A Journey to the End of the Millennium (13 page)

Abulafia?
Ben Attar pleadingly whispered the name of the man who for more than a year had steeped his soul in sadness. A relieved smile flitted across the Jew’s face as he realized that there had been a
purpose
in his being pressed into service as a guide. Raising his arm, he gestured firmly toward the largest dwelling in this small alley, and without saying a word he opened a wicket hidden behind the stone and vanished inside.

Ben Attar was immediately alert. The presence nearby of Abulafia and his new wife had pricked all his senses. But then he admonished himself, for a hasty, unconsidered entrance at this evening hour was liable to confound his hopes of paying a formal visit with his two wives to the home of this woman who found him so repugnant. Accordingly,
instead of making for the front door, he lingered and even retreated somewhat, inspecting the new home that his nephew and business partner was inhabiting and considering the best way to draw him out of it. But the windows of this house were small and out of reach, as though they belonged to a fortress rather than a dwelling. Little Elbaz, his impudence aggravated by the hunger that had been haunting him since the afternoon, offered the fruit of his great experience, and boldly laying hold of the heavy, dark wall with his skinny hands, he located hidden projections that enabled him to raise himself to one of the windowsills. For a long while he stayed there, hanging in silence,
unable
to break free of the attraction of the view afforded to anyone who happens to peep into someone else’s house. Meanwhile, Ben Attar, careful to make no sound, was stealthily pacing around the rear
courtyard,
attracted by familiar smells, and eventually recognized among the logs and broken cartwheels some of the sacks and brassware and skins that had been sold to Benveniste at half-price on the last ill-fated trip to Barcelona.

By now jealousy had rekindled his pain and longing. Unable to restrain himself, he called in a firm whisper to the boy to come down and tell him what he had seen. It transpired that the boy’s eyes had been transfixed by those of a girl about his own age, who had stared at him without uttering a word. In that case I have reached my goal, Ben Attar thought excitedly, and concealing his face with his scarf and placing the boy in front of him, he knocked on the door, which was very soon opened by an old servant woman with a kindly
expression.
While she was wondering whether she ought to be alarmed at the shrouded figure standing before her, the boy, who had learned his part well, bowed deeply and gracefully, and with a gentleness that would dispel any unseemly fear pronounced the name that had floated soundlessly before the advancing prow of the ship for the past eight weeks.

Although only two years had passed since the partners’ last
meeting,
Ben Attar had prepared himself to find Abulafia changed. Even so, he was surprised at the appearance of the man who came toward them. This was not because of his long hair or the pallor and gauntness of his face, but because of a new expression, a kind of inner, spiritual,
somewhat
artificial smile, as if he were forever attempting to understand the
secret of the world yet did not believe that it was possible to do so. Had the new wife really managed to exchange the memory of pain over the drowned wife for a spiritual smile? The nephew’s eyes had not yet noticed his uncle, who had withdrawn into the shadow of the doorway, but they were drawn toward the boy, who had begun to prattle to the master of the house in Arabic, so stirring Abulafia with emotion that he could not refrain from touching the child to make sure it was not a dream standing on the threshold of his house. Then Ben Attar lowered his scarf, enjoying not so much the astonishment but the pain that suffused his nephew’s beautiful face as he closed his eyes as though he were about to faint.

But Abulafia immediately reined himself in. He knew only too well that fainting on his own doorstep would be considered an escape not only by his guest but also by his wife and her brother, who would come running at once, and so he changed his plan and hastened to embrace Ben Attar, not with that strong, natural embrace of the summer
meetings
in the woods near Barcelona, but with a soft, desperate hug tinged with guilt and pain, and also with a new repudiation, a hug that
repelled
even as it clasped the North African traveler. Ben Attar had covered such a vast, impossible distance to come here that he had earned a high status in the eyes of the master of the house, a status that instantly relieved Abulafia of any scruples concerning the nature of the reply that he must give his twice-wed uncle when the latter made his request for hospitality.
My
house
is
your
house,
he said clearly, repeating the words in Hebrew so as to avoid any possible
misunderstanding,
whether on the part of the business partner who had
returned
or on that of his new wife, whose gown now rustled at his side.

The generous host did not yet know that behind the solitary uncle stood an old guardship lying at anchor not far away. But it was clear from the flash that lit his eyes and the blush that suffused his cheeks that he would not have modified his generous invitation if he had known that hospitality was being requested not just for a young,
ill-defined
child but for an entire household. For it became more evident by the minute that he was animated by joy at the sight of this guest who had descended upon him with almost magical suddenness, and his excitement caused him to bend down affectionately once again toward the unknown, suntanned child and hoist him tenderly in the
air, this child who for many days had swayed at the masthead of a doughty ship. And the new wife, Mistress Esther-Minna, realizing that she had been bested in the first, lightning-quick engagement of the present campaign, smiled too at the uplifted child, who lay gripped in the arms of the master of the house, perhaps in hopes of receiving, once he was back on the ground, something to eat.

Not once but many times in the course of the voyage Ben Attar had asked himself, when the ship was becalmed at night, creaking to
herself
upon the darkling sea beneath a heaven pregnant with stars, which of Satan’s brood had tempted him into abandoning his home and his children and endangering both his two beloved wives and his
merchandise
on such a ghastly escapade. Why should he insist on winning back the heart of his partner Abulafia, when he might have found a
replacement
for him, or even two replacements, who, even if they might not have traded with the same talent or reliability as his dear nephew, could have dealt with the old markets of Provence and Toulouse and made him a decent profit, which would preserve his good and honored name and the prosperity of both his houses? And each time he had reminded himself once again that in truth it was not Abulafia’s heart that he was trying to win back by means of this crazy journey, but that his new wife, who, though he had never beheld her face nor heard her voice, was extremely important to him, particularly from the moment she had reached out so surely from a distance to impugn his honor.

It was because of the importance of this unknown, distant woman, which had only increased as the journey dragged on and its tribulations became more severe, that he had not only held firm to his purpose but even managed to instill confidence and faith in the other travelers and the crew. So when he finally stood in the entrance of the house, clad in the multicolored robe that his two wives had made for him and
inspecting
his new kinswoman, who had come up from the Rhine Valley and united herself with his nephew, he knew clearly that this daring adventure had not been in vain. It was indeed right for him to have come from so far away to pit himself against such a woman, who, even though she was ten years older than her young husband, even though fine wrinkles showed on her face, still retained in her high cheekbones and her bright pearl-like eyes traces of a peculiar, exotic beauty, like that of a fine white hound or a fox. Who could say, he reflected with an
inward chuckle, whether some savage Viking or Saxon blood might not be coursing in her pious veins, or glimmering in the deep blue stare with which her eyes were now fixing his own?

Supper was laid for them in a large, overfurnished room with woolen rugs on the floor. So astonished was the North African traveler,
however,
at the rapidity and ease with which he had been accepted into this dreamed-of house that he was incapable of tasting the food that was set before him in heavy dull copper dishes. Instead, he watched the boy from Seville attack the chunks of cock served in a large pot and slake his thirst eagerly from a large crystal goblet that Mistress
Esther-Minna
casually refilled for him as though she were pouring water rather than wine. Was it the savor of roast pork in the street that had given the lad such a lusty appetite? Ben Attar asked himself as he smiled with embarrassment at his hosts, as though he himself were somehow guilty of this imported hunger. As he watched and wondered, the good wine gradually overcame the young diner, the fork slipped from his hand, his eyelids drooped, and the little pigtail that he had grown on the voyage began to nod, until full-blown slumber
unceremoniously
overtook him as he was, at table, converting the promised
hospitality
from a pious gesture to a necessity.

Mistress Esther-Minna, not having been vouchsafed any fruit of her own womb, was moved by any child who fell into her hands, especially such a dusky lad as this, whose locks were as curly as those of her husband, and who was also a half-orphan, according to his companion. Consequently, it was not surprising that she forgot, or at any rate deferred, the repudiation she had imposed upon her guest and called the two old Christian maids to pick up the boy and carefully remove his trousers, not realizing that children’s sleep is made of cast iron and not spun from cobwebs like her own—particularly because in this house they were accustomed to dealing with a girl whose slumber deserted her at the slightest sudden movement, to be replaced by raucous, tormented grunts. Even though it was forbidden in this house
to call Abulafia’s daughter bewitched or accursed, her fundamental nature had still not changed.

Even Ben Attar minded his language when he caught sight of the child standing in the doorway, conjuring up a flickering image of a baby crawling in the bottom of the boat on the first trip to Barcelona, trying to dig her little fingers into his eyes. His heart warmed toward her, and he surreptitiously signaled to the girl, in whose face her late mother’s beauty struggled with the blankness of her deformed soul, to come closer to him. Perhaps something really did sparkle in the foggy rage of her memory, since she did not flee in haste as usual from the strange visitor but stood fixed in the doorway, retreating before the master of the house. The moment he learned of the alarming appearance of the rejected business partner, Master Yehiel Levitas, Mistress
Esther-Minna’s
younger brother, shrewdly grasped not only that the first round was lost but that the second too was in jeopardy, and so he hastened to introduce himself politely, if somewhat coolly, to this distant, strange kinsman, who now gave a shallow bow of greeting. The brother did not delay but at once addressed the North African in clear, simple, and very slow Hebrew, as though the worry was not only about some
difference
in accent, dialect, or vocabulary but about a mental gap dividing north from south. Since, unlike his brother-in-law, he felt no guilt toward the visitor, he was not afraid to ask, after some brief courtesies, a direct question aimed at elucidating the purpose of his visit.
Abulafia’s
face reddened in embarrassment at the coarse question posed by his brother-in-law, who was short and fair-haired like his sister but lacked the jewel-like quality of her eyes, and before Ben Attar managed to reply, Abulafia was attempting to soften the question in trilingual speech. First, in Frankish, he indicated to his precipitate brother-
in-law
the boundaries of correct comportment. Then, in Arabic, he
addressed
the dear man who had come from so far away and restored his faith in the expanse of friendship that had been spread out before him here. Finally, in the holy tongue that they could all understand, he urged the weary uncle to sit down at last and taste the food that was growing cold on the table.

Ben Attar was satisfied, however, with the directness shown by Master Levitas, supported by his sister’s beautiful, limpid eyes. He was worried now not for himself, his hunger and his tiredness, but for his
ship, concealed in the vegetation of the riverbank, whose anxiety for her master, vanished in a strange city, floated above her like an
additional
sail. Little unexpected tears welled up at the sight of these Jews, whose repudiation had forced him not only to make this long,
dangerous
journey but also to conceal from them the existence of his
companions,
and to insinuate himself into their home by night, alone with a strange child. He stared straight into the other’s yellow, foxlike eyes and tried to answer him also in clear, simple, and very slow Hebrew, as though his worry too was not only about a difference in accent, dialect, and vocabulary but about a deep religious gap dividing north from south.
We
have
come
to
demand
divine
justice
against
you
and
your
repudiation,
he said,
and
to
that
end
we
have
brought
with
us
a
learned
rabbi
from
Seville.
He was careful not to add any more, so that the plural speech he had adopted, surprising even himself for a moment, might remain vague. Although he was not yet ready to reveal the two wives he had brought with him, to introduce them as daring guests in the house that had opened its doors to him, he was reluctant to
impugn
their honor by ignoring them.

It turned out that his vagueness was successful. Despite the plural speech, neither the clever Mistress Esther-Minna nor her wary brother could imagine two real wives, but they were excited at the news of the arrival of a learned, virtuous rabbi, who would want to worship with them until he was sent packing. They had grown up in a home of brilliant scholars, who were sometimes so carried away by a discussion of a biblical text that they forgot to lay the table for supper. Hence they were already exchanging delighted glances. And the southern Jew in his multicolored robe struck them as a possible interlocutor, for he had come to plead not for mercy but for justice, like a true Jew. So relieved did they feel that they added their voices to Abulafia’s request for the swarthy uncle to eat his fill, recover his strength, and then go to bed, and in the morning to go and fetch the rabbi, whom they wished to receive with great respect, because they could already sense the sweet taste of victory.

Ben Attar too, however, believed that he would prevail—not
because
of the high hopes he pinned on the rabbi, but chiefly because he could already see in his mind’s eye the living, colorful presence of his two wives in this gloomy, dark house, gradually wearing down the
opposition, not by means of an unexpected proof-text or sophistic
casuistry
but simply through the naturalness of the triangular love
relationship,
which would flow in its full humanity before anyone who tried to cast a slur on it. This vision of the impending encounter so revived him that he wished to return to his ship at once. But since his hosts pressed him to sit at table, he washed his hands over a silver basin that the Christian maid brought to him, blessed bread in a quiet old chant, and began to eat the two halves of a hard-boiled egg spread with a thick, creamy sauce. Then he turned to the chunks of cock stewed in a brown sauce, surrounded by beans, and continued with a bowl of green leaves sprinkled with crumbled almonds, and rounded the meal off with pears baked in honey. He ate slowly and politely, as though to atone for the child’s frantic haste, and for that very reason he was so taken by the pleasure of eating that he felt a powerful and urgent desire to share it with the women he had left behind on board ship.

But his hosts, who had welcomed him into their home, were also responsible for his safety, and they forbade him to go outside at this late hour. Instead they offered him a bed not far from that of the child, whose drinking had caused him to snore like a drunken sailor.
However,
after so many days and nights during which the whole world had been swaying all around him, the North African was unable to find rest in a stationary, boxlike room. Small wonder, then, that when the first glimmer of light caught the window he was ready to set off, leaving the rabbi’s son with Mistress Abulafia, either as a scout ahead of those who might appear later in the day or as a pledge for the safe return of her husband, who gladly accompanied his uncle and former partner. Since the house stood on the southern bank of the river, there was no need to wait for the gates in the walls to be opened and cross to the north bank—or right bank, as Abulafia called it, looking at the river from the point of view of the direction of its flow—for they could simply walk along the south bank—which Abulafia termed the left bank—until they reached the bend where the ship lurked. It was now time to reveal the ship to Ben Attar’s astonished nephew, and not merely the fact of its existence but the richness of its material and human cargo.

Throughout the two years of separation, Abulafia had never given up hope that his partner and uncle might try to fight against the
repudiation
that his new wife and her kinsfolk had decreed. In the first
months after the non-meeting that summer at Benveniste’s, he had been haunted by false visions of his uncle’s splendid robe in the alleys of the Cité in Paris, or among the stalls of the great market in Saint Denis, or occasionally along the walls of the convent of Sainte
Geneviève.
But knowing his uncle’s character well, Abulafia was convinced that someone who was accustomed to the comfort and luxury of two fine houses in a calm and temperate seaside town would recoil from the hardships and dangers that lay in wait for travelers on the long and ill-repaired roads of the Christian kingdoms in the twilight years of the millennium.

Only now, as he stood with his dear uncle in a field beside the fountain of Saint Michel, did he realize how feeble and limited his imagination had been, looking always toward the land and not thinking of the sea, even though it was a genuine ocean. The boldness and daring of his partner, who had persisted in sailing secretly to his very home not only with merchandise but even with his wives, with no prior guarantee or clear chance of winning over the stubborn zealots, moved him with such joy and compassion that he wanted to fall on his knees and beg for pardon for everything he had done to his benefactor. But he stopped himself at the last minute, knowing that begging for pardon would indirectly incriminate his wife and would negate everything she had tried to teach him since their marriage. So he held back and merely threw a friendly arm around his uncle’s sturdy shoulders, as though to support him gently as they walked down the slippery winding path toward the river.

And so, in the morning chill of early September, in the year 999 of the birth of the Nazarene, corresponding to the last days of Elul of the year 4759 of the Jewish era of the creation, the two hurried to join the ship, which had passed its first night on this long voyage without the presence of its master. So deeply immersed were they in excited speech, interrupting each other constantly in their desire to finish the two conversations they had missed in the past two summers in that ruined inn looking out over the Bay of Barcelona, that they did not feel the ground hurrying past under their feet, nor did they notice the sound of the bells of the great abbey of Saint Germain des Prés, whose high walls touched the water of the river. They were deep in a business discussion in which Ben Attar was attempting to discover the open and
secret desires of the Parisian market, so as to know how much he could expect to make from the goods hidden in the hold of his ship. Even though the ship itself was not far off, the merchant could not refrain from enumerating in advance not only all that his estranged partner would soon see with his own eyes, but also those things that had been and were no longer, such as a little she-camel that had been separated from its mate by the lord of Rouen.

Abulafia was aflame with excitement, not at the thought of seeing the young male camel or the sacks of condiments but at meeting his two aunts, the elder one from whom he had parted years before, and the new one whom he had never seen, even though she had been living since her marriage in his old home, the house of his great lost love. But as he drew near to the big-bellied, tawny ship, well hidden by her captain in the vegetation overhanging the river, he forgot the women for a moment, and a great cry of wonder burst from him at the
resourcefulness
of blending the military with the civilian in order to undertake an adventure of which even now only God knew what the outcome might be.

Once again he embraced the brave uncle who had not given him up, and he fell into the arms of Abu Lutfi, who had recognized him from afar and hurried down from the deck to greet him with a loud exclamation, shaking his long-lost partner so angrily and affectionately that he almost strangled him. Then he was taken up the rope ladder to the deck, where the captain bowed ceremoniously before him, ordering a sailor to wave a small blue flag in honor of the guest who would soon become their host. They told the black slave to summon the rabbi, who emerged from his cabin all threadbare and confused, and Abulafia’s eyes widened at the sight of the Andalusian sage, and he kissed his hand and asked his blessing and gave him greetings from his little boy, who was resting under the reliable care of Abulafia’s wife. Then he was led down into the hold, where he was assailed by the powerful
Moroccan
smells of his childhood, and he felt as though this scarred Arab guardship were a real and precious part of himself, and his eyes filled with tears of sorrow at the parting he had had to undergo and the other parting that was to come.