Herbst had a collection of Baedekers he was proud of. His pride may have been due to the careless comment of a Scandinavian, one of Strindberg’s last surviving friends, who remarked about Herbst’s collection that not even Strindberg had a better one. He searched but didn’t find the volume, and he remembered it had been borrowed by Sacharson. It was more than a year since Sacharson had borrowed it, and he hadn’t bothered to bring it back. “What a pig,” Herbst said, “to borrow a book and not return it. When I’m done with him, he’ll forget his conversion certificate. But first I have to scold myself. Fool that I am, I should have learned from experience. I once lent someone the Baedeker of Palestine, and it was returned to me without the map of Jerusalem.” Henrietta said, “It’s possible he took the map out for convenience and forgot to put it back.” Manfred said, “If you want to give people the benefit of the doubt, fine. But not when it comes to borrowing books. I’ll have to get Sacharson to return my Baedeker. Now, Henriett, am I released from the ban?” “What ban?” “The ban on smoking.” Henrietta said, “If you must smoke, then smoke. But not the black ones, please.” Manfred laughed and said, “Why is that? Because they have a pinch of mandrake, or because they have no mandrake?” Henrietta said, “What’s so funny about mandrake?” Manfred said, “Have you forgotten the erotic properties of mandrake?” Henrietta said, “To think that the father of a married daughter and of another whose hand is being sought in marriage is making such jokes! But who can blame you — you are young, truly young. If we were Yemenites, I myself would find you another wife.” Manfred said, “You? You would find me another wife?” Henrietta said, “Why not?” Manfred said, “I don’t think a European woman could do that.” “Do what?” “Yield her position to another woman.” Henrietta said, “You’ve forgotten the wife of the teacher from Beit Hakerem.” Manfred said, “To whom are you referring?” Henrietta said, “I think what I said was clear.” Manfred said, “One thing is clear, there is a neighborhood in Jerusalem known as Beit Hakerem. Many teachers live in Beit Hakerem, some of whom are clearly married, and it is also clear that, though what you said is crystal clear, the heart of the matter isn’t clear at all.” Henrietta said, “I know you remember the story, but you want to hear it from me.” Manfred’s eyes twinkled with repressed laughter as he said, “If so, all the more reason why you are required to tell it.” “Required? I don’t like requirements.” Manfred caught her by the chin and said, “Nu, nu, tell me.” Henrietta said, “Don’t you remember? We were walking in Beit Hakerem, and you were thirsty. We went into a house for water and found a young woman with a baby in her arms.” Manfred said, “A sign within a sign. A young woman with a baby in her arms.” Henrietta said, “It seems to me that you know a woman who isn’t so young with a baby in her arms. If you want me to speak, don’t interrupt.” Manfred said, “And then?” Henrietta said, “Why should I repeat things you know as well as I do?” Manfred said, “What do you care? So then the woman said, ‘I can’t go with my husband because the children are small.’“ Henrietta said, “You remember every word, yet you let me wear out my tongue. Do you want to bore us both?” Manfred said, “If I ask you, what’s it to you if you do as I ask? Do you have some special reason not to tell?” Henrietta said, “What reason could there be?” Manfred said, “Then tell me.” Henrietta said, “So the woman continued, ‘On a teacher’s salary, I can’t afford to hire help. What’s the solution? My husband could have two wives. When he is out with one, the other one could look after the child, and then they would switch.’“ Manfred said, “De jure but not de facto.” Henrietta said, “What do you mean, ‘de jure but not de facto’?” Manfred said, “Those are common terms, meaning ‘easier said than done.’ What woman could see her husband in someone else’s arms and be silent? In any case, I wouldn’t subject my wife to such a test.” Henrietta said, “Do you ever have such thoughts?” Manfred said, “Me? What are you saying? Me, God forbid.” Henrietta said, “You stuck another cigarette in your mouth. You still have one, and you’re reaching for more. Another woman, in my place, would see that as symbolic.” Manfred pressed his palms against each other, folded them over his heart, closed his eyes, and crooned a song:
I am tender, my heart pure,
No trace of sin in it;
Only you forevermore,
My sweet Henriett;
Only you forevermore,
My sweet Henriett.
Chapter seven
The play didn’t develop. Not for lack of imagination alone did it fail to develop, nor because the material was insufficiently dramatic, but something seemingly trivial interfered with the creation of the tragedy. The insipid jingles with which Tamara filled her postcards had an adverse effect on Herbst. On the one hand, he considered them meager and empty; on the other, they led him to look at verses written by poets who weren’t real poets but, inasmuch as they had a command of the language and could rhyme, were regarded as poets. Because he gave these works too much attention, it occurred to him that he could set the story of Antonia and Yohanan in romance or ballad form. Dr. Herbst was mistaken to think that, having written a scholarly paper in Hebrew, he would be able to turn out romances and ballads. What happened in the end was that seven times he dipped his pen in ink without producing a single verse. After several attempts, he gave up on Hebrew and turned his pen to the left, intending to write his romances and ballads in German. An odd thing happened. This scholar — born and educated in Germany, author of a six-hundred-page tome and many essays in German, who spoke German to his wife and most of his friends, who thought in German — when he was about to pour his lyrical musings into German verse, found neither the words nor the form. Herbst was caught between two tongues. When he tried writing in Hebrew, it seemed German would be more responsive; when he tried German, it seemed Hebrew would be more responsive. In fact, neither language responded. The Hebrew wouldn’t come; the German fled. Herbst went to the shelf where things he no longer used were stored, took out his old pipe and cleaned it well, dissected several cigarettes, filled the pipe with tobacco, and sat on his chair smoking away, smoking and thinking: I’ll go back to the beginning and write the tragedy in simple prose, neither rhymed nor metered. He was confident, since the plot, the time, and the place were clear to him, that nothing would prevent him from writing the tragedy. He took out a new notebook and wrote the names of the characters. Then he drew a map of the house and the courtyard, including something he hadn’t thought of originally, which added interest: a drawing of the leper colony in which Antonia’s slave lived out his final years. His drawing of the place was so successful that he feared his dreams would be haunted by what he had pictured when awake. Oddly enough, although he thought a great deal about the leper colony and the faithful slave who spent his final days there, at night Herbst saw neither the slave nor the leper colony.