Shira smoothed her shirt, touched her thumb to one of her freckles, and sat watching Dr. Herbst. She watched him for a long time, her eyes growing bigger and bigger. Herbst sat with Shira like a man who sees that his downfall is imminent and there is no way to avert it. He shifted from one foot to the other, let his shoulders droop, and stood ready to submit. After a while, since Shira hadn’t said a word, he thought to himself: What will be will be, but I ask only one thing — that she not mention my wife. As Shira sat in silence, not saying a word, he repeated to himself: Why is she so silent, why doesn’t she speak, why doesn’t she say something to me? Shira remained silent, giving no sign that she intended to speak.
All of a sudden, she stirred and said in a singsong, like a woman telling some old tale, “Now let’s go back to the beginning. He said I should close my eyes and try to sleep, that he would sit beside me. I said I was afraid it would take too long and be boring. If I hadn’t interrupted, he might have added, ‘How can anyone be bored in Shira’s presence?’ So much for that. Let’s deal with another matter. I didn’t serve him cholent, and the cognac I offered never appeared. Now, all the evil spirits in the world will not keep me from pouring him a drink.”
She straightened up and, moving gracefully, with a youthful stride, went to the chest. She took out a bottle and a glass, poured a drink, and said, “Have some. As a licensed nurse, I can guarantee that this drink is harmless.” “And what about Shira?” Herbst asked in a whisper. “If he insists, I’ll drink with him.” She went to get another glass, poured herself a few drops, lifted her glass, and said, “L’hayim, doctor, l’hayim.” She drank up and was about to refill his glass when Herbst cried in alarm, “No, no, no!” She glanced at him, and in a flash she understood: He is afraid I will drink to his wife.
She stood over him, her arm on his shoulder, and declared, “Dr. Herbst is a baby.” Earlier, when he had held her hand, it was cold. Now it was warm, so much so that he felt it through his clothes. He grabbed her hand and held it in his. Shira withdrew it and, stroking his head, remarked, “What a full head of hair, like a young man’s.” Herbst said, “I meant to get a haircut.” She said, “It’s just as well. I prefer a full head of hair.” Herbst brushed his hand over her head and said, “Then why does she cut her own hair?” She said, “Did I say I like my own hair? That’s not what I said.” While she was talking, he brushed her cheek with his hand. As his hand brushed her cheek, fingering its freckled surface, the blood rushed to his hand, emitting flashes of violent fire that stemmed from his blazing blood. Shira closed her eyes, opened them again, and stared at him. A bond seemed to stretch between her eyes, not a bond of curiosity, as before, but more like the bond that marks a woman whose heart has turned to love, who would give her life for love. She tilted her head to the left, and her eyes turned toward him, studying him obliquely, fixing themselves there, unswerving.
I will stop in the middle, leaping over those things that transpired between him and her, and continue to relate what followed, that is to say, after Manfred Herbst took leave of Shira.
Chapter five
What happened then? Manfred Herbst left Shira and went on his way, not knowing if he was happy or sad. But he was perplexed. How could he not be perplexed? He, the father of two daughters, the husband of a fine woman with whom he lives amicably, is on his way back from a woman he met in a telephone booth and was drawn to follow home, staying from early evening until past midnight. Despite all this, he sees no change in himself. Nor has there been any change in the world.
The small filigreed streetlamps, designed to bestow romantic sleep on the city — by a shortsighted mayor who regarded himself as the last scion of the Crusaders and prided himself on doing as they did — these small beacons gave off light that was scarcely visible. Though Jerusalem already had electricity, it was expensive, and most people used kerosene. The city was quiet; there was not a person in sight. Earlier, when we were seeing Shira home, there was not the image of a person in sight; now there was not even the image of an image. Who is it who said, “In Jerusalem, if you see anyone stirring about at night, he is heading for the safety of home”? Now I am the one seeking the safety of home.
Herbst has already left Shira’s street. He is winding his way through the alleys that serve as shortcuts. Alley bites alley, lane is joined to lane, yard to yard. And from alley to alley, from lane to yard, you imagine you are back where you started, that you will have to retrace your steps and find another way out. But we are fortunate, for, along with the earth under us, we have sky, moon, stars above, so that, when we look up, we are never lost. Herbst looked up at the sky, oriented himself, and found the intersection from which a broad street led to the upper valley and to his house.
By now, other winds were blowing, cool winds from Talpiot, where the good winds gather to give life to the entire region. On such a night, at such an hour, when Herbst happened to come home and find restful quiet pervading every rock, every mound, every hill, breezes blowing and bringing with them the fragrance of cypresses, pine, garden flowers, wild grasses, desert plants, cool earth, his heart was tranquil and his soul soared. Now his mind was distracted, his heart impassive, his soul in turmoil. When Herbst happened to be coming home from an academic meeting or lecture on such a night and at such an hour, he would take short steps, enjoying every breath. Now he was running, though there was no one waiting for him at home, no one to ask where he had been and why he was late. Earlier would have been better. Why, he didn’t know.
His thoughts suddenly shifting to his wife, he speculated: While I was with Shira, my wife could have given me a son or a daughter. “No!” Herbst shouted. “The good Lord wouldn’t do such a thing!” Herbst lifted his head toward the sky, as if to probe God’s mysterious ways. The skies were pure; the stars were in place, showing no trace of evil design. But Herbst’s mood was foul, more so than at first, for it occurred to him that, while he was with Shira, his wife could have had a difficult delivery and died. He pulled off his hat and crumpled it angrily. Among his numerous thoughts, not one was of sorrow, grief, sympathy for his wife. His were thoughts of revenge, retribution, recompense for his malice and villainy. All of a sudden he laughed derisively and said to himself, still laughing: Now, Manfredchen, all you need is for that freckled one to come and say, “Now that your wife is dead and you are without a wife, take me as your wife.” Where is my hat? My God, I left it at Shira’s. He didn’t realize he was holding it. When he realized his hat was in his hand, he recovered, and his thoughts were once more with Henrietta. You are a good woman, Henriett, you’re a good woman, Henriett, he singsonged sadly. You were with me, and you are with me now. You raised the girls, you made me a home, looked after my interests, seeing that I did my work, not letting me be distracted by these troubled times. And when we began to be discouraged about my academic prospects, you never came to me with recriminations or complaints. You gave me support and kept me from joining that thwarted lot that degrades itself through gossip and slander. After all this, that woman could come and say, “Take me as your wife.” But the choice is mine, and what Miss Shira wants is not what I want. An evil spirit responded, saying: If so, if the choice is yours, where were you an hour ago, when Henrietta was in the throes of labor? And what will you do when Shira informs you that she is carrying your child? No need to worry about that. Women like Shira protect themselves. If she was careless, there are ways to terminate a pregnancy. And if she wants to have the child, there are places in the world where no one asks the mother if she is properly married. In any case, Shira is not one of those who attach themselves to a man against his will. And, in any case, from now on I will never again darken her doorstep.