Travellers in Magic (32 page)

Kasim jerks as if he has been shot. He hurries on toward the wharf, saying nothing.

At the harbor Kasim hands Shabbetai to another man and goes quickly back to the city. Shabbetai is stowed in the dark hold of a ship, amid sour-smelling hides and strong spices and ripe oranges. Above him he hears someone shout, and he feels the ship creak and separate from the wharf and head out into the Sea of Marmara.

Darkness again, he thinks. He is a piece of God, hidden from sight. It is only by going down into the darkness of the fallen world that he can find the other fragments, missing since the Creation. Everything has been ordained, even this trip from Constantinople to Gallipoli.

Visions of the world around him encroach upon the darkness. He sees Pierre de Fermat, a mathematician, lying dead in France; a book is open on the table in which he has written, “I have discovered a truly remarkable proof which this margin is too small to contain.” He sees Rembrandt adding a stroke of bright gold to a painting he calls “The Jewish Bride.” He sees a great fire destroy London; a killing wind blows the red and orange flames down to the Thames.

He is blinded again, this time by the vast inrushing light of the world. He closes his eyes, a spark of light among many millions of others, and rocks to the motion of the ship.

Sarah's arrival in Cairo two years ago caused a great deal of consternation. No one could remember ever seeing a woman travelling by herself. She stood alone on the dock, a slight figure with long red hair tumbling from her kerchief, gazing around her as if at Adam's Eden.

Finally someone ran for the chief rabbi. He gave the order to have her brought to his house, and summoned all the elders as well.

“Who are you?” he asked. “Why are you travelling alone in such a dangerous part of the world?”

“I'm an orphan,” Sarah said. “But I was raised in a great castle by a Polish nobleman. I had one servant just to pare my nails, and another to brush my hair a hundred times before I went to bed.”

None of the elders answered her, but each one wore an identical expression of doubt. Why would a Polish nobleman raise a Jewish orphan? And what on earth was she doing in Cairo?

Only Shabbetai saw her true nature; only he knew that what the elders suspected was true. She had been the nobleman's mistress, passed among his circle of friends when he grew tired of her. The prophet Hosea married a prostitute, he thought. “I will be your husband,” he said. “If you will have me.”

He knew as he spoke that she would marry him, and his heart rejoiced.

They held the wedding at night and out of doors. The sky was dark blue silk, buttoned by a moon of old ivory. Stars without number shone.

After the ceremony the elders came to congratulate him. For Sarah's sake he pretended not to see the doubt in their eyes. “I cannot tell you how happy I am tonight,” he said.

After the ceremony he brought her to his house and led her to the bedroom, not bothering to light the candles. He lay on the bed and drew her to him. Her hair was tangled; perhaps she never brushed it.

They lay together for a long time. “Shall I undress?” she asked finally. Her breath was warm on his face.

“The angels sang at my birth,” he said. “I have never told anyone this. Only you.”

She ran her fingers through her hair, then moved to lift her dress. He held her tightly. “We must be like the angels,” he said. “Like the moon. We must be pure.”

“I don't understand.”

“We cannot fall into sin. If I am stained like Adam I will not be able to do the work for which I was sent here.”

“The—work?”

“I was born to heal the world,” he said.

The moon appeared before him in the darkened room. Its silver-white light cast everything in shadow.

The moon began to spin. No, he thought. He watched as it shattered and plummeted to earth, saw the scattered fragments hide themselves in darkness.

He cried aloud. He felt the great sadness of the world, and the doubt he had struggled with all his life returned.

“It's broken,” he said. “It can never be repaired. I'll never be able to join all the pieces together.”

Sarah kissed him lightly on the cheek. “Let us join together, then,” she said. “Let two people stand for the entire world.”

“No—”

“I heard you tell your followers that everything is permitted. Why are we not permitted to come together as husband and wife?”

“I can't,” he said simply. “I have never been able to.”

He expected scorn, or pity. But her expression did not change. She held him in her arms, and eventually he drifted off to sleep.

With Sarah at his side he was able to begin the mission for which he was born. Together they travelled toward Jerusalem, stopping so that he could preach along the way.

He spoke in rough huts consecrated only by the presence of ten men joined by prayer. He spoke in ancient synagogues, with lamps of twisted silver casting a wavering light on the golden letters etched into the walls. Sometimes he stood at a plain wooden table, watched by unlettered rustics who know nothing of the mysteries of Kabbalah; sometimes he preached from an altar of faded white and gold.

His message was the same wherever they went. He was the Messiah, appointed by God. He proclaimed an end to fast days; he promised women that he would set them free from the curse of Eve. He would take the crown from the Turkish sultan without war, he said, and he would make the sultan his servant.

The lost ten tribes of Israel had been found, he told the people who gathered to hear him. They were marching slowly as sleepwalkers toward the Sahara desert, uncertain of the way or of their purpose, waiting for him to unite them.

When he reached Jerusalem he circled the walls seven times on horseback, like a king. Once inside the city he won over many of the rabbis and elders. Letters were sent out to the scattered Jewish communities all over the world, to England, Holland and Italy, proclaiming that the long time of waiting was over; the Messiah had come.

A great storm shook the world. Families sold their belongings and travelled toward Jerusalem. Others set out with nothing, trusting in God to provide for them. Letters begging for more news were sent back to Jerusalem, dated from “the first year of the renewal of the prophecy and the kingdom.” Shabbetai signed the answering letters “the firstborn son of God,” and even “I am the Lord your God Shabbetai Zevi,” and such was the fervor of the people that very few of them were shocked.

The boat docks at Gallipoli, and Shabbetai is taken to the fortress there. Once inside he sees that he has been given a large and well-lit suite of rooms, and he understands that his followers have succeeded in bribing the officials.

The guards leave him and lock the door. However comfortable his rooms are, he is still in a prison cell. He paces for several minutes, studying the silver lamps and deep carpets and polished tables and chairs. Mosaics on the wall, fragments of red, green and black, repeat over and over in a complex pattern.

He sits on the plump mattress and puts his head in his hands. His head throbs. With each pulse, it seems, the lamps in the room dim, grow darker, until, finally, they go out.

He is a letter of light. He is the seventh letter, the zayin. Every person alive is a letter, and together they make up the book of the world, all things past, present and to come.

He thinks he can read the book, can know the future of the world. But as he looks on, the book's pages turn; the letters form and reshape. Futures branch off before him.

He watches as children are born, as some die, as others grow to adulthood. Some stay in their villages, farm their land, sit by their hearths with their families surrounding them. Others disperse across the world and begin new lives.

The sight disturbs him; he does not know why. A page turns and he sees ranks of soldiers riding to wars, and men and women lying dead in the streets from plague. Kingdoms fall to sword and gun and cannon.

Great wars consume the world. The letters twist and sharpen, become pointed wire. He sees millions of people herded beyond the wire, watches as they go toward their deaths.

The light grows brighter. He wants to close his eyes, to look away, but he cannot. He watches as men learn the secrets of the light, as they break it open and release the life concealed within it. A shining cloud flares above a city, and thousands more die.

No, he thinks. But the light shines out again, and this time it seems to comfort him. Here is the end of history that he has promised his followers. Here is the end of everything, the world cleansed, made anew.

The great book closes, and the light goes out.

In Jerusalem he preached to hundreds of people. They filled the synagogue, dressed in their best clothes, the men on his right hand and the women on his left. Children played and shouted in the aisles.

He spoke of rebuilding the temple, of finding the builder's stone lost since the time of Solomon. As he looked out over his audience he saw Sarah stand and leave the congregation. One of his followers left as well, a man named Aaron.

He stopped, the words he had been about to speak dying before they left his mouth. For a moment he could not go on. The people stirred in their seats.

He hurried to an end. After the service he ran quickly to the house the rabbis had given him. Sarah was already there.

“What were you doing here?” he asked.

“What do you mean?” she said. Her expression was innocent, unalarmed.

“I saw you leave with Aaron.”

“With Aaron? I left to come home. I didn't feel well.”

“You were a whore in Poland, weren't you?” he asked harshly. “Was there a single man in the country you didn't sleep with?”

“I was a nobleman's daughter,” she said. Her voice was calm. He could not see her heart; she held as many mysteries as the Kabbalah.

“A nobleman's—” he said. “You were his mistress. And what did you do with Aaron? What did you do with all of them, all of my followers?”

“I told you—”

“Don't lie to me!”

“Listen. Listen to me. I did nothing. I have not known a man since I came to Cairo.”

“Then you admit that in Poland—”

“Quiet. Yes. Yes, I was his mistress.”

“And Aaron? You want him, don't you? You whore—You want them all, every man you have ever known.”

“Listen,” she said angrily. “You know nothing of women, nothing at all. I was his mistress in Poland, yes. But I did not enjoy it—I did it because I was an orphan, and hungry, and I needed to eat. I hated it when he came to me, but I managed to hide my feelings. I had to, or I would have starved.”

“But you wanted me. On our wedding night, you said—”

“Yes. You are the only man who has ever made me feel safe.”

A great pity moved him. He felt awed at the depths to which her life had driven her, the sins she had been forced to take upon herself. Could she be telling the truth? But why would she stay with him, a man of no use to her or any other woman?

“You lied to your nobleman,” he said carefully. “Are you lying to me now?”

“No,” she said.

He believed her. He felt free, released from the jealousy that had bound him. “You may have Aaron, you know,” he said.

“What?”

“You may have Aaron, or any man you want.”

“I don't—Haven't you heard me at all? I don't want Aaron.”

“I understand everything now. You were a test, but through the help of God I have passed it. With the coming of the kingdom of God all things are allowed. Nothing is forbidden. You may have any man, any woman, any one of God's creatures.”

“I am not a test! I am a woman, your wife! You are the only man I want!”

He did not understand why she had become angry. His own anger had gone. He left the house calmly.

From Jerusalem he travelled with his followers to Smyrna, the place where he was born. There are those who say that he was banished from Jerusalem too, that the rabbis there declared him guilty of blasphemy. He does not remember. He remembers only the sweetness of returning to his birthplace in triumph.

Thousands of men and women turned out to greet him as he rode through the city gates. Men on the walls lifted ram's horns to their lips and sounded notes of welcome. People crowded the streets, cheering and singing loudly; they raised their children to their shoulders and pointed him out as he went past.

He nodded to the right and left as he rode. A man left the assembly and stepped out in front of the procession.

Shabbetai's horse reared. “Careful, my lord!” Nathan said, hurrying to his side. Nathan was one of the many who had joined him in Jerusalem, who had heard Shabbetai's message and given up all his worldly goods.

But Shabbetai had recognized the fat, worried-looking man, and he reined in his horse. “This is my brother Joseph,” he said. “A merchant.”

To his surprise Joseph bowed to him. “Welcome, my lord,” he said. “We hear great things of you.”

Shabbetai laughed. When they were children he had told Joseph about his visions, and Joseph had beaten him for lying. Seeing his brother bent before him was more pleasing than Shabbetai could have imagined. “Rise, my friend,” he said.

In the days that followed the city became one great festival. Business came to a standstill as people danced in the streets, recited psalms to one another when they met, fell into prophetic trances proclaiming the kingdom of God.

Only Sarah did not join in the city's riot. He urged her to take a lover, as so many people in the city were doing, but she refused. When he called for an end to fast days she became the only one in the city to keep the old customs.

Despite her actions he felt more strongly than ever that he was travelling down the right road, that he was close to the fulfillment of his mission. He excommunicated those who refused to believe in him. He sang love songs during prayer, and explained to the congregation the mystical meaning behind the words of the songs. He distributed the kingdoms of the earth among his followers.