The bus began to move, unlike Manfred’s thoughts. Fused and confused, they nestled like a cloud within a cloud, like layer within layer of desert, with Manfred in their midst. He wasn’t really there with his wife. He was far away; and far, far away was Shira’s house. She was at home. She was wearing a sleeveless shirt and shorts; her arms and knees were bare. She said, “Manfred, dear,” and a sweet quiver spread through his body. He sat across from her, counting her freckles.
Tamara asked, “Why are you staring at me, Father?” Manfred said, “Am I staring at you?” Tamara said, “You’ve been gaping at me for an hour now.” Manfred said, “Why would I stare at you?” Tamara said, “That’s just what I was asking.” Henrietta said, “Let him be, Tamara. His mind is on his books.” Tamara said, “Why don’t you write novels, Manfred?” “Novels?” Tamara said, “If you wrote novels, I would read them, and I’d get to know you.” Her father said, “And why don’t you write novels?” Tamara said, “I leave that to the waitresses who write poems and fairy tales. This is such a long trip. It takes less time to get from Jericho to Jerusalem than from the bus station to Baka. Comrade,” she said, addressing the driver, “I see you enjoy my company.” The driver asked in surprise, “How is that?” Tamara said, “You’re taking so long. Would you give me a cigarette? My father doesn’t give me cigarettes. He thinks it’s unbecoming for his daughter to smoke in public.” Henrietta said, “Are you mad? Do you intend to smoke in the bus? Besides, didn’t the doctor forbid you to smoke?” Tamara said, “Hush, Henrietta, hush. Don’t mention the doctor. That could ruin the match.” Henrietta laughed and said, “What does one do with such a bizarre creature?” Tamara said, “Look, everyone, the bus is beginning to move! One, two, three, four / Who is it that walks on four? / Four, five, six, seven / A natural law set up in heaven. / A boy and a girl walk on four / When they walk as one with however-many more.”
Herbst tried to sort out his thoughts. He remembered forgotten things, and, remembering them, they became central to his thoughts. He suddenly recalled a pleasant fragrance and saw sheets of paper before his eyes. Not his notebooks, which gave off the smell of ink and tobacco, but the paper that waitress had given him, the one who wrote poems and fairy tales. He remembered the day Sarah was born and remembered all of that day’s events. He reflected: I doubt if anything that happened that day was as pleasurable to me as being in the restaurant and talking to that girl. Still, Herbst was annoyed at his wife for having invited her. He was annoyed for two reasons. First, because sometimes, when there was a guest, his wife wasn’t free to pay attention to him, and, when such a girl visits strangers, she is sure to require special attention. And second, when Henrietta is busy, she expects him to deal with guests, although he is involved with his work and his mind isn’t free for company. He hasn’t even found time to call Lisbet Neu, although her uncle has done him several favors. And when he was about to call her, he didn’t, because of Shira.
On another subject: Has Lisbet Neu left her job with that old bachelor? But why do I call him old, when he is no older than I am and, no doubt, looks younger, since he isn’t married. I will now put the world out of my mind and devote myself to my book. But will I be permitted to devote myself to it? As soon as people sense you are busy, they come and interrupt you. Since I published my chapter on the four rulings of Leo the Heretic, editors of all the quarterlies have been asking for articles. Even the National Library has sent me a book to review.
Herbst took out his notebook to see when the review was due and realized he hadn’t been given much time. Tomorrow he would probably be tired from the trip, and after that is Shabbat, when guests usually come. When do religious people have time to write their books? On Shabbat, they waste the day walking to a synagogue. “Personally, I don’t like religious people,” Shira said when we were walking on the new road to Beit Yisrael. “Fred,” Henrietta was saying, “get your things. This is our stop.”
Chapter four
When Herbst was in bed that night, he took out the book the National Library had asked him to review. After getting an overview of the book he read the jacket and noted: This book is right up my alley. It’s about Theodora, the empress described by Procopius as the whore who ruled Byzantium.
Herbst moved the lamp closer to his bed, adjusted the wick, and began reading. He found nothing new, but still he was interested. Because there was no new material, the task was not demanding. But something about it irritated him. He didn’t know what, which was all the more irritating. He mused: The author is certainly an expert and knows how to present his views convincingly. But…But…I’ll sleep on it, and tomorrow I’ll read more and find out.
The “but” that he couldn’t identify kept him from sleeping. Herbst was not short on imagination; he was not one to get stuck on details, unable to see the whole. Nor was he one of those who drown the truth in some hypothesis, who appear to be reviving forgotten times, whose words have the aura of poetry, but, since they are not poets, their books are neither poetry nor truth. In addition to these negative virtues, Herbst knew how to clarify the material he dealt with and how to make a concrete picture for himself, certainly in the field of Byzantine history, to which he had devoted considerable thought.
Herbst lay in bed picturing Theodora in action. This woman, whose early years were spent in a circus, was empress for twenty-one years, assigning tasks to her lieutenants as a director assigns roles to actors. She seated and deposed popes, patriarchs, viziers, and generals; arranged divorces and marriages; had total command of her subjects. She committed scores of murders. Her victims were almost all male. One would suppose that, having been degraded by men in her youth, she was determined to avenge herself when she achieved high position. The most violent ruler of her time, she intended to exercise her power over these men, as they had done when she was the inferior. In any case, late in life she behaved charitably, freeing young girls from the circus masters who owned them and maintaining homes for them.
After reviewing her behavior, he compared it with the behavior of her husband, Emperor Justinian. Justinian enacted laws of chastity, which she overruled. He forbade women to bathe with strange men, to go to circuses at night without an escort, or to spend the night away from home. Theodora, on the other hand, supported adulterous women, and her rulings favored them over their faithful husbands. As someone has rightly said, women should be grateful to Theodora. She secured many rights for them and should be regarded as an early champion of emancipation. If women were historians, they would recognize her as the first patron of women’s rights.
His thoughts about Theodora put other thoughts out of his mind. On the face of it, the author conveyed the essence of the subject, even analyzed it adequately. But, because of that undefined deficiency, Herbst decided to review the book at length, to the extent that space would allow. He didn’t know yet what he would write, but he considered it his duty as a scholar to write about this book. Not because of its significance, but because of similar books that take a historic period, a scholar, a poet, an emperor, or a pope as their subject. One who is not an expert finds in them a mix of history and poetry, but in truth they are neither history nor poetry. As for this particular book, although it provided an adequate picture of the period, it was no different from all the others.