and it turned out that he was married and burdened with sons and daughters. He thought the six or seven tins of water were for a day, not realizing they were for the week. But all of this is beside the point, the point being that Herbst was testing himself to see how capable he was, at that moment, of occupying his mind with remote matters. The bell sounded again, not a signal to shift shoes but a jubilant sound, for the job was done. The gentleman could now display his shoes to the sun, the moon, the stars, to all of Jerusalem, including the rival shoeshine boys. Herbst gazed at his shoes and at the boy’s face, which came close to outshining his handiwork. Herbst paid him double his price and moved on. He stopped to take out his notebook and copy Shira’s address in his own hand. Then he turned and walked on.