Shira took a bunch of keys from her purse. In the light from the window of the house across the way, she chose a key and opened the door for Herbst. Standing at the entry, she said, “Wait a minute. I’ll go in and turn on a light. Or would it be better to go in while it’s dark and close the door before turning on the light, to keep out mosquitoes and sand flies?” Herbst nodded and said, “Let’s close the door first and then turn on the light.”
They entered the room in darkness. Shira dropped her purse on the bed, along with the keys, and said, “I opened the door with the wrong key.” She groped for a match, then turned on the lamp. “Success! Three cheers for success!” Herbst said — as if it were remarkable to succeed with the first match.
Herbst was now in Shira’s room. There was a bed, a table, a chair, a closet, a chest with five or six books on it, and above it the Böcklin painting with the skull. Two windows overlooked the street and the neighboring houses. There was also a door, covered with a curtain, that led to the kitchen. The scent of coffee mixed with burnt alcohol wafted through the room. Everything was in perfect order, though it didn’t seem as if a guest was expected. Nor did Shira seem to be paying attention to the guest she had brought.
Shira lowered the blinds on both windows, taking her time, as if no one else were there. Finally, she turned toward Herbst and said, “My room is small, but it’s mine.” She sat on the edge of her bed, still wearing the turban, and said to herself: What was I going to do? Try the key and see if it fits the lock…. I’ll leave that for tomorrow. She suddenly looked up at Herbst, gave him a long, searching look, reached out wearily, and pointed to the chair without telling him to sit down. Though she sat down and took off her turban, Herbst remained standing. She waved the turban at him and said, “Why not sit down. Here’s a chair.” Herbst said, “Should the lady wish to change her clothes, I can turn the other way.” Shira said, “That’s a fine idea. If the professor doesn’t mind, I will go and change my clothes.”
She got up from the bed, went to the closet, and stood behind the open door, lingering as long as she lingered, then appeared in dark blue slacks and a thin shirt. Herbst looked at her and was astonished: now that she was in male attaire, her masculine quality seemed to fade. She sat down on the bed again, and he sat on the chair between the table and the bed. His mind remained fixed on this miracle, this miraculous reversaclass="underline" when she took off her dress, which was womanly attire, her masculinity was dispelled. As that thought became more and more dim and as his mind became vacant, once again everything was concrete and once again he saw Shira as she was, namely, in those particular dark blue slacks and in that particular thin shirt. He saw her, not face to face, but in a vision. He remained in this state of mind but started when he heard Shira say, “One can assume the professor would not like tea, having just had some in the café. If so, I’ll pour us some cognac.” She got up and bent down to get the cognac from the chest. Then, straightening up, she said, “Dr. Herbst is a smoker, right? Here are cigarettes, matches, an ashtray.” She took a box from the table, opened it, and said: “I haven’t tried these yet, but the company that makes them wouldn’t turn out inferior cigarettes. Most important, I trust the source.”
Herbst asked himself: Who is it that gives this woman cigarettes she is so confident about? The question exploded in his mind. He, no doubt, brought the cigarettes to her room. Yes, to her room. And when he brought them to her room, he was obviously in the room, as I am now. And when he was in her room, she sat on the bed as she did a few minutes ago. And he too may have suggested that she change her clothes. And when she changed, she changed into those slacks and that shirt, those blue slacks and that thin shirt. His heart was suddenly heavy, his shoulders drooped, his eyes began to sweat, and he felt as if his head had been hit with a metal pole. He was caught in a muddle of hate and envy, hating the shade of dark blue that enclosed her hips and belly, the shirt that pressed against her heart, and envying the cigarette giver, who had been here in this room in this place with this woman while she changed into those slacks and that shirt. But his envy and hatred were short-lived. They had appeared suddenly and vanished just as suddenly, leaving panic in his heart.
Those familiar with Dr. Manfred Herbst’s character might wonder at this degree of emotion, and even he wondered about himself — how he had suddenly become excited to the point of altered sensibilities. Nonetheless, as if to protest against those cigarettes, he took out a battered pack and lit one of his own.
Meanwhile, Shira had made herself at home on her bed. Realizing she was tired and in need of rest, she reached for a pillow, which she propped up between her head and the wall, taking no notice of what had happened. When Herbst lit his cigarette, which was not one of hers, she let the pillow slip, looked at him, bewildered, and said, “What is it, doctor? Is there something wrong with my cigarettes?” Herbst shook his head and said, “No, no, no.” He grasped her hand reassuringly, as if it were the way of the world, when one turns down a woman’s cigarette, to comfort her by taking her hand. Now that her hand was in his, he took the other one too. Her hands were cold and his were warm.
Herbst knew he was behaving childishly, that this was, no doubt, apparent on his face, that he was surely ridiculous, that Shira knew he was ridiculous and was laughing to herself at his expense. Herbst, like those who always behave properly but suddenly do something improper, was afraid of appearing ridiculous. He let go of her hands and relit his cigarette, for it had gone out. When it was lit, he set it down, turned back toward Shira, moistened his lips with his tongue, and stared at her. He saw not a trace of ridicule. On the contrary, her face was opaque. Or, as they say in modern Hebrew, her face was “serious.” In any case, Shira’s mind was elsewhere. Herbst stretched out his arm, his fingers open, like someone on the edge of despair who doesn’t know what to do. Shira was still in the same position, her head against the wall, her eyes closed. Whether or not you knew Shira, you could recognize that Shira was tired, that she was waiting for you to get up and go so she could entrust her weary limbs to sleep.
Herbst looked at her and said in a whisper, “Miss Shira is tired. I will go now so she can sleep.” Shira said, “I’m not tired. I don’t want to sleep, and there’s no reason to go.” Herbst said, “Then I have some advice to offer.” Shira covered her eyes and, peering through the cracks, said, “We’ll hear, then we’ll see.” Herbst said, “Miss Shira should stretch out and close her eyes.” Shira opened her eyes wide, stared at him with the aforementioned curiosity, and asked, “What will Dr. Herbst do meanwhile? Dr. Herbst will sit with Shira and sing her a lullaby? But Shira is afraid he’ll be bored. Besides, Shira is not a baby and Dr. Herbst, who is the father of two grown girls, may not remember any lullabies. It’s too bad that I don’t have a phone. We can’t call the maternity ward and check on Mrs. Herbst, who may have just now presented her lord and master with a glorious songbird. Dr. Herbst can see I am treating him as an adult. I haven’t mentioned the stork that brings babies from heaven.” Herbst was startled and began praying he would forget all that had transpired here. He looked at Shira, wishing that she too would erase from her heart all that had happened. Knowing this was a futile wish, a deep sigh erupted from his heart.