Herbst was in the midst of a vexing muddle. He had already given up on the gratification implicit in staying with Shira. Now all he wanted was to talk. He had nothing specific to say to her, but it was hard for him to let her go. He wanted to engage her in conversation in order to hold on to her, another hour, another half an hour. He remembered Anita Brik and was about to make her a topic of conversation. Before he had a chance to set his tongue in motion, she was forgotten. He recalled Shira’s disdainful remarks about the Hasidim, among them the statement that no one had ever accused her of neglecting them in the hospital, and was going to bring up the subject of sympathies and antipathies — how they don’t always govern our actions. Before he said a word, he forgot what was in his mind. Various other matters muddled his thoughts. Before being transformed into words, they were lost in a muddle. He remembered his students: that he had invited her to sit with them and listen to their talk about language and poetry, and she had refused to join them. He said to her, “Do you ever read essays or articles about authors and books?” Shira said, “Why all of a sudden?” Herbst said, “It’s not so sudden. I’m asking because you rejected the opportunity to hear a discussion of poetry.” Shira said, “I was tired, and I’m still tired.” Herbst said, “Yes, Shira, you are tired. Still, you could answer my question.” Shira said, “What did you ask?” Herbst said, “When a good book about poetry or poets comes your way, do you read it?” Shira said, “Why read books about books?” Herbst said, “A good essay can sharpen a reader’s perception of a poem.” Shira said, “If I can read the poems themselves, why bother with the critics’ opinions? If I can master something with my own mind, why do I need other people’s?” Herbst said, “True, but they might reveal meanings you wouldn’t be aware of on your own.” Shira shrugged her shoulders and said, “You know something, Manfred? Since my teeth grew in, I’ve been in the habit of chewing my own food. Dear doctor, I see that metaphor seems crude to you, so I won’t speak in metaphor. From the day I learned to read, I read without inviting critics and essayists to chew the words of storytellers or poets beforehand and thrust the results into my mouth.” Herbst said, “You don’t admit that there are some things essayists and critics can elucidate for us?” Shira said, “My dear Manfred, when I was in nursing school and my fellow students used to sit around discussing the professors, the doctors, and the head nurses, I paid no attention. I haven’t changed in this respect, even now that I’m a licensed nurse. Their chatter and opinions had no effect on the doctors’ behavior. What they had in common was the fact that they all went right on doing what they did, and, since the nurses were so used to the doctors, they went right on making them the subject of their conversation.”
Herbst was at a loss for words. His tongue set itself in motion, uttering nothing. Herbst knew that at some point he would challenge her, but there was no way to eradicate her opinions. Your metaphors are certainly crude, Miss Shira, Herbst thought to himself. “Good night,” Shira said, her key in hand. “Good night,” Herbst answered. Shira said, “I should have stopped by the pharmacy.” Herbst said, “Then let’s go back.” Shira said, “I can’t.” “Why?” “Why? Because I’m too tired.” Herbst said, “Say the word and I’ll go.” Shira said, “My dear doctor, I’ll forgo the pharmacy and you’ll forgo the good deed.”
Chapter fifteen
As always when coming from Shira’s, he made his way on foot. Although the roads were desolate because of Arab shells, and Herbst was not without imagination, it didn’t occur to him that the perils that menaced others menaced him as well.
The bus was still running. In fact, service was more frequent, so those in outlying districts who had to congratulate a friend on some joyous occasion and couldn’t call on him on Shabbat because of the distance could go in the evening. But Herbst, as always, was on foot. His mind was brimming with the day’s events, and he didn’t want to be distracted by the crowd on the bus.
Sacharson attached himself to Herbst. Before he could hide from him, there he was. Enraged, Herbst lowered his eyelids and reflected: Only the devil could calculate the precise moment when just about anyone would be unwelcome and then proceed to inflict this nut on me. But he said, “I’m glad I ran into you, Mr. Sacharson. My daughter Tamara went to Greece, and her mother would like to trace her route. If you’re done with the Baedeker and no longer need it, I would like to have it back. Right now, if possible.” Hell, he was annoyed with himself. That nut deserves to be scolded for not returning my book, and I pamper him with words as if I’m asking a favor.
Sacharson smiled abjectly, which was how he responded when he saw someone stumble, and scratched his mouth to camouflage the smile, as he always did at such times. While scratching his lip, his fingers found their way into his mouth, and he began to gnaw at his nails. It was a dark night, and one couldn’t really distinguish his fingernails from his skin, so it wasn’t necessary to camouflage the smile. But, out of habit, he scratched his lip and gnawed at his nails. After spitting out some bits of nail, he coughed to clear his throat and threw out a word, as if adding to what had already been said. It was Sacharson’s style to begin in the middle, as if he were adding to a previous statement. After he had talked for a while, Herbst perked up and said, “You mentioned Norway. What does Norway have to do with us?”