A Journey to the End of the Millennium (11 page)

At first it was hard to understand whether the repudiation was directed against the partnership or against the partners—whether it was due to a wife’s personal resentment over the hardships of her husband-to-be’s travels and the implied protracted absences from his new bridal chamber or to a more commercial reaction, derived from a calculation of the profits and their distribution. There flickered for a moment a suspicion that Abu Lutfi might be the source of the
revulsion
felt by this widow from the Rhineland, who might be accustomed to Huns but frightened of Ishmaelites. But gradually, from Abulafia’s careful words, which like the wood of their campfire smoldered slowly until every now and then they suddenly flared up and crackled, it became clear that its true source was the uncle himself, Ben Attar—Abulafia’s patron and benefactor, the guiding force behind the
partnership
and the architect of its success—who was now painfully and sadly lifting a glowing ember from the fire and turning it over and over.

If Ben Attar had taken the trouble the previous year to consider Abulafia’s story about that unforgettable nocturnal encounter in the Jewish tavern in Orléans and carefully turned it over, as he was now turning the ember between his scorched fingers, he would have
discovered
the bewilderment that had begotten the repudiation. For then, beside the campfire near the entrance to the Roman inn, between one dirge and the next, Abulafia had recounted to his partner how
attentively
Mistress Esther-Minna had absorbed everything that was offered her on the subject of the black-curled man, who, not yet imagining the strength of the love and affection that he was stirring up, had prattled on not only about his thoughts and deeds but also about his faraway kinsmen and business partners, what they were like, what they wanted, what they looked like, and how they lived. And when, innocently
carried
away by the spate of his words, he had mentioned the second wife whom Ben Attar had married a few years previously, whom he himself had never met, he had felt his delicate questioner momentarily hold her breath.

A
second
wife?
Mistress Esther-Minna had whispered in Hebrew, as though fearful of uttering the words in the local tongue, lest she
arouse the Frankish servant who slept by the doorway.
Why
not?
Abulafia
had whispered in reply, with a faint, provocative smile. But from the crimson tinge that suffused her cheeks and her haste to reach up to adjust her headscarf, he had understood how much his answer had frightened her. So he had immediately attempted to broaden the woman’s mind, for despite her experience of business trips with her brother, she had never traveled farther south than Orléans, let alone visited the wonderful, luxuriant south and informed herself about the customs of the awesome Arab grandees, not only in North Africa but also in the verdant cities of Andalus, replete with wisdom and song, where some, not content with possessing two wives, wed three or sometimes even four. Mistress Esther-Minna had looked up, her thin lips twisted slightly in a smile of curiosity tinged with disgust. And were there, she inquired, in the land where Abulafia had been born and from which he came, Jews who had three or four wives? Abulafia had been unable to give her a clear answer, for so many years had passed since he had left North Africa and Andalus. But the woman, her bewilderment and curiosity by now wrapped up in her love, had refused to let him be and had insisted on knowing whether the uncle, Ben Attar, the director of their partnership, might someday up and take, say, a third wife in addition to the two he already possessed.
God
alone
knows,
Abulafia had said, trying to evade the strange question. But seeing that God did not dispel the widow’s curiosity, he was
impelled
to answer:
Perhaps,
who
knows?
If the partnership continued to prosper and to bring great wealth to the partners, Ben Attar might take another wife, for Ben Attar’s expansive, love-filled heart was different from his own. He himself had not yet recovered from the blows that he had suffered in his life, and so he had hardly managed to have one wife.

Then Abulafia had felt the light touch of a small hand in the
semidarkness,
and had realized that only a natural, self-confident humanity could find the courage to touch him. It was this humanity that had given him no rest during the year that had elapsed, so at the beginning of the spring he had turned his horses northward and at last headed with his wares to Paris, to seek out his acquaintance from the tavern in Orléans and to find out whether that tiny white hand that had reached out and touched him so generously in the darkness would deign to
touch him also in the light of day. Even though her younger brother, who saw himself as her guardian, was hostile to the young North
African’s
offer of marriage, his sister succeeded in allaying his doubts, and when they had satisfied themselves that despite Abulafia’s years of wandering he had not forgotten his prayers and was still able to chant (although in an unfamiliar melody) the blessings to welcome the
Sabbath
and those that bade it farewell, as well as the long grace after food, the younger brother had given his consent to the match, on the condition that the couple set up house in a wing of his own home, not only so that his sister would continue to be close to him and his family but also so that she would not feel lonely when her husband resumed his traveling life.

Because the new household was to include Abulafia’s daughter, whom henceforth he was forbidden to call, even jokingly, “bewitched” or “she-demon” but only, at most, “poor creature,” it would be
necessary
to extend somewhat the house situated on the south bank of the river of Paris, close to the castle, with its law court and its execution chamber. In the meantime Abulafia was in a hurry to leave for the south, for his summer meeting in the Spanish March, but it became plain to him that Esther-Minna’s bewilderment of the previous year had not vanished but had now changed into a feeling of panic. The very thought that the man who was soon to be her husband was
partner
to a savage Jew who, out of ignorance or unbridled lust, possessed two wives, to whom he might one day add a third, terrified this woman who was no longer young, and she demanded before Abulafia left that after the distribution of the previous year’s profits he should not take the new merchandise but should share out his part between the other two partners and bid farewell to his uncle, who now, hearing these words, was so startled that he almost put the crumbling ember into his mouth.

But
why?
Ben Attar’s voice was choked. His northern partner tried to mumble a reply that would set his mind at rest—that he had
deliberately
waited until Abu Lutfi had left them, so as not to embarrass his kinsman on a matter that the Ishmaelite too took pride in. Since he himself was still far not only from becoming accustomed to Mistress Esther-Minna’s capricious demand, whose firmness was already visible in a slight softening of his black pupils, but even from understanding
her reasons, he tried first to explain her repudiation by her peculiar quality of human sensitivity, for her heart grieved for all that the first wife was denied when a second wife arrived.
But
how
so?
Ben Attar retorted at once. Two wives might help each other to support their husband in every way and might on occasion transform their conjugal desires into a longing that only enriched and purified their love. And who knew better than Abulafia himself how miserable a single wife might also be? Abulafia listened very attentively and nodded his head in agreement. How sad, he said, that Ben Attar could not explain these delicate matters to his fiancée himself, for he himself had forgotten them in his long years as a widower. But since he had not yet made up his mind to accede to her demand and dissolve their partnership, he would endeavor to remember Ben Attar’s words and use them to
assuage
his bride, and when he came to the next summer’s meeting, if God willed it, he would bring with him her acceptance.

And so, in the year 4756 according to the Jewish era of the
creation,
corresponding to the year 386 of the Prophet’s Hegira, four years before the millennium that so thrilled the Christians, instead of
dissolving
the partnership that was so dear to him, Abulafia loaded the merchandise upon six carts, one for each of the boats that had brought it, and on reaching Perpignan he sent one cart, laden with condiments, westward, to the duchy of Gascony, and a second cart, bearing copper bowls and pans, eastward into southern Provence, while he himself went with the three remaining carts to Toulouse, trading the olive oil, honeycombs, and strings of dried carobs and figs of Andalus in the villages along the way and bartering in turn with the goods he received in exchange for them. By the time he reached Toulouse he already had two empty carts on which to load his mute daughter and her
Ishmaelite
nurse, who demanded five gold bracelets in exchange for her
agreement
to abandon her southern dream in favor of a winter journey through Edomite kingdoms to a faraway town like Paris, to which they were taking a luxurious consignment of vials of fragrant perfumes from the desert, lion and leopard skins, and embroidered cloth in which lay concealed curved daggers encrusted with precious stones.

Early in the spring of 997, Abulafia returned to that same Paris, not alone this time but bringing with him his dumb ten-year-old daughter, who, if she was no longer bewitched, was assuredly a poor creature.
Again he discovered that his future wife was not only older than he was in years, but was also experienced and worldly-wise. Although she immediately folded the poor creature in her arms and hugged her to her bosom, and inclined her head in respect and wonder before the elderly Ishmaelite nurse, agleam with golden bangles, and even though all winter long her soul had yearned for the young man with his black ringlets, she did not hasten to undertake the promised marriage but returned to the theme of her repudiation of the twice-wed partner. So saying, she introduced a black-robed personage who had come to Paris from the province of Lotharingia in Ashkenaz, wearing a hat from which arose a horn of black velvet. This man, Rabbi Kalonymos son of Kalonymos, a kinsman of her late husband’s, a resident of her native town of Worms, had been invited to Paris especially by her younger brother, Master Levitas, to conduct the marriage according to the rites and ceremonies of their forefathers. He sought first to test the nature and firmness of the southern bridegroom’s faith, in case it required strengthening or completion, correction or purging, before it was joined to the unshakeable faith of the respected woman from his home town.

To this end he engaged Abulafia in a lengthy conversation, and because the mute child trembled and moaned at the sight of the horn nodding on his head, Abulafia took him outside and walked with him amid the mud and mire of Paris, among swine, horses, and asses. Leading him across a small wooden bridge, he strolled with him along a wide dirt track known as the Road of Saint James, along which the pilgrims departed on their way to the shrine of Saint James of
Compostela
at the tip of Iberia. The cold-mannered German pointed out to Abulafia the pilgrims clad in thick capes, with their broad-brimmed felt hats adorned with a scallop shell, holding long poles with leather water bottles attached to the tips, preparing themselves for their long and arduous journey. Then he showed him the women bidding them
farewell
while braiding their hair and wrapping their ankles in scarlet
leggings
above their feet, which were shod in stout sandals. All this was meant to indicate to the Moroccan Jew that true faith requires
meticulous
preparation. Then he explained to the bridegroom the steps of the marriage ceremony in due order, lest any exotic desert whim or
Mediterranean
habit disrupt the sacrosanct ritual. He introduced some anecdotes from Worms, which, while it might lack the attraction of
Paris, and though its houses still rested on gnarled piles, was not
lacking
in one thing: Jewish scholars. Dead scholars, who watched over living scholars, who in their turn were preparing the world for future generations of scholars still unborn. Clearly, it was vitally important that the future generations should be born in the purity of wedlock, and what purity could there be without security and peace, which were protected by interdict and ban against a man who might seek to take to himself a second wife, or to divorce his wife against her will?

Abulafia understood that the visitor whom his bride and her brother had summoned from the Rhineland was drawing a clear connection between the annulment of the partnership with Ben Attar and the marriage with Mistress Esther-Minna. Consequently, he was not
surprised
when, upon their return to the inn—after the pilgrims, who had at first taken the German for a man of consequence, had eventually recognized the Jew in him and pelted him with rotten apples as a first virtuous deed on their arduous journey—Master Kalonymos drew forth from his luggage two strips of dark parchment inscribed in red ink, one for the bridegroom, to remind him of what he had just learned, and the second for the rejected partner, to be sent to him that summer by hand of messenger, together with what was due to him by proper reckoning in exchange for the merchandise that had been sold the previous year.

And so, on Thursday the eighteenth of Iyar, the thirty-third day of the Omer in the year 4757, after he had promised to his new kinsfolk to dissolve the partnership, final consent was given and the marriage took place. But when the summer month of Tammuz came and the messenger was due to leave for the Spanish March, Abulafia, overcome by a powerful longing for the Bay of Barcelona, repented of the
promise
he had given. Notwithstanding the grim expression that overtook the pallid face of his new wife, to whom he had been drawn with a mixture of fear and strong desire ever since their wedding night, he was not prepared to part from his old partners by means of a letter, nor did he dare to take it upon himself to divide up the proceeds of the year’s trade and send it by the hand of a stranger. Consequently, after
swearing
again to his wife and his new brother-in-law that this time he really would take his leave and dissolve the successful partnership so that the repudiation might take effect, he took to the road himself. So divided was his heart between the awesome oath he had sworn and the pain
and sorrow that awaited him that he lost his way, and in the Sierra de Andorra he was saved from falling into the hands of highway robbers only by a black leper’s coat that he had bought at the last moment and now donned. And so his delay was extended by ten more days, and for a second year Abu Lutfi joined in marking the fast of the ninth of Ab.