If that’s the case, Herbst thought, she’ll be back shortly, and another young woman will be added to those I already know. When your mind is on women, they begin to dangle before you like links in a chain, each one leading to another.
Herbst ran his hand through his hair and studied the girl, as though pondering something. Then he said, “I read two of your poems. If I’m not mistaken, one is entitled ‘The Goldfinch’ and the other ‘The Crane.’ They’re good poems; they’re both equally good.” She raised her head, turned to Herbst with a questioning look, and whispered, “Really?” “Yes, really,” Herbst said. “They’re quite good, with no extra words, and every phrase has integrity and grace.”
The young woman had put her poems out of mind. Now that they were being praised, she became as excited as she had been while writing them. Not many people had read her poems, only those to whom she had showed them. He had apparently read them on his own. Since she was a shy and lonely person, this seemed especially wonderful. Shira said to the young woman, “You write poetry? Then you are a poet.” She said, “That’s half-true. I write poems. As for being a poet, my dear Nurse Shira, that remains doubtful.” Herbst said, “That remains doubtful for most people who turn out poems. There are more poem writers than poets. As for you, my dear, there is no doubt that you are a poet. The two poems I read are evidence.” Shira said, “If my life depended on it, I wouldn’t know how to write a poem.” Herbst said, “You don’t need to know how. You have other talents, Miss Shira.” As he spoke, a faint tremor swept over him and he whispered, “Flesh such as yours will not soon be forgotten.” Shira asked, “What were you whispering?” Herbst said, “You’re mistaken, my dear. I wasn’t whispering. May I smoke in here? Or would it be better not to pollute the air?” Now, Herbst was thinking, I have provided another witness. One more person has seen me with Shira. I should have been careful not to address her so familiarly.
After they left the sick young woman, Shira asked Herbst, “How do you know Anita?” Herbst looked blank and asked, “Who is Anita?” She said, “Anita Brik.” Herbst said, “It’s strange, but I didn’t know her name was Anita Brik. I’ve seen her twice and talked to her, but it never occurred to me that her name was Anita Brik. Nor did it occur to me to ask her name.”
Shira laughed heartily and said, “Didn’t you tell Anita that you had read her poems? If you didn’t know her name, how did you know those were her poems?” Herbst laughed and said, “You’ve stumped me, Shira. I’m sorry not to have a proper answer. From now on, Shira, from now on I’ll be more careful and precise. I won’t cause problems. Are you pleased with me, Shira? Are you pleased with my promise?”
Herbst suddenly stopped, took out a handkerchief, wiped his brow, and said, “You put a bug up my nose.” Shira said, “You must have gotten it out by now.” Herbst said, “I got it out, and it came back.” Shira stared at him and said gently, “What’s the matter, what’s the matter?” Herbst put the handkerchief back in his pocket and said, “I ask myself, Why is she so hostile?” Shira said, “Even if I were seventy-seven times smarter, I wouldn’t know who ‘she’ is or what sort of hostility you have in mind.” Herbst lowered his voice and said, “I ask myself how you got to be so consumed with hostility toward the Hasidim.” Shira said, “Hostility? What does it have to do with hostility?” Herbst said, “Then is it love that flows from your tongue?” Shira said, “In any case, in all of Jerusalem there is no one who would say that Shira the nurse neglects any of her patients and denies them the attention they need or that she favors some patients at the expense of others.” Herbst said, “You generalize about their behavior; you are thoroughly contemptuous and disdainful. Have you never heard about their good deeds? I assume that even you know the story about the righteous man who used to get out of bed on cold winter nights, dress up like a farmer, and carry bundles of wood to the homes of needy women who were in labor.” Shira said, “So he was doing social work.” Herbst said, “But, Shira, in his time there were no social-work agencies.” Shira said, “In any case, I don’t understand why that rebbe had to dress up as a farmer, and so on. Couldn’t he find someone who would deliver the wood to those poor women? It would make whoever he hired to deliver the wood a little bit richer, and he could add some radish, onion, and garlic to his own meal and that of his family.” Herbst said, “Are you joking, Shira?” Shira said, “I’m not joking, but the fact is, I’m not impressed with good works that depend on tricks. I’m not especially fond of good works and commandments anyway, certainly not the ones the Orthodox live by. The way they see it, everything is a mitzvah. Fill your belly with meat, fish, bread — it’s a mitzvah. Eat greasy kugel, preceded and followed by wine — it’s a mitzvah. Slither into your wife — yet another mitzvah. So much for them and their mitzvahs, which don’t interest me.”
With a wave of her hand, Shira dismissed the subject. She had already replaced her disdainful expression with the relaxed look of a hard-working woman who has cast off workaday burdens for a while and is enjoying a leisurely stroll, relishing each step and every sight. Herbst trailed along beside her, deep in thought, reexamining ideas he had always accepted without question. Shira, who had brought this on, was also subjected to his scrutiny. Those who know their friends well and are attuned to their thinking are fortunate; their conversation is always pleasant and reassuring. But friends who suddenly express opinions we never expected to hear from them are bewildering to us as well as to themselves, as if they have been transformed, reborn in a new guise. I already mentioned that, in those dark days when Herbst stayed away from Shira, when he was in such an agitated state, he used to think uncharacteristic thoughts — thoughts to which he was unaccustomed — including thoughts about the women with whom he had studied at various universities. I mentioned that some of them had become prominent and that he was alarmed when he ran into them at scholarly meetings, talked to them again, and realized they were different from him, that they were actually female. He was upset by their existence and by the fact that they had reverted to their essential nature. The opposite was true of Shira. Shira, who had always been woman to him and nothing more, had all of a sudden assumed a spiritual aspect; she possessed thoughts and opinions. What sort of opinions? Opinions that were totally new to him. But he was uneasy, not because they were expressed in vulgar terms, not because, as I observed, those who know their friends well and are attuned to their thinking are fortunate, et cetera, but because he was in public with a strange woman and anyone who saw them together would think the worst. In any case, it was good that Tamara was traveling in Greece. If she were here, he might run into her when he was with Shira. As he walked on, pondering, he turned to Shira and said, “I have something to tell you, Shira.” Shira said, “Only one thing?” Herbst said, “For the moment, only one thing.” “And later?” Herbst suddenly had a change of heart and, feeling some sort of pang, answered, “It depends on you and your affection.” Shira said, “What is it that my lord requests?” Herbst said, “Remember the café that belonged to that fellow who sent his waitress a wedding cake? Let’s stop in and refresh ourselves with some coffee.” Shira said, “You’re such an optimist. In Jerusalem, if a man does something well, he will certainly not survive. That café is no longer his. It has changed hands several times. After losing everything, he asked his relatives in America for a certificate, which they sent. He left, and, for all we know, he is doing there what he didn’t succeed in doing here. Also, it’s Shabbat, and all the cafés are closed.” Herbst said, “What now?” Shira said, “So what now? What should we do? You’ll go to your house, and I’ll go to mine.” Seeing the gloom on Herbst’s face, Shira shifted her tone and said, “Believe me, Manfred, I would invite you to my room, but I’m tired. I was up all night, and, when I got home in the afternoon and flopped on my bed, someone rang my bell and woke me up, and after that you came. Besides, I’m not well. I’m not sick, but I’m not well either. Please don’t ask questions.” Herbst said, “Then do we have to part?” Shira said, “If you insist, I could walk with you for a while.” Herbst said, “If you’re not feeling well, how can you walk?” Shira said, “Leave that to me.” Herbst said, “I see that I’m irritating you.” Shira said, “Perhaps.” Herbst asked, “To such an extent?” Shira said, “If you really want to know, think about your words before you say them.” Herbst lowered his head and was silent.