Meanwhile, events are transpiring in the Herbst household that not everyone in the household is pleased with. It’s time for lunch. Everyone is hungry and anxious to eat, but lunch can’t be served, because Ursula isn’t there. They sit and wait until they can wait no longer, because of hunger and because of the dishes. If they put off eating, Henrietta or Tamara will have to do the dishes, since it’s impossible to ask Firadeus to stay and do them. They suddenly hear the sound of a car stopping at the house. A driver comes in and brings a note from Ursula, informing them that she won’t be back for lunch: her employer has invited her to eat with him at the King David Hotel. She hopes they will enjoy their meal without her. Ursula returns in the evening, in her employer’s car. She comes in and tells them what she ate and drank and everything that gentleman told her. He didn’t discuss politics, but his conversation was very pleasant. The Arabs have such elegant ways. They know how to order dinner, and they are equally adept with drinks. When you sit with a gentleman of that sort, watching him lift his glass and drink his fill, you are convinced that the notion that Arabs are forbidden to drink wine was fabricated by Christians or Jews. There is one problem: his brother-in-law, Abdullah, a partner in the business, who is trying to take it over and would like her to come and work for him. This would not be fair at all, since it was Mr. Mustafa who hired her, not Mr. Abdullah.
Meanwhile, everything proceeds in an orderly fashion. Ursula spends a given number of hours in Mustafa Effendi’s office, and they spend a given number of hours taking trips in his new car, which is more splendid than any other in the country. He shows her the city, its environs, his vineyards and gardens which produce fruit the likes of which she has never eaten before. She now understands that this is a truly blessed land. Despite all this, Ursula isn’t happy, because of Abdullah, Mustafa’s brother-in-law, who is trying to turn her against Mustafa and to convince her to come and work for him. She loathes the intrigue between the brothers-in-law and has decided that, unless the situation improves, she will quit. Even before she could quit, Tamara took her to the Histadrut, and she became a member. Which was extraordinary, for she was admitted, without excessive questioning, by an official who declared that such a competent worker should be working for us, not for others – certainly not for Arabs. This official was right to say that Ursula ought to be working for one of our institutions. But our institutions are, in fact, overstaffed, employing many useless individuals who aren’t fired only because they might disclose information against whoever fires them, forcing those in charge to resign rather than risk public humiliation. Another reason why more officials aren’t fired: because the general population detests our institutions, and officials who are fired tend to make trouble. It has already happened that an official was caught cheating and was fired on ethical grounds. He was snatched up by another company, which he now directs, using his position to damage the institution he originally served.
After Ursula was admitted to the Histadrut, Tamara took her to a café. They sat drinking cocoa and were joined by one of Tamara’s friends, a writer and journalist. Tamara told him that Ursula had been admitted to the organization and reported what the official had said about her: that Ursula should be working in our institutions, but that the jobs were all taken by lazy idlers. The writer said to them, “If I were writing a novel about this community, I would call it
The Cake Eaters
. I would describe all the gatherings attended by officials whose main function is to impress guests and to overeat. No doubt they do something between gatherings, but the real accomplishments are not theirs.”
Between the two events, between the time Ursula arrived at the Herbst household and the time Ursula was admitted to the Histadrut, Henrietta arrived at full term and was ready to give birth. Because I don’t know if I’ll get back to Ursula, I’ve told all about her, insofar as her affairs are linked to the tale of the Herbst household, which is an essential link in the tale of Dr. Herbst and the nurse Shira. Now I’ll return to the Herbst household and Henrietta Herbst’s delivery.
This delivery was different from the earlier ones, because, in this case, Tamara took her mother to Hadassah Hospital and arranged everything, sparing Manfred, the father, the excitement that is inevitable for a man when his wife gives birth. Father and daughter had agreed to this. It began in this way: Tamara heard about a woman who had read Tolstoy’s
Anna Karenina
and was so affected by the description of Levin’s torments the day his wife gave birth that, when it was time to deliver her own child, she hid the event from her husband, went to the hospital alone, gave birth, and informed her husband afterward. When Tamara heard this story, she decided she would do just that when she was married and about to give birth. Meanwhile, she did for her mother what she had decided she would do for herself.
As it happened, just when Henrietta and Tamara left for Hadassah Hospital, at one and the same time it happened that Herbst set out to look for Shira. It would have been better if these events hadn’t occurred at one and the same time – because of the moral aspects of this coincidence, because of its sensational aspects, because the affair of Herbst and Shira had begun similarly and its course had not run smoothly. So, just when Henrietta was admitted to the hospital, at that precise hour Manfred was walking down the alley Anita Brik had described to him. He was hesitant and hadn’t approached Shira’s place yet, but now he was ready to approach. He suddenly realized how bizarre it was, how ugly it was: a man’s wife is about to bear his child, and he is groveling at another woman’s door. But between consciousness and action, there are many twists and turns. Before long, Herbst was knocking at Shira’s door. The door, however, was new, and it didn’t respond. Six or seven times he knocked on the door, and no one opened it for him.
Chapter twenty-one
H
enrietta presented her husband with a healthy and sound baby. It was almost daylight when her son was born. She gave birth to her son with none of the anguish associated with childbirth, though he was large when he emerged from his mother. He weighed eight and a half pounds, unlike his sisters, who were successively smaller than each other and all smaller than he was. The obstetrician, who was afraid Mrs. Herbst might have a difficult birth, instructed the nurses to notify him as soon as she went into labor, as she would need special attention. Before they had time to inform him, the baby was born. The midwife, a young girl of about twenty-two, and two other young nurses were the only ones with her, except for the night nurse, who came to the delivery room after the birth.
Henrietta is the sort of woman who remains composed at all times and doesn’t like to indulge herself, even when she gives birth. As soon as she woke up from her sleep, she asked that a special messenger be sent to her home to announce that she had given birth to a son. If the messenger would like to take a taxi, he could take a taxi. If he is content with a bus, let him take a bus. It isn’t essential that they know instantly; it will be fine if they get the news even after an hour’s delay. As long as the messenger arrives by noon, which is when they generally leave the house.
An hour later, Papa Manfred appeared with Tamara. Or, to reverse it, Tamara appeared with Papa Manfred for Papa Manfred was bizarre. He actually didn’t know his left from his right, and, if not for Tamara, he wouldn’t have found the door to his wife’s room. Manfred was truly bizarre standing before his wife. His eyes were fixed less on his wife than on the door, and, when the door opened, he seemed anxious, pale, disappointed, desperate. They were allowed to spend a limited amount of time with the new mother, and even less time with the son. They probably weren’t allowed in to see him at all, but were led to a small opening from the hall to the nursery, where they could stand and peer at the newborn infant, swaddled in a white garment, lying in a woven cradle. It was hard to be sure he was human. In any case, Papa Manfred didn’t look at him and didn’t notice anything, as if determined to deprive his eyes of whatever they might see. But he was aware of the young nurse’s glance as she led him toward the nursery, and, when he became aware of her, he tried to dismiss her from his memory, along with the memory of the day he visited Bachlam when Bachlam was sick, when he asked that young nurse about Shira. To prevent these memories from taunting him, as they often did, he turned his mind to other days and other eras. First, to the time of Emperor Theodosius and his chamberlain Cocolus; then to Arcadius, who succeeded his father, Theodosius. Then back to that chamberlain, Cocolus, on whom they both depended, each for his own reasons. Herbst suddenly began to doubt that the chamberlain’s name was really Cocolus, because he didn’t remember an
l
in his name, and, if there was no
l
, then it surely wasn’t Cocolus. Now how does this relate to Theodosia? But was I actually thinking about Theodosia?
The Mount Scopus bus arrived at its stop, near the workers’ kitchen. The entire square was full of students, young men and women who were hurrying to the university, to the library, to meet each other, and so on. All around them, a mass of individuals – men, women, babies – pressed forward toward Hadassah Hospital, on their way to visit sick relatives. Herbst and his daughter barely managed to make their way through the crowd, and they barely managed to wriggle out of the line. “Papa,” Tamara said in a tender voice, “let’s write a letter to Zahara now, informing her that all is well and that Mother gave birth to a boy.” “Good,” Papa Manfred said, feeling that was not the right word. But, having already said “Good,” he said it again, so she would take it as a deliberate and sober response. Nevertheless, it surprised him that Tamara had said, “Let’s write a letter to Zahara now.” How could you stop and write a letter on such a noisy street? He couldn’t imagine how it was possible to stand and write a letter on a city street, in a sea of pedestrians.
Herbst followed his daughter in a hush. They were surrounded on all sides, in front and in back, by all sorts of people in varied dress, by stores, vehicles, newspaper vendors, kids distributing flyers, policemen, Arabs, dogs, flying insects – whatever is typical of such a street on a summer day before noon. All this was fused into a single raucous mass that couldn’t be taken apart, whose segments had no life of their own, existing only as a crowd, emitting an incessant murmur. Tamara said to her father, after they sat down in the café, “I assume that, at a time like this, a cup of coffee would suit you.” “And you?” Papa Manfred said, with a sense of shared fate. “Yes,” said Tamara, “I’ll have coffee, too. Until that dunce brings our coffee, I’ll have a cigarette. I left my cigarettes at home, Papa. If you would like to contribute a cigarette, I would be happy to accept it. What, you left your cigarettes at home too? Two people and one blunder.”
The waiter brought two black coffees and some milk. He didn’t bring any sugar. In those days, there was a sugar shortage in the Land of Israel. Cafés and restaurants no longer served sugar with coffee and tea. “Pigs,” said Tamara. “The goyim need sugar for their wars, so we have to drink coffee without sugar.” “Without sugar,” Herbst said. It clearly didn’t matter to him whether he had coffee with or without sugar. “Didn’t we want to write to Zahara?” “We did, yes, we did,” said Tamara. “And what we wanted to do, we will do. I’ll get paper and an envelope. You, Papa, dear, will contribute two or three drops of ink from your blessed pen, along with your pen itself. I promise not to violate the sanctity of scholarship. I’ll merely inform Zahara that Mother gave birth to a boy and that they are both well.” Herbst handed her his pen and said, “Here. You can write to Zahara.” Tamara said, “I’ll get some paper and an envelope.” “Yes, yes,” Herbst said. “Bring paper and an envelope.” He suddenly noticed there was something odd either in his voice or in his words. He wanted to prove to his daughter that he was entirely composed and began searching for a subject that would prove he wasn’t merely babbling. It occurred to him to tell her that they could just as soon call Zahara, since there was obviously a telephone in Ahinoam; that, oddly, if they were to call, Zahara would have the news in Ahinoam even before Sarah, who was at home in Jerusalem. While he thought about his two daughters, that the one who was geographically closer would get the news after the one who was far away, Tamara went to get paper and an envelope. After she returned, with paper, an envelope, and a plate full of warm cakes filled with cheese, fruit, and jam, she said to her father, “Why write? Wouldn’t it be better to find a telephone and call her? No letter in the world could satisfy a daughter’s soul as much as hearing the news directly. They have a telephone here, and at this hour it isn’t being used by couples calling each other. No one will disturb us. There may even be someone in the office in Ahinoam by now, willing to pick up the phone out of idleness and curiosity.” “Yes, yes,” Herbst was about to say to his daughter. “Yes, yes, let’s call her.” But he was afraid she might consider these words odd. He could just as soon say, “Good, good,” but those words had a similarly odd ring. So he restrained himself and didn’t say anything, counting on his daughter to know what was in his heart, which would make all words superfluous. Superfluous! He was suddenly overcome with terror. If Tamara knows what is in his heart, then she knows…Before he could follow the thought to its conclusion, he was confronted with another wave of terror. Tamara laughed and said, “So that’s it. That’s how a man looks when his wife gives him a son. I want to know: does it make a difference whether she gives birth to a male or a female?” “That’s a silly question. Of course there’s a difference.” “Papa, dear, you have probably forgotten what you were like when I was born. But you probably haven’t forgotten what you were like when Sarah was born.” Herbst gazed at her, replaying what was in his own mind: I wasn’t thinking about Theodosia, I’m sure I wasn’t thinking about Theodosia. There was no reason to think about Theodosia, so why does my mind persist in tormenting me with her? Until I find another reason, it’s because her name begins with
T
, like Tamara’s. I know that’s not the real reason, but, until I find another, this one will have to do. I already said that, so why repeat myself?