Herbst sat and Shira sat, making no move to change her clothes. Didn’t she realize such clothes were not likely to win hearts? Not to mention her complaints, or the look on her face. He thought of asking if she was sick but decided not to, for she would surely notice from his tone of voice that he was unsympathetic. He took a cigarette from the pack on the table and began smoking fiercely, to create his own atmosphere. As he smoked, he took out his own cigarettes and offered them to Shira. “I don’t want to smoke,” she said. Herbst blew smoke rings and said, “You don’t want to smoke? Then what do you want?” Shira stared at him and said, “What do I want? I want to know how Mrs. Herbst is doing.” Herbst growled a response. “She’s fine.” Shira said, “She’s fine. And how is the baby? Her name is Sarah, isn’t it?” Herbst growled at her again, “She’s fine.” Shira continued to question him. “And Dr. Herbst himself, how is he?” “Me? Yes, I’m fine.” Shira stared at him and said, “Then you, the baby, and Mrs. Herbst are all healthy and sound. You are such a successful man, Dr. Herbst. A man whose entire family is in good health, lacks nothing. What else did I want to ask you? What are your views, doctor, about men who beat women?” He looked at her in alarm and said, “What was that?” Shira looked at him with malice and affection, and said, “I asked for Dr. Herbst’s views on men who beat women.” Herbst answered, “They are depraved, absolutely depraved.” Shira looked at him with smiling eyes and said, “I think so too, and I knew that’s how you would answer. Tell me, my friend, are you not capable of beating a woman?” Herbst cried out in alarm, “No!” and realized he was on the verge of slapping her face. Shira said, “Well said, my boy. You must never strike a woman. Women are fragile, and one must be gentle with them.”
Shira sat on her chair, becoming one with it, her shoulders contracting, while Herbst sat crushing the cigarette with his fingers. The lines on his palms began to jump and were covered by dry, searing heat. His temples throbbed and sweated. Once or twice he was about to speak, but the words remained on the tip of his tongue. He stared with enmity at the remains of the cigarette in his hand, its embers singeing his fingernails. Again he wanted to say something and didn’t know how to begin, although he knew that, if only he could begin, words would come. He got up and moved his chair, put the remains of his cigarette in the ashtray, snuffed it out, sat down again, passed his tongue over his lips, and asked in a whisper, “What were you talking about and what did you have in mind, Shira?” Shira looked at him, lowering her head and speaking from deep in her chest. “And if I tell you, will you understand?” Herbst said, “Why wouldn’t I understand?” Shira said, “Maybe you will and maybe you won’t. Even if you do, I don’t know why I asked such an odd question. Tell me, don’t you think it’s an odd question?” Herbst said, “It is an odd question, but allow me to ask what led to such a question.” Shira said, “You think I know?” Herbst said, “Don’t you know?” Shira said, “I don’t really know, but, because you asked, I will tell you something.”
Shira touched the tip of her nose, which was colored by the powder she had sprinkled on it, and asked in a leisurely tone, “What was I going to say?” Herbst said, “You were going to answer my question.” Shira said, “You mean about that odd question? I’ll tell you, if you like.”
Shira said, “The event took place a month and a half ago plus two days. Why did I say ‘plus two days,’ when actually it was a month and a half ago plus three days, exactly one night after the curfew. Remember, you were here the night they declared the curfew. So, one night later, a certain person happened by, not to my room but to the landlord’s apartment. A respectable person, healthy, not young but not old. In any case, his age didn’t show. He was an engineer by profession. A marine engineer, or some such thing. What do I know? Until that day, I never knew there were such engineers, though it’s logical that, if there are boats, they didn’t build themselves, and, just as you need someone to build houses, you need someone to build boats. Anyway, the engineer I’m telling about was related to the landlady, or maybe the landlord. For the life of me, I couldn’t say whose relative he was, hers or his. It happened that he came to visit his relatives, but they had gone to some kvutza because of a tragedy involving their daughter. The night before, her son, a child of about five and a half, had wandered off and encountered a jackal that devoured him, leaving only a headless skeleton. The architect was alone in his relatives’ home. What am I saying? I said ‘architect’ when, in fact, he was an engineer, a marine engineer. That gentleman, the engineer, was here in the home of his relatives, and I was in my room, paying no attention to him. It’s possible that I didn’t even know such a person was in the house with me. After dinner I said to myself: Why sit in the room when I could sit on the balcony? Hadn’t the landlady given me permission to sit out there whenever she and her husband were out? I put on comfortable clothes and went up to the landlady’s apartment and out onto the balcony, where I sat on a chair, allowing the wind to curl my hair and the moon to play hide-and-seek with me. I thought how lucky it was to have such a balcony, and now I was the lucky one. I heard footsteps. I’m not saying the footsteps concerned me. If someone was there, it was his right to move around. After a while, the architect appeared. Manfred, I’m talking, but you’re not listening. Are you listening? If so, I’ll tell you what followed.”
Shira continued. “The engineer came in, straight as a mast. And his shoulders — such shoulders! How can I describe them? Let me just say that, if he were to put me on his shoulders, I wouldn’t say, ‘There’s no room,’ although I would hope he wouldn’t try to add one more like me. He bowed and said, ‘If the lady will allow me, I’ll sit for a while.’ I answered, ‘You have more right to be here than I do.’ He bowed again and said, ‘With your permission.’ And he sat down. I sat as if he weren’t there. He began talking and said roughly this: ‘You don’t seem to be busy, so if I talk, I won’t really be interrupting.’ I looked at my hands, which were idle, and said, ‘I’m not really doing anything.’ He sat in silence, and I was silent too. I thought: Why sit idly? I’ll go get a sock to darn, or the wool I bought when the curfew began, and I can work on my sweater. I was too lazy to get up. I sat staring straight ahead, making a point of not looking at him, so he wouldn’t think I meant to engage him in conversation. I assumed he would take out a thick cigar, which is what that type of powerful man usually smokes. He didn’t take out a cigar but began talking again. What did he talk about? If you like, I could repeat every word, but neither you nor I would be enthralled by his words, would we? So I’ll summarize the whole conversation in two or three words. What did he say?
“He really didn’t say anything. But his voice, Manfred! His voice swept me off to distant places. After sailing with me from sea to sea and from continent to continent, he took me to Paris, which that gentleman was in the habit of visiting every year. To be more concrete let me tell you this: he sat and talked, and I sat and listened. Manfred, anyone who saw us would have said, ‘They’re like a young man and his maid when their time is ripe.’ Manfred, those scowls are uncalled for! What was I saying? He was like a youth courting his girl with engaging words. But I knew that words are one thing, the heart another. After touring those places with me, we were back in Jerusalem. Extending his hand toward Jerusalem, he said, ‘This is no city. It’s a desert, an eternal desert that sprouts earlocks, old men in frock coats stiff as Jerusalem stone, and even its sun is arid as stone.’ After he finished what he had to say about Jerusalem, he started on me. He shook his head at me and said, ‘Imagine, a young girl sitting here, lonely and solitary in this arid desert, under this arid sun, not enjoying what’s been created for her.’ I wanted to say, ‘No, sir, I’m neither young nor lonely,’ but his voice was so lulling that I didn’t say a word. Manfred, I see you are bored. No? Then I’ll continue. So I sat in silence while he sat and talked. He said roughly this: ‘The lady is alone because she ignores those who seek her company.’ All the time he was talking, he held something in his hand — not a cigar, for a cigar is quite thick, but this object was even thicker. All the time, the object kept swinging. Not on its own; the one who held it kept swinging it. I said to myself: I’ll look and see what’s in his hand. I looked and saw it was a whip — a small whip, but even a small whip is a whip. I began to be afraid he would strike me with the whip. He swings the whip without noticing that I’m afraid. I become more and more terrified that he may strike me — more precisely that he will surely strike me. He has only to extend his hand, swing the whip, and strike. With all my strength, I stare at the whip. He leads the whip this way, then that way and I am in terror. I didn’t have the strength to get up. I was too weak to run. What could I do? I could call for help, but even if I was saved from his clutches, I wouldn’t be saved from gossip. If he wants to hit me, let him hit me; I’m sure he won’t kill me. This gentleman — the one we’ve been discussing, the one I’ve been telling you about — is slowly being transformed. His face is malevolent, and there is an evil glare in his eyes. As he gazes at me, malevolently, I see he is reading my mind. I sit there, unable to stir. Every limb contracts. And he — the one I’m telling you about — sits opposite me, staring through those malevolent eyes. And they — those eyes — continue to be transformed, to blaze and glow. I’m not saying his eyes were appealing, but they were powerful. Some serpents immobilize their prey with such eyes. My eyes were drawn to his, so that I forgot the whip and the fear. I knew only that my limbs relaxed. Manfred, are you sleeping? It’s not nice to sit with a woman wringing your paws like a bereaved bear.” Herbst produced a rasping growl that seemed to mean: Tell me more.