The Retrospective: Translated From the Hebrew by Stuart Schoffman Read Online Free Page B

still excited to meet her, maybe to seize the connection before she is forever forgotten. Moses puts his napkin on his plate and hangs his scarf on the chair to indicate imminent return, and hurries back to the room, which Ruth has tidied up. He inspects
Roman Charity,
still hoping to discover the name of the artist, but to no avail.
    Before returning to the dining room, he inquires at the reception desk about the reproduction of the painting hanging by his bed. Who was the artist, when was it originally painted, and in what museum may it be found? The desk clerk writes down his room number and the location of the picture and asks him to describe it, and Moses obliges.
    â€œIf the picture is disturbing to you, sir, we can replace it by this afternoon—”
    â€œNo, on the contrary, I like it, it’s very nice, but also quite intriguing.”
    It will be difficult to find a quick answer, but the desk clerk promises to forward the question to the director of the cathedral’s museum.
    On his way back to the table, Moses asks the waitress for another cup of coffee. At the table, the two women are deep in conversation. “All right, then,” says Moses, “let’s get going and see the cathedral.”
    â€œBut wait,” insists Ruth, “which films were picked for our retrospective?” Linking herself, as usual, to Moses.
    â€œWhat’s the difference,” Moses says in Hebrew, “we know our own films.”
    â€œBut if we have to explain, or defend them . . .”
    â€œDefend?” Moses pats her arm affectionately. “You mean discuss them. But even if we need to defend them, so what? We won’t know how to defend what we created?”
    Pilar pulls out a piece of paper with the titles in Spanish of the three films to be screened that day, improvising their translation into English, and the visitors do not recognize a single one. “You’re sure these are ours?” asks Moses with a laugh. “Or did you bring someone else’s films by mistake?”
    It turns out that here in Spain, foreign films are freely assigned titles that appeal to the local audience. It takes a bit of wit and ingenuity to excavate the old titles hiding behind the new. There has been no mistake. These are indeed Moses’ films, from the dawn of his career, forgotten films made in full collaboration with Trigano.
    â€œWhy did you pick such ancient films of mine?”
    â€œFor you they are ancient,” says Pilar, “but not for us. We have silent films here in which the mother of de Viola, the director of our archive, performed as an actress.”
    â€œShe’s still alive?”
    â€œBarely. But if she feels well enough, she will personally present you with the award you’ve been promised.”
6
    â€œI F THESE ARE today’s films,” says Moses to Ruth as they walk into the giant square, whose majestic emptiness in daylight is no less glorious than its nakedness at night, “we won’t be able to go shopping during the screenings. We’ll have to sit in the dark and try and remember the details, or we won’t be able to answer the audience’s questions intelligently.”
    The day is cold and bright. The plaza is lined by imposing palaces, which Pilar identifies by name—Palacio de Rajoy, where the mayor will soon receive them for an official visit, and the former Colegio de San Jerónimo, today the Institute of Galician Studies, whose rector, says Pilar, hopes to honor them with his presence at one of the screenings. And of course the massive cathedral itself, built atop a Romanesque church, its towers looming above a grand quadruple flight of stairs, the battered, greenish steps leading to the entrance. An aficionado of European cathedrals, Moses enjoys the novel experience of a long climb from ground level to the towering church. At the northern face of the cathedral stands a statue of Santiago, Saint James, one of