creation.
Guilty or innocent? Is Werner Sonderberg playing with words when he says he is “not guilty but not innocent”? What does he mean? That he’s innocent but also a bit guilty? Can a person be both at the same time? How could reason accept such a thing? Could God not exist? Could it be that the angel of death no longer exists? Can he die? In the theater, who could incarnate him to make him visible? A clown maybe? Or an object? How could a director, no matter how brilliant, be able to present him in a way that would arouse in the public the terminal anguish and desperate appeal to a faith that refuses to be extinguished?
Yedidyah was saying to himself that he would have liked to interview the defendant. It suddenly seemed urgent and essential to meet him. Just as he used to make a point of questioning the character he was playing when he wasstudying dramatic art, he was convinced that, in order to do a good job describing the trial, he had to speak to the person who, more than anyone else, held the key to the truth. But the rules are rigid. No one can talk to the defendant while the trial is in progress, except his defense attorney.
A rush visit to the editorial offices. Kathy offered him her cheese sandwich.
“As an hors d’oeuvre,” she said with a malicious wink.
“Thank you. But I prefer it at the end of the meal.”
“One day, you’ll be entitled to both. But first, drop by to see Paul Adler. He’s waiting for you.”
The editor in chief, in shirtsleeves, was on the phone. He hung up as soon as he saw Yedidyah.
“So,” he said, laughing, “you’re not too mad at me yet for the burden I placed on your frail shoulders?”
“And what about you, you’re not too mad at me for having accepted?”
“Up to now, you’ve been doing well.”
The two friends joked for a few minutes, then Paul became his usual serious self. “This trial has already lasted a week. Do you think it will go on much longer?”
“At the beginning, the experts said it would last about five days or so. Hard to say for certain when the curtain will come down.”
“But the fellow … is he convincing? Where does hebelong according to you? In a Greek tragedy or a Shakespearean drama?”
“Hard to say. Is he guilty of what he’s accused of? I have no idea. Is he innocent? I mean, did he play no part in his uncle’s tragic death? I have no opinion. In fact, I’m completely in the dark.”
“Meanwhile, I notice how influenced you are by theater. Like certain playwrights, you don’t like to use the word ‘crime.’ You talk about passion and fate. But the court has to judge the intent and criminal act of a man who, up to now, has limited himself to making an odd statement. To put it plainly: How long will this little game of ‘guilty and not guilty’ last?”
“There’s no way of knowing. We’re now at the end of the first week. For the time being, things are going badly for the defendant. What can you expect? The jury see things in simple terms: the two men left the hotel together and only one returned.”
“And how’s the fellow going to explain that?”
“If he knows the answer, he’s keeping it to himself. I have the feeling that something is stopping him from defending himself.”
“What? Can’t he come out and say he had a moment of madness, an uncontrollable impulse, had slept badly, eaten badly, had too much to drink, or something? That the old man had tried to seduce his fiancée?”
“I don’t see him saying that. It’s not his style.”
“So what’s his style?”
“I have no idea.”
Paul stopped to think for a moment, then blurted out, “The man seems more and more interesting. We should find out more about him.”
“I did think I should meet him, interview him. Not easy. Is it even possible? Is it allowed? What about asking a specialist? Your usual legal reporter, for example?”
Paul asked Kathy to call him. She replied that he was out of the office. On vacation. Impossible
Guilty or innocent? Is Werner Sonderberg playing with words when he says he is “not guilty but not innocent”? What does he mean? That he’s innocent but also a bit guilty? Can a person be both at the same time? How could reason accept such a thing? Could God not exist? Could it be that the angel of death no longer exists? Can he die? In the theater, who could incarnate him to make him visible? A clown maybe? Or an object? How could a director, no matter how brilliant, be able to present him in a way that would arouse in the public the terminal anguish and desperate appeal to a faith that refuses to be extinguished?
Yedidyah was saying to himself that he would have liked to interview the defendant. It suddenly seemed urgent and essential to meet him. Just as he used to make a point of questioning the character he was playing when he wasstudying dramatic art, he was convinced that, in order to do a good job describing the trial, he had to speak to the person who, more than anyone else, held the key to the truth. But the rules are rigid. No one can talk to the defendant while the trial is in progress, except his defense attorney.
A rush visit to the editorial offices. Kathy offered him her cheese sandwich.
“As an hors d’oeuvre,” she said with a malicious wink.
“Thank you. But I prefer it at the end of the meal.”
“One day, you’ll be entitled to both. But first, drop by to see Paul Adler. He’s waiting for you.”
The editor in chief, in shirtsleeves, was on the phone. He hung up as soon as he saw Yedidyah.
“So,” he said, laughing, “you’re not too mad at me yet for the burden I placed on your frail shoulders?”
“And what about you, you’re not too mad at me for having accepted?”
“Up to now, you’ve been doing well.”
The two friends joked for a few minutes, then Paul became his usual serious self. “This trial has already lasted a week. Do you think it will go on much longer?”
“At the beginning, the experts said it would last about five days or so. Hard to say for certain when the curtain will come down.”
“But the fellow … is he convincing? Where does hebelong according to you? In a Greek tragedy or a Shakespearean drama?”
“Hard to say. Is he guilty of what he’s accused of? I have no idea. Is he innocent? I mean, did he play no part in his uncle’s tragic death? I have no opinion. In fact, I’m completely in the dark.”
“Meanwhile, I notice how influenced you are by theater. Like certain playwrights, you don’t like to use the word ‘crime.’ You talk about passion and fate. But the court has to judge the intent and criminal act of a man who, up to now, has limited himself to making an odd statement. To put it plainly: How long will this little game of ‘guilty and not guilty’ last?”
“There’s no way of knowing. We’re now at the end of the first week. For the time being, things are going badly for the defendant. What can you expect? The jury see things in simple terms: the two men left the hotel together and only one returned.”
“And how’s the fellow going to explain that?”
“If he knows the answer, he’s keeping it to himself. I have the feeling that something is stopping him from defending himself.”
“What? Can’t he come out and say he had a moment of madness, an uncontrollable impulse, had slept badly, eaten badly, had too much to drink, or something? That the old man had tried to seduce his fiancée?”
“I don’t see him saying that. It’s not his style.”
“So what’s his style?”
“I have no idea.”
Paul stopped to think for a moment, then blurted out, “The man seems more and more interesting. We should find out more about him.”
“I did think I should meet him, interview him. Not easy. Is it even possible? Is it allowed? What about asking a specialist? Your usual legal reporter, for example?”
Paul asked Kathy to call him. She replied that he was out of the office. On vacation. Impossible
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