The Yemenite Girl: A Novel

ONE

From his bedroom high up on Mount Carmel, the ailing Ezra Shultish could see the blue bay of Haifa, its toylike boats bobbing in the water; and, when the humidity broke, the entire curve of land up to Acco and the full length of the Lebanon range to the north. With the boats coming and going, and at night their foghorns blowing and colored lights streaking the darkness, Haifa always gave him a sensation of movement, as if he too, in his bed, were floating off to distant lands.

Shultish was unable to judge whether the new pain in his back was caused by his illness or simply by the weeks in bed. But his head hurt, he knew, from disappointment. During his sabbatical in Israel he had met Yehiel Bar-Nun only four times, all during his first few weeks in the country; he had not seen him for the past three months, although Bar-Nun too lived in Haifa. He missed the old writer. He had Bar-Nun’s friendship, his autograph, his picture, his books. He had always wanted his voice, and had dreamed of tape-recording The Yemenite Girl, one of the master’s most imaginative love tales. Shultish recited:

I saw the Yemenite girl sun bathing by the sand dunes of Rishon. Not in San’a, not in Haifa or Hebron, but in Rishon I met her. I was not afraid of her because she was swarthy, for the sun had honey-hued her skin. On the contrary, I found myself drawn to her hair, fragrant as wine, and to her eyes that shone gently, like the water at dusk off Rishon, when the westering sun sends blue light waving to Jerusalem.

Whenever Shultish read those allusion-laden words he gave them no special intonation, heard no sounds except the silent music the words created. But soon he would hear them. Spoken to him on tape by the author himself. Henceforth, upon reading his favorite story, he would hear the double music of the words and the voice of their creator.

Shultish was fifty years old, a good round number, a halfway mark—to what? Perhaps to the age of Gershoni, who would soon celebrate his own centennial? An age for sentimental souls, a time for self-evaluation. A full-fledged adult. Yet in Bar-Nun’s presence Shultish felt like a child, an adoring youngster ready to do his master’s bidding. When he had first approached Bar-Nun’s shrubbery-encased house at the crown of the Carmel, Shultish thought he saw Bar-Nun flitting out of the house into his backyard. He entered the arbor, climbed the few steps to the house, and rang the bell. To his surprise, Mrs. Bar-Nun opened the door. On the phone Bar-Nun had told him not to expect anything to eat that evening, since his wife wasn’t well. But in reply to Shultish’s question Mrs. Bar-Nun said she was feeling very well and directed him to the backyard, where the writer was sitting. Shultish ran to greet him. Bar-Nun rose, held out his hands, and smiled. "Ah, Shultish, yedidi. Welcome, welcome. How good it is for brethren to sit together," he quoted from the Psalms and offered Shultish a chair. He liked being called yedidi, my friend. But no sooner had Shultish breathed deeply and leaned forward to ask Bar-Nun a question than the old man wrinkled his nose and sniffed up at the air. It’s getting damp, he said, touching his black velvet skullcap. I think we had better go inside. He began dragging his lounge chair to the house.

Oh no, Shultish said. Let me.

No, no, you’re a guest.

"Makes no difference. Adon Bar-Nun—Shultish used the formal mode of address—you’re not going to drag chairs while I’m here."

Well, you’re younger than I, Bar-Nun said and stood aside, watching as Shultish ran back and forth three times with the folding chairs.

Shultish was pleased to help. He’s old enough to be my father, he thought. Why should I let him do what I wouldn’t let my father do?

The view is beautiful from your lawn, Shultish hinted when he had carried in his last chair, but the hedges block the overall view. I hear it’s magnificent from your library.

Come into the house, Bar-Nun said, and we’ll have a glass of cognac and some cookies. We’ll sit and talk. Well, what’s new? How is your wife?

Shultish told him. He told him all that was new and all that wasn’t, regretting that he hadn’t asked directly to see the library on the third floor. Now he would have to wait for another opportunity. From Bar-Nun’s library, it was said, one could see, like Moses on Mount Nebo, almost all of Israel. Down across the Sharon plains clear to Tel Aviv, all of Haifa Bay up to Acco, the Lebanese range to the north, and the Jezreel Valley to the Sea of Galilee on the east. Shultish offered to run downtown to the main library for him, or buy him any books he needed; it would be a good way to return to the house and see Bar-Nun again, and perhaps get to his library as well.

Bar-Nun shook his head. Too busy. Too many people. Too many letters. No work done. If I could only tie up the mailman and pull out my phone, he said. The phone is not flesh and blood, but the mailman—it would be a pity to distress him. There’s only one solution. I tell you, I have to run away from the house.

Would you like to take a little walk?

Bar-Nun plucked at his chin. I don’t know. I’m a little tired from being out in the air all afternoon. But I’ll tell you what. Come, I’ll walk you to the bus. I need a little walk. Doctors say it’s good for the heart.

Shultish had hardly begun to talk to him and already it was time to say good-bye. The old man always seemed to elude his grasp. Once, when he called him two weeks before Hanuka, Bar-Nun had said, You know, I’ve been thinking about you too, Shultish—not constantly, of course, because I’ve got other things to think about. But I have thought of you. You know what? Not this week. Hanuka is coming up and I’ll have many other visitors, and then I have to be in Jerusalem on the last day of Hanuka. It’s a long trip, and I don’t like to do it, but when the President of the Land of Israel says, ‘Come!’ you can’t be ungrateful and say no, especially since we’ve been friends for fifty years. So there really won’t be any time to spend with you the way I really want to, face to face, and without interference.

So you want me to call you after Hanuka?

Yes, and have a happy holiday.

Another time, a few months earlier, Shultish had offered to take him for a ride.

"Hello, Adon Bar-Nun. This is Shultish, Ezra Shultish, calling."

Ah, listen, yedidi, I wanted to call you yesterday, but I misplaced your number. I had it written down, you know, but I can’t find it. How are you? Your wife? Are you busy today?

No, I’m free. I’m prepared to come; that is, if it won’t disturb you.

Ah, here’s my little book. I just want to make sure this is your number: 46673.

Exactly.

All right then, when do you want to come, Shultish?

This afternoon?

Fine.

"What time is convenient for you, Adon Bar-Nun?"

Let’s say five … But no, that’s already late.

Yes, perhaps it is. At five Shoshana and I start to prepare supper. How about four?

Why at four? Bar-Nun asked.

I … I don’t know.… Because … because you said five is too late.

Then let’s make it four-thirty.

Perhaps we can go out for a little ride.

Where?

Wherever you like. Have you seen the full length of Panorama Drive?

Yes.

All right then, any place you. choose.

You know what? It’s too late for today.

Then you’d rather I called you a couple of days in advance?

No, no. The same day. But early. I don’t like to make plans in advance. Things always come up.

Then why don’t we do it today? Shultish suggested.

"If today, then right now.’’

All right. Fine. Now. Wonderful.

Is there room for my wife? Bar-Nun said.

Of course there is. I’ll rent a big car.

What time is convenient for you?

"Any time, Adon Bar-Nun, Let’s see, it’s lunchtime now; I suppose you want to rest awhile after lunch."

Yes … of course. That brings us up to four already. No good…. You know what? Let’s leave it for some other time.

What?

You said before that five is inconvenient, Bar-Nun said. Your wife and supper.

Look. I can go anytime. It depends on you.

You see, Shultish, I don’t like to leave the house till five. All right then, do you want to go at five?

Tsk! No good. Five is too late. You know what? This week we won’t make any plans.

Then you want me to call you before Rosh Hashana? Shultish said, a slightly hysterical edge in his voice.

No. Not till after the holidays. I have to prepare some stories. In the meantime have a good year and a happy holiday. May you and your family be inscribed for a year of health and happiness.

You too.

When after repeated phone calls he finally did get to see Bar-Nun, someone was usually there, sharing his private interview. Once Shultish sat out on the lawn with Bar-Nun and began talking about his writing. The old man, his green eyes sparkling slyly, told Shultish it was chilly and moved indoors, Shultish once again carrying all the chairs despite Bar-Nun’s halfhearted protestations. They’d had one sip of cognac when the phone rang. Ah, Gutman, yedidi, congratulations on your book. I’m so glad you called; I was just about to call you.… Come soon. Without fail. There’s something I want to show you. Are you well? I didn’t see you at the Israel Prize ceremonies. Beautiful. Beautiful. Grumkin’s white hair shone like a halo. Of course he was happy. Waiting seventy-five years for one’s first major literary prize is no small matter …

Shultish listened, absorbing, recording: simple furniture, walls in need of paint, books piled on the dining room table.

You’ll have to excuse me, Gutman; someone’s ringing the bell and I have to go now.

Bar-Nun returned to the table, his smooth face puckered up in disdain, looking like an old steel engraving. I tell you, I have to run away from the house, … If there’s no one at the bell now, there probably will be in a few minutes. In that way future and past combine to make a truth where none existed. Prophecy is a wonderful thing. Try it sometime.

I have tried it.

Bar-Nun laughed. Shultish saw that his remark had taken the old man by surprise, but Bar-Nun showed no further interest.

I can tell the color of a man’s eyes by his voice, Shultish continued. See him over the phone. Whether he is tall or short. What he looks like.

Shultish’s expectant smile faded.

Bar-Nun sat down, then ran to the kitchen and brought back a plate with two apples. The doorbell rang. You see? Eat, Bar-Nun said. I’ll be back in a minute.…Who is it? Bar-Nun said loudly. Shultish thought he was addressing him. Questioned about his prophetic ability, Shultish panicked.

I don’t know, he said weakly.

Footsteps sounded in the hall.

Ah, Yosef, my dear. Professor Shultish, this is my son-in-law, Yosef. Yosef, a slight, small-faced man with Oriental eyes, gave Bar-Nun a book, then shook hands with Shultish. Thank you for the book, my dear. Bar-Nun’s eyes twinkled and he turned to Shultish. "Look. Yosef brings me a book. It seems like a simple thing, no? But think of the wisdom involved here. I consider him my son, you know. In Latin, son and book and free are designated by the same term, liber. In German, lieber is dear, beloved; and in Yiddish, lieber is rather. Ach du lieber, isn’t this remarkable? When your daughter marries, it’s like getting a free son, liber liber, who brings you a book, liber liber liber. And since he is a dear besides, it’s lieber liber liber liber. And one more lieber if you’d rather have him for a son-in-law than anyone else."

Yosef smiled, his Chinese eyes disappearing.

And the book is free too, Shultish did not say.

And the book is free too. So there’s another liber, Yosef said.

Bar-Nun laughed. The man has a head, even though it’s uncovered.

Yosef did not stop smiling. The son-in-law, obviously not observant, did not go through the pretense of covering his head in the old man’s presence. Shultish felt uncomfortable—his skullcap felt like a plate on his skull—at giving Bar-Nun and his son-in-law the impression that he was devout;

Bar-Nun sighed. Too bad we’re not eating supper together. Otherwise we could recite the after meals grace in a threesome.… Did you say the Afternoon Service, Yosef?

Yosef’s lips did not move, but the electricity of his smile was turned off. Bar-Nun removed from his jacket a little prayerbook no bigger than a pocket calendar and slid it across the table to his son-in-law. Shultish watched the chess game, unable to break the tension with a word. He felt a spring about to snap. Bar-Nun pushed the Siddur closer, Yosef, baited, did not bite. Smiling again, he picked up the little volume, opened it, and said: Leipzig, 1860. Beautiful print.

Yosef, did I ever tell you the story of how the blue yarmulke floated across the sea from Smyrna to Eretz Israel? A beautiful story that I haven’t written yet. No?

Shultish’s heart began pumping in anticipation.

Well, never mind. You’ll hear it some other time. It takes too long.

Yosef stretched his legs, then casually asked, "How are you today, abba? Have you had your afternoon walk yet?"

Not yet. In fact, I’ll take the good professor to his bus stop.

Shultish jumped up.

Where are you rushing to? Bar-Nun asked. We’ve hardly begun to talk.

It’s time … you’re busy … my wife is waiting.

Well, a wife should not be kept waiting.… I’ll get my coat; there’s a chill in the air now. The doctors said that a chill is a strain on my heart. God forbid that a man should go out into Haifa’s night air without a coat.

He decided to ask the question now, to put it off no longer.

"By the way, Adon Bar-Nun, when I come next time, would you mind if I brought my tape recorder? I’d be so grateful to you if you would record ‘The Yemenite Girl’ so I could play it for my students."

Well … the truth is that reading out loud makes me very tired. I don’t like to do it … but—

Moshe has a copy of it, Yosef said. So you won’t have to exert yourself.

Yes, yes, Bar-Nun said. I once recorded it for my son. Go to him. He lives in Haifa, too. He’ll gladly let you copy it from him.

Shultish stepped outside. The sky was the color of ripe plums, he noted, an image not of his own invention but drawn from one of Bar-Nun’s stories. Shultish had that awful taste in his mouth again: sour disappointment. Like walking away half-hungry from a banquet. But the metaphor was wrong; it was a different sort of appetite, the reaching out for contact with fame. Elusive as a woman. As the dream of the well-tanned naked woman in the pool.

THE YEMENITE GIRL

by Yehiel Bar-Nun

Translated from the Hebrew

by

Ezra Shultish

I saw the Yemenite girl sun bathing by the sand’dunes of Rishon. Not in San’a, not in Haifa or Hebron, but in Rishon I met her. I was not afraid of her because she was swarthy, for the sun had honey-hued her skin. On the contrary, I found myself drawn to her hair, fragrant as wine, and to her eyes that shone gently, like the water at dusk off Rishon, when the westering sun sends blue light waving to Jerusalem.

Shultish gazed out the window. A huge ship, two white funnels like giant gulls, was approaching. He made out three blue stars. The Zim Lines flagship, the Shalom. He took a sip of water and closed his eyes. Meeting writers in the flesh always left Shultish frustrated. The temptation to see them was a nasty vice; if indulged in too freely, it brought punishment, as any excessive dissipation did. After most visits to other writers, he -returned with minor metaphysical bruises. Nevertheless, the devil in him to see, touch, look, hear, sense the total presence of a noted living Hebrew author was difficult to overcome. There was still one famous figure, the oldest living writer in Israel, whom Shultish wanted to visit. If he missed the opportunity now he would never forgive himself. Ninety-eight years old, Asher Gershoni was one of the pillars of modern Hebrew fiction, the seminal figure in any history of nineteenth-century Hebrew literature.

Shultish found Gershoni’s name in the national telephone directory—he wasn’t famous enough to have an unlisted number like Bar-Nun—and called long distance to Jerusalem.

"Hello, may I speak to Adon Gershoni?"

Gershoni.

"Oh, I’m so glad I caught you in, Adon Gershoni. This is Ezra Shultish."

Who?

Ezra Shultish. I’d like to ask you if … you see, I plan to be in Jerusalem next Tuesday, and I wonder if I could come to …

Excuse me, I don’t hear too well; what did you—?

Shultish. Professor Shultish. Perhaps you’ve heard of me or read my stories. I’d like to interview you—

Can you spell your name?

E … Z …

No. Z.

E …C … ?

No, Z—X-Y-Z. Last letter of alphabet R … A … Ezra.

Esrog?

For an interview on tape. This is long distance. I’m calling from Haifa. The Carmel. All the way from the top.

You’d better spell your last name …

And so on for twenty-five minutes. The call cost Shultish fourteen dollars. He literally had to spell out every word he said. Shultish finally got his appointment for the following Tuesday—it was December, the last day of Hanuka—but Gershoni still didn’t know who was calling.

Shultish and his wife took the five fifty-eight morning train from Haifa. He hoped he would meet Bar-Nun—it was the day the old man was supposed to go to Jerusalem—but although Shultish walked from one end of the train to the other, he could not find him. When they arrived in Jerusalem at nine-ten, it was already eighty-seven degrees; a hamsin, hot and dry, had enveloped the mountain capital.

The venerable Gershoni, long forgotten in Israel—most people didn’t even know he was still alive—lived in a long gray concrete-box apartment house with eight entrances. Which