He turned away from the vehicles, toward the edge of the road, stopping to adjust the elegant tie he had worn for the occasion and to decide which road to take, for there were many roads branching off this way and that, each one scenically special, so that it was hard to choose one over the others. Before Herbst had a chance to decide which he would take, he heard the sound of a car behind him. He moved aside, turned toward the car, and saw four or five of his friends in it, among them Professor Wechsler, who invited him to join them. When Herbst noticed that Axelrod was driving, he had no wish to get in, for Axelrod might mention that he had given him a lift the other night, and it would be best if they knew nothing about it. He thanked them for the invitation and went on.
Twilight. All over the mountain and in the valley, everything was still. The sky above was overlaid with an array of shifting colors throwing light on each other, blending, modulating, appearing, and disappearing in a flash, only to be succeeded by others, still others. Before these settle in, another round appears, and they swallow each other up. Dirt and rock take shape, as do shrubs and grass, fragrant grass which, along with thorns, briars, and wild brush, fills the arid land with its good smell as the day dims. Each step bestows peace, each breath cures, taking in the scent of field grass, a remnant of summer, born of the early rains. Suddenly, the lights were turned on and the whole city glowed. Over the city, in the skies above, the moon could be seen beginning its tour.
The evening was fine and pleasant, the air clear and fresh, like most autumn evenings in Jerusalem after the first rains. Herbst was in a similar state. The days spent at home, in his study, in the garden with Henrietta, peaceful and quiet, had a favorable effect. But for the somber thoughts that wrinkled his brow, Herbst was like a young man.
Herbst was already at the foot of the mountain, near town. Those who live in outlying neighborhoods, who come to town and are not in a hurry to get home, spend an hour or two roaming Jerusalem’s streets or seeing friends. Herbst, who had had his fill of society even before the ceremonies, wasn’t eager for his colleagues or their conversation. But he had an urge to see the whole city, to go beyond the wall, which he didn’t do. If he were to go there, he would become involved, endlessly so and without limits. Yet much as he resists, he is drawn there, because of a place he never saw, though he knew he was already there many times.
He took himself toward the post office, from there to the Jewish Agency, from there to Zion Square, and from there to a small department store. He looked in all the windows and came back to the one with fountain pens that sprang forward as if from inside a mirror. Actually, there was a large mirror beneath the pens, which were suspended over it on invisible string. A tiny light was attached to every pen, shining on it, on its shadow, and on the face of anyone who happened to be studying the display. While Herbst was considering which pen he would like to buy, his reflection peered out at him from the mirror, decked out in the finery he had worn for the opening ceremonies of the new academic year. It was a long time since Herbst had been so elegantly dressed and a long time since he had felt so fresh. He stopped to adjust the tie Henrietta had bought him for his birthday, with money held back from household expenses, and gazed into the mirror.
The tie was in place; it hadn’t stirred, not this way, not that. His thoughts, however, were stirring this way and that. He dismissed the pen he had in mind to buy for himself, as well as his thoughts about what he would write with the pen, and began listing the names of the lecturers and professors the president of the university had mentioned in his address. He repeated the names of all those who had been promoted. He considered each one of them — the books they had produced, the articles they had written. He envied neither them nor their works. He would have enjoyed discussing academic politics with his colleagues, but he wasn’t drawn to any one of them. This one never makes a clear statement; that one has a wife who doesn’t let him get a word in, and, before he has a chance to answer you, the house is brimming with her conversation. This fellow is even worse than the other two. He takes what you say and twists it, so you wear yourself out explaining what you meant, and you can never be sure he won’t quote you on something you never said. Still worse is the one who talks only about himself — what Mrs. So-and-so said to him after visiting him with a group of tourists, who felt deeply honored by his hospitality, and what Professor So-and-so wrote to him about his new book. Julian Weltfremdt is the one person worth listening to, but, not being a member of its inner circle, he tends to demolish the university and its professors with every breath. Also, if you come at night, you find him and his wife sitting across from each other at one table with one light. She is reading the novels she reads, while he covers his face with a newspaper or book to avoid seeing them. You begin talking, and, as soon as she says a word, Julian gets up, takes his hat, puts a hand on your shoulder, and says, “How about a walk?”
A man has many friends and no preference about which one to go to, so he doesn’t go to any of them. While Herbst was deliberating, he arrived at a point where several roads intersect. One of them leads to Shira. I will waste no words. Of all the roads, Herbst chose the one that leads to Shira.
Chapter twenty-two
Shira was dressed in warm, unattractive clothes. Her face was tired, her cheeks smooth. Only her freckles were prominent, so enlarged that it seemed as if a part of her right cheek had been taken away. The room smelled of some liniment, the kind you apply to a bruise. Either she had been tending patients’ bruises or she herself was bruised. Herbst stared at her with probing eyes, like a man studying a woman he dislikes in order to identify the power that draws him to her. He saw again what he had already seen: although she wasn’t ugly, she certainly wasn’t beautiful. He had called her Nadia in the beginning, before he really knew her. Actually, this name suggests no particular image; still, it suits her better than Shira.
Herbst changed his face to register fury and considered: Maybe I won’t address her in the familiar second person. He hadn’t arrived at a decision when he said, “I’ve interrupted you.” He was prepared to hear her say, “I’m busy,” and to answer, “If so, I won’t keep you. I’ll be on my way.” But rather than answer his implied question, she said, “So you got home all right.” Herbst said, “That’s an old story. It’s been almost a month.” Shira said, “A month and a half. Still, you haven’t forgotten me, and you took the trouble to stop by. One can’t say the man has no curiosity.” Herbst said, “It’s not a question of curiosity. I’ve been busy. I had to prepare first-rate lectures for the winter semester. Students are beginning to come from all over; many have been at European universities and can’t be offered rubbish.” Shira said, “And you stopped working to come here.” Herbst said, “You want to know how I could stop working to come here? Because, I already prepared some of the lectures, so I’m able to take the time.” Shira answered in a relaxed tone, “You prepared your lessons and found yourself with a little time, some of which you’ve decided to donate to me. Now I need some time to arrange my thoughts and consider what to do with the gift of time you were kind enough to give me. If I were sure I would be able to arrange my thoughts in a single evening, I would tell you to take a chair and sit down. But I’m afraid I, too, might need a month and a half to arrange my thoughts, and that may be too long for you to wait.” Herbst said, “If you don’t mind, I’ll sit down.” He thought to himself: I’ll stay until she finishes complaining, then I’ll be on my way.