A Journey to the End of the Millennium (17 page)

A silence fell. Everyone had heard the shout, but because of his strange accent only a few understood what he was asking, and one of them was Master Levitas, who hastened to silence him. But Abulafia, shaken to the core by the rabbi’s outcry, seized his brother-in-law’s shoulder to restrain him. Even though in a short while he would be called upon to defend himself against the charges brought by the southerners, a strange hope was stirring in his heart that the case for the defense would not succeed, and that the honesty of his good, wronged uncle, combined with the rabbi’s wisdom, would tip the scales against him, for then he would be able to renew his travels to the azure summer meeting in the Spanish March. Since he understood well the rabbi’s shouted demand for the replacement of these judges,
who had certainly prejudged the case, he turned to his wife, the blue of whose eyes had been so sharpened by fear since morning that now in the afternoon they looked like gray steel, and gently he pleaded with her to ask her brother to display magnanimity toward the plaintiffs, who had risked their lives to come from so far, and agree to exchange the judges for more suitable people.

Suitable
for
what?
She turned in surprise to face her young, tousled husband, and, weary from her sleepless night, she scanned with a pained look the three gaunt scribes, who, confused by the repudiation that had suddenly attacked them, clung to one another, rolling their eyes in umbrage.
Suitable
for
what?
Mistress Esther-Minna asked again angrily, joined by her brother and the disappointed proprietor of the winery, who since yesterday had been doing the rounds of the
neighboring
villages and estates to assemble the three scribes. But while Abulafia was insisting on explaining to his wife how it might be
possible
to find true judges, scholars of outstanding wisdom, who would satisfy the visitors, who sought even in this out-of-the-way place the spirit of the wisdom of Andalus, Rabbi Elbaz hastened to pacify the ruffled participants by explaining that it would be proper to make do with the spirit of the ancient sages, which was the true spirit that could transform, say, the whole congregation of simple, goodhearted Jews into a public tribunal that might judge and save either the plaintiff or the defendant, as was stated in so many words in the book of Exodus:
to
incline
after
the
multitude.

Even Master Levitas, who was a judicious and farsighted man, was confused by the rabbi’s surprising suggestion, but first he tried to read in his sister’s eyes her view about abandoning a dispute that he had seen as settled and sealed in favor of a motley assemblage of grape stampers, barrel rollers, and wine vendors. Before he had managed to catch her eye, he was startled by a softly yet clearly whispered question she put to the little rabbi.
All
of
them?
Including
the
women?
And before he could contemplate toning down his sister’s outrageous question, Rabbi Elbaz had astonishingly replied in an enthusiastic whisper,
The
women?
Why
not?
After all, they too were created in God’s image.

Is this rabbi’s mind completely addled, or will he really lead us on the right path? The North African merchant sank deep in thought, watching closely as his nephew’s beaming face approached his wives’
fine silk veils to whisper into their delicate, gold-ringed ears a
translation
of the surprising words spoken by a clever woman and a poetic rabbi. The news seemed to arouse neither fear nor panic in Ben Attar’s wives, but only such a great curiosity that they could restrain
themselves
no longer, and the second wife, closely followed by the first, stripped off her veil, the better to contemplate with kohl-darkened eyes the men and women of Villa Le Juif, who gazed back at them with smiling faces, little suspecting that the place where they were standing was soon to become the judgment seat.

All
of
them?
How
is
that
possible?
It
will
be
total
chaos,
groaned Master Levitas to his sister and the rabbi, suddenly united. The refined Parisian was joined by the proprietor of the winery, who was alarmed at the plan of converting his retainers into judges. And so, after a brief exchange of words, it was agreed by both sides that in accordance with the ancient spirit of the law, it would be sufficient to select seven judges, corresponding to “trial by seven good men of the city.” But since this was not a city and the foreign travelers had no idea who were the best folk among them, the judges would have to be selected by lot. To this end young Elbaz, who had sat himself down in a corner on a small barrel to inhale the fragrance of the wine maturing inside it, was brought forward, blindfolded, and sent out into the sunlight dancing on the treetops to choose seven people by means of a game of blind-man’s buff. A deep silence fell on one and all as the blindfolded child
hesitated,
then shuffled cautiously toward the tall woman with the sickly face, the wife of the proprietor, and slowly laid his little hands on her soft belly, as though he had decided even before his eyes were bound to make her his first choice. At once, recoiling from this overbold gesture, he collided as he stepped backward with one of the scribes, who had positioned himself deliberately in his path to compel the boy to choose him. Only then did the world beyond his blindfold seem finally to become clear to the child, and discerning within the deep silence the bated breath of the crowd, he turned resolutely toward it. But for some reason the Jews recoiled from this blindfolded boy who advanced fatefully toward them, all but a fair-faced young woman, one of the wine stampers, who stood rooted to the spot as though inviting the young stranger to touch her. He did indeed touch her face gently with his little hand, until another woman, apparently jealous, took a
few paces toward him, and the boy turned toward her, and his fingers fluttered on her bosom. Unperturbed by this contact, he turned to his right, where a third woman was waiting for him, and he held her too for a moment, and while Master Levitas’s sardonic laughter and his father the rabbi’s rebuke rang out, yet a fourth woman, a toothless hag, hurried to his side, yearning also to be touched. But the child, startled by the feel of her wizened face, instantly buried his hands in the folds of his little robe and refused to stir. His father was obliged now to come forward and remove him from the women who were converging upon him. He turned him around and led him back toward the small dais, and it seemed for a moment as though he would once more approach the tall woman with the sickly face and touch her belly again, but his father steered him gently toward the Radhanite merchant from the Land of Israel, who was sitting immobile, his thick black beard lying calmly on his chest, seemingly taking great pleasure in the scene that was unfolding around him. Slowly the boy drew forth a single hand from the folds of his little robe and very cautiously held it out in front of him, until he encountered the large beard.

Now that the seventh judge had been chosen, the blindfold was removed and a new worry gripped Master Levitas’s heart. Indicating the sunlight fading on the trees, he suggested that they should all, plaintiffs and defendants, witnesses and judges, join together in the afternoon prayer, which might also serve as a discreet hint to the Christian visitors that their presence was no longer appropriate.

Then they all went to the well to draw water for the hand-washing. After that they stood for the afternoon prayer. It soon became evident that Abulafia’s heart was so inflamed by the occasion that he yearned to lead the service with his pleasant voice. At first the proprietor of the winery and Master Levitas tried to undermine his precedence by chanting faster or slower, but eventually they desisted, not because Abulafia’s singing was louder than theirs, but because concealed within it was a delightful, unique cadence that attracted the worshippers in
Villa Le Juif to follow his lead. His wife too, her mind confused by the ease with which the panel of judges had been filled with women, gave a silent signal to her younger brother to abandon the contest and let Abulafia surrender himself to his chant, which she found instantly appealing, although she could not imagine where it came from. But Ben Attar, who had never before stood in prayer so close to his two wives and could sense their overwhelmed souls, immediately identified the source of his nephew’s tune as the muezzin’s call in the mosque in Tangier. How amazing, he thought, that after all these years he still tries to preserve in his chant the Muslim cadence of that seashore, although he has also blended it with another melody, which to judge by its rhythm and tune must be taken from some local peasant song.

It may have been for this reason that the three Christians who had mingled with the Jews so as to enjoy the spectacle of two pretty, veiled women who belonged legally and naturally to a single man did not depart when the Jews began to pray, but lingered to wonder at the familiar melody, blending the Jews’ Latin with an additional curling cadence. When Levitas saw that the three of them insisted on staying, he abbreviated the interval between the afternoon and evening prayers and gave a sign for the evening prayer to commence even before the first star appeared, in the hope that when they reached the
Hear
O
Israel
and the silent darkness filled with the profiles of motionless Jews standing in total separateness, with eyes closed and hands in front of their faces, looking like curious woodcocks, some vague dread might finally cause the uninvited guests to leave. Indeed, by the time torches were lit at the end of the service and the bunches of grapes suspended from hooks all around cast fantastic shadows on the walls, not a single stranger remained in the hall to seek entertainment from the Jews.

Perhaps it was the mood of earnest solemnity descending upon the Jews of Villa Le Juif after the two beautiful services had stamped upon the departing day a double seal of music and holiness that breathed fear into the four women selected by the game of blind-man’s buff. When the president’s wife, the tall mistress of the winery, was invited to mount the wooden dais, followed by the pleasant-faced oriental merchant, with the scribe close on his heels, looking gaunt and dusty in his black cloak but also earnestly determined to represent his two disqualified colleagues faithfully, the four women judges, who
apparently
failed now to understand the meaning of their desire for the touch of the dark boy, stood huddled in a corner, clinging to one another and too frightened to climb onto the dais. At this point Mistress Esther-Minna intervened. Desiring an additional female element, her faith in the justice of a verdict decided by three judges
notwithstanding,
she was filled with enough indignation and fury to echo in Abulafia’s heart for the rest of his life, depriving him of any hint of regret that he might have doubled the number of his wives if he had not migrated from the south to the north. And so, with a gentle voice that concealed no little sternness, she induced the three young women and the elderly vintager to relax their hold on each other and join the three people who were already seated importantly on wine casks spread with old fox skins, with a torch blazing in front of them.

Everything was now ready. It was not the “seven good men of the city” demanded by writ who were seated upon the dais but merely seven ordinary men and women selected by a form of ballot, but this was simply because for close on a thousand years now there had been no wholly Jewish town but only small, dispersed communities, driven onward from one place to the next by troubles and dangers. There was nothing now to prevent Ben Attar from rising to his feet and setting forth his plea, for which he had come such a long way, although now, after the double service, it seemed to have shrunk. This may have been the reason that he seemed still to hesitate, sunk in thought, until Rabbi Elbaz was obliged to give him a sign of encouragement. Indeed, ever since the merchant and his entourage had entered the inner court of Villa Le Juif that afternoon and from there proceeded into the hall of the winery, his spirit had seemed to be failing. It was as if he had not imagined that he would really and truly come face to face with that repudiation, which from the vast distance separating Africa from
Europe
had seemed to him like the panic of Jews chiefly fearful of
Christian
opinion, or that only two days after disembarking from his ship he would be summoned before a strange, hastily convened court in the dark hall of a remote rustic winery. For the first time since he had conceived the idea of the journey, he experienced a vague fear of defeat.

Surprisingly, however, he felt pity not for himself, nor for his two wives, who had been forced to leave their children and their homes,
but for his Ishmaelite partner, Abu Lutfi, whom Ben Attar now
imagined
sitting in the darkness of the ship’s hold close to the solitary camel, praying to Allah for the success of his Jewish partner, although he would never, ever understand, however many times it was explained to him, why a Jewish merchant who lived with his wives and enjoyed the respect of Jews and Ishmaelites alike should care about the
repudiation
of faraway Jews living in dark forests on the shores of wild rivers, in the heart of a remote continent.

This feeling of guilt and compassion toward the Arab, who had given and would continue to give his own strength and money to a journey with whose purpose he could not identify, now charged Ben Attar with such powerful feelings of shame and sorrow that he sternly scrutinized the face of his nephew Abulafia, who was smiling at him with a kind of strange perplexity. Abulafia was standing before him not only as a defendant but also as an interpreter, who would be called upon to render his opponent’s words faithfully. For a moment Ben Attar was filled with anger against his nephew, whom he had so
lovingly
reared, for his inability to stand up to his new wife, and for involving him not only in a long and wearisome voyage but also in this sad and unjust rift. So fiercely did his anger burn that he dispensed with the services of his nephew as interpreter, and in a deep voice that at once commanded silence in the hall he spoke a few hesitant words in the ancient tongue of the Jews, in the hope that those who
understood
would communicate his meaning to the others present. After a few sentences, however, he realized that it would be better for him to abandon his atrophied, jerky Hebrew in favor of fluent and colorful Arabic, which not surprisingly conveyed the full force of his distress.

Abulafia was surprised and troubled by the opening of his uncle’s plea, which centered not on himself but on Abu Lutfi. But Ben Attar held firmly to his course. Yes, he wished to begin his plea with the pain and sorrow of a third party, a gentile, who every autumn for the past ten years had driven his camels to the northern slopes of the Atlas Mountains, wearying himself among tiny villages and remote tribes to seek out and discover the best and most beautiful wares to please his northern partner’s customers.

Gradually Ben Attar’s audience was able to apprehend the nature of that wonderful threefold partnership, which extended from the Atlas
Mountains beyond the Moroccan shores, wound through the towns and gardens of Andalus, then sailed slowly up to the Bay of Barcelona and to the enchanted meeting place in the Spanish March, climbing thence along the eastern slopes of the Pyrenees and spreading like a colored fan through Provence and Aquitaine, continuing along the routes of Burgundy and groping its way up to the Île de France. Ben Attar did not spare them the details. On the contrary, with rare
precision
he set forth the clever, rich framework devised by three partners who were joined together not only by understanding and trust but also by fellowship and friendship, trying to earn a living from the delights of the Mohammedans of the south, who sent their cumin, cassia, and cardamom to simmer in the steaming Christian stewpots of Narbonne and Perpignan.

This was the manner of Ben Attar’s speaking: after a few sentences he would stop, fix his eyes on Abulafia’s, and silently count the
Frankish
sentences as they came out of his mouth, fearing that the
translation
might omit some words. But his fears were unfounded, for not only did this interpreter not wish to leave anything out, but as one of the members of the legendary threesome, he contributed details on his own account to reinforce the story, so carried away by his words that he forgot that soon he would have to defend himself against the tale that he was so eagerly translating.

The face of the thick-bearded merchant from the Land of Israel, who drank the words straight from their Arabic source, was already beginning to darken as Ben Attar described the first signs of Abulafia’s deceit—the curious disguises, the hints of his repudiation, the
ever-increasing
delays that opened gaping black chasms in the minds of those who awaited him, until the last summer, when that terrible, final, and definitive absence had occurred, leaving the two southern partners alone among the horses and donkeys in Benveniste’s stable, alarmed at the huge quantity of merchandise that surrounded them. Amazingly, the plaintiff refrained from pointing an accusing finger at the new wife who had appeared from the Rhineland, or even from mentioning her name. It was as if Abulafia were alone in the world, and the blame were his alone—as though the accursed repudiation had been born only in the nephew’s mind, and caused him to turn against his friends. So it was no wonder that it was now hard for the interpreter, who in
the course of translating was magnifying his own guilt, to continue interpreting faithfully while he was compelled to hear such harsh words from his uncle, who coldly, in rich but precise Arabic, attributed to his nephew the vile suspicion of simply trying to dissolve the old partnership in order to replace it with a new one that might turn out to be more lucrative. And since, Ben Attar’s ruthless denunciation
continued,
it was hard for the traitor to abandon his loyal partners on some pretext of deception or unfairness, for their business relations had
always
been honest and just, he had invented a kind of strange
repudiation
of his uncle’s double marriage, and, not daring to express this repudiation in his own name, he had put it into the mouth, so to speak, of his new, foreign wife.

For how could Abulafia complain now about his uncle’s double marriage, when he had known for several years that his uncle had purchased his old house in his home town, to honor the grievous
memory
of the wife who had departed for the depths of the sea, and had installed there a second wife, a new aunt, whose existence he not only did not consider invalid but was openly pleased about, even if she was his own age? Since he could not suddenly protest against something that he had accepted and approved of for such a long time, he had been obliged to ask his new family to frighten him and to order him to feel revulsion toward his own flesh and blood.

At this point the interpreter’s voice became so choked that nobody in the dark winery could understand a word of the last sentences, which had pierced him like sword thrusts. So the merchant from the Land of Israel, who had been listening attentively to the Arabic
original
, decided to venture a small shortcut. Turning to his neighbor, the scribe, who was gaping apprehensively, he very slowly, in a voice free from any guttural exaggeration, summarized what had been said so far in archaic Hebrew with the Jerusalem pronunciation, so that the scribe would spring to his feet, a gaunt figure dressed in black, and clothe the summary in the local language for the benefit of his fellow judges, who were sitting silently on the wooden dais, and for the benefit of the audience, which had been drawn by the heated dispute to emerge from among the wine casks and edge closer to the two disputants—and closer too to the new wife, who had immediately grasped Ben Attar’s shrewd tactic in forcing her pained husband to leap to the defense of
his loyalty to the partnership, and in so doing to expose to public gaze a crack (only a small one, she hoped) between him and her.

Into this crack Rabbi Elbaz now attempted to insert like a lance the sermon he had devised while rocked by the waves of the sea. But Mistress Esther-Minna hastily forestalled him. Her heart was seething at the sight of her husband standing stock-still, staring at his uncle with a strange, startled smile on his face, as though the terrible
suspicion
that had been laid at his door had spread through his body like a paralyzing poison. Without knowing whether she had the right to speak, she took the floor and passionately appealed to the court as a plaintiff, speaking volubly in the local Frankish dialect, first of all to dispel contemptuously any suspicion of another, secret partnership on her husband’s part, and then to disclose at last the true, emotional source of the repudiation, which was even more important to her than the edicts that had arrived from the Rhineland.

Master Levitas, who had been well aware since the morning of his older sister’s mental turmoil, and of her desire and indeed her ability to achieve a breakthrough, took a few cautious steps toward her, so that his calm presence and steady disposition, even if they were not
expressed
in words, might delineate a certain border, in case she were tempted to cross it. While Ben Attar had been speaking, this Parisian pearl-dealer had been looking neither at the accuser nor at the accused but at the faces of the four women who had volunteered to be selected by ballot as judges. By the look of sorrow that appeared briefly on their faces at the mention of all the unsold merchandise, and by the flicker of suspicion at the sight of Abulafia’s pallor as he was held responsible, Master Levitas, a cautious, intelligent man, understood that from now on it would be a mistake to feel any certainty about the outcome of the case. Accordingly, it would be wise to restrain any sign of self-
confidence
or pride on the part of his small but ready-tongued and
straight-backed
sister, whose fair features, carved like those of a beautiful hound, were glowing in the torchlight.