The Books of Jacob

by Olga Tokarczuk

  The priest glances at them, pleased to have hooked them both. He sees strands of gold and auburn hair in the Jew’s dark beard.

  “We could exchange books,” suggests the priest.

  He goes on to say that in his library in Firlejów he has two more titles by the great Kircher, Arca Noë and Mundus subterraneus, kept under lock and key, too valuable to consult on a daily basis. He knows there are other titles, too, but with these he is familiar only through the mentions he has seen here and there. And he has built up a collection of numerous oldworld thinkers, including, he says, hoping to win Shorr over, “by the Jewish historiographer Josephus.”

  They pour him kompot from a pitcher and offer him a plate of dried figs and dates. The priest places them in his mouth with great reverence—it’s been a long time since he had any, and their unearthly sweetness immediately restores his strength. He thinks he needs to state his business, that it’s high time, so he swallows the sweetness and cuts to the chase; yet before he has finished, he understands that he’s been hasty, and that he won’t get what he wants.

  Perhaps it is the sudden change in Hryćko’s manner that tips him off. He would bet, as well, that the boy is inserting his own words as he translates, be they warnings or the contrary, ad libs intended to help the priest’s case. Elisha Shorr edges into his chair and leans his head back, closing his eyes, seemingly endeavoring to consult his inner depths.

  This continues until the priest, without intending to, exchanges a significant glance with the young interpreter.

  “The rabbi is listening to the voices of his elders,” whispers the interpreter, and the priest nods knowingly, although in fact he still does not know what is going on. Perhaps this Jew really is in some sort of magic contact with assorted demons—he knows they have quite a few of them amongst the Jews, all those lamias and Liliths. Shorr’s hesitation, and his shut eyes, make the priest think it really would have been better not to have come at all, the situation being such a delicate and unusual one. He hopes he has not exposed himself to infamy.

  Shorr gets up and turns toward the wall, bows his head, and remains thus for a moment. The priest grows impatient—is this a sign that he should leave? Hryćko shuts his eyes, too. Have they fallen asleep? The priest clears his throat discreetly. This silence of theirs has robbed him of whatever remained of his confidence. Now he really is sorry he came.

  Suddenly Shorr, as if nothing had happened, starts toward the cabinets and opens one. Solemnly he extracts a thick folio bearing the same symbols as all the other books, and he sets it on the table in front of the priest. He opens the book backward, and the priest sees the beautifully made title page . . .

  “Sefer ha‑Zohar,” Shorr says piously, and then he puts the book back inside the cabinet.

  “Who could read it for you, anyway, Father . . . ,” Hryćko says, to cheer him up.

  The priest leaves two volumes of his New Athens on Shorr’s table as an enticement to exchange in the future. He taps them with his index finger and then points to himself, aiming right in the middle of his chest: “I wrote this. They ought to read it—if only they knew the language. They’d learn a lot about the world.” He awaits a reaction, but Shorr only raises his eyebrows a little.

  Father Chmielowski and Hryćko walk out into the chilly and unpleasant air together. Hryćko is still babbling on about something; the priest, meanwhile, is sizing him up: his youthful face covered in the light-colored down of what will become a beard, his long, curled eyelashes, which lend him something of the aspect of a child, his peasant clothing.

  “Are you Jewish?”

  “Oh, no . . . ,” says Hryćko, shrugging. “I’m from here, from Rohatyn, from that house just over there. Orthodox, in theory.”

  “Then how’d you learn their language?”

  Hryćko moves closer to the priest, and they walk almost shoulder to shoulder—evidently he feels he has been encouraged to adopt this sort of familiarity. He says his mother and father were taken by the plague of 1746. They had done business with the Shorrs—his father was a tanner—and when he died, Shorr took Hryćko, his grandmother, and his younger brother under his protection, paying off the Father’s debts and generally providing for this trio of neighbors. And besides, living in the neighborhood, you interact more with Jews than you do with your own, and you talk their language—Hryćko himself doesn’t even really know when he learned it, but now he uses it as fluently as if it were his own, which comes in pretty handy for trade and such, since the Jews, especially the older ones, are wary of Polish and Ruthenian. The Jews are not what people say they are—especially not the Shorrs. There are a lot of them, and their home is nice and warm and welcoming, always something to eat and a little glass of vodka when it’s cold. Now Hryćko is learning his father’s trade: the world will always need leather.

  “But don’t you have any Christian kin?”

  “I do, I do, but a long way away, and they don’t seem to mind us too much. Oh, there you go—my brother, Ołeś.” A little boy who looks like he’s about eight, covered in freckles, comes running up to them then. “No reason for you to concern yourself, good Father,” says Hryćko cheerfully. “God created man with eyes in the front, not the back of the head, and that means we’ve got to think about what’s to come, not what has been.”

  The priest does indeed consider this evidence of God’s ingenuity, although he can’t quite recall where in the Scripture it is actually written.

  “Learn their language well enough with them, and you’ll translate those books.”

  “Not me, Your Excellency, no, sir, I’m not one for reading. I find it boring! I’d rather trade, I like that. Horses best. Or like the Shorrs—vodka, beer.”

  “Oh, dear, so they’ve corrupted you already . . . ,” says the priest.

  “What do you mean? You think alcohol is worse than other wares? People need to drink, life is hard!”

  He rambles on about something or other, trailing after the priest, although Father Chmielowski would happily be rid of him at this point. He stands facing the marketplace, looking around for Roshko, first among the sheepskin coats and then over the whole of the square, but more people have arrived, and there’s no chance of finding his driver. So he decides to go on alone to his carriage. Meanwhile, his interpreter has entered so fully into his role that he continues to explain things, clearly delighted that he can. He says that there is to be a great wedding in the Shorrs’ home, since Elisha’s son (the very one the priest saw in the shop, the one he was calling Jeremiah, whose real name turns out to be Isaac) is marrying the daughter of some Moravian Jews. Soon the whole family will be here, and all the relatives from around these parts—Busk, Podhajce, Jezierzany, Kopyczyńce, but also Lwów and maybe even Kraków, though it’s late in the year, and to his mind—to Hryćko’s mind—it would be better to wed in the summer. And Hryćko, ever loquacious, goes on, saying it would be great if the Father could come to a wedding like that, too, and then he evidently pictures it, because he bursts out laughing, the same laugh that the priest initially mistook for mockery. Father Chmielowski gives Hryćko a grosz.

  Hryćko looks at the grosz and in a moment is gone. The priest stands there but will soon take the plunge into the marketplace as though into choppy waters, drowning in it as he pursues the delicious smell of those terrines that were available somewhere around here.

  2.

  Of calamitous leaf springs and Katarzyna Kossakowska’s feminine complaint

  At the same time, Katarzyna Kossakowska (née Potocka), the wife of the castellan of Kamieniec, has just entered Rohatyn with her somewhat older lady companion; they are on their way from Lublin to Kamieniec, and they have already been traveling for several days. An hour behind them are carriages with trunks, and in them clothing, bedding, and table settings, so that when it is time to stay the night somewhere, they will have their own porcelain and cutlery, at least. Although messengers are dispatched to alert family and friends on nearby estates to the women’s approac
h, sometimes safe and comfortable lodgings fail to materialize. Then they are left with wayside inns and public houses, where the food can be quite poor. Elżbieta Drużbacka, being a woman of a certain age, scarcely tolerates this. She complains of indigestion, no doubt because every meal gets jolted around in her stomach by the motion of their carriage, like cream in a butter churn. But heartburn is not such a serious ailment. Worse off is Kossakowska—her belly has hurt since yesterday, and now she sits in the corner of the carriage, weak and cold and damp, and so unbelievably pale that Drużbacka has started to fear for her friend’s life. This is why they stop to seek help here, in Rohatyn, where Szymon Łabęcki is the starosta; Łabęcki, like just about every person of significance in Podolia, is connected with the family of the castellan’s wife.

  It is market day, and the pale orange-pink carriage bedecked in golden ornament with a coachman out front and an entourage of men in vivid uniforms has caused something of a sensation since passing the first tollhouse. Now it has to stop at every moment because the road is obstructed by pedestrians and animals. Cracking the whip over their heads doesn’t help. The two women concealed inside this vehicle on leaf springs with the Potocki coat of arms painted across its doors are borne across the choppy waters of the multilingual, business-frenzied crowd as if protected by a priceless seashell.

  In the end, the carriage, as might have been predicted in such a crowd, runs over some sort of drawbar and breaks one if its springs, that latest amenity that only complicates the journey now. Kossakowska falls from her seat onto the floor, her whole face a grimace of pain. Drużbacka, cursing, leaps straight out into the mud and is off in search of help herself. First she tries some women holding baskets, but they giggle and run away, speaking Ruthenian, so then she tugs at the sleeve of a Jew in a hat and coat—he tries to understand her and even responds with something in his language, pointing farther down toward the river. Then, having lost the last of her patience, Drużbacka sees two well-heeled merchants who have just gotten out of their coach and entered the fray; she blocks their path, but they turn out to be Armenian—at least she thinks so—merely passing through. All they do is shake their heads. Then some Turks smirk at Drużbacka—at least that’s how it feels.

  “Does anyone here speak Polish?” she finally screams, furious with this crowd all around her and furious that this place is where she is. They say it’s one kingdom, a united Commonwealth, but here everything is completely different from how it is in Greater Poland, where she comes from. It is wild here, and the faces are foreign, exotic, and the outfits almost comical, their sukmanas disintegrating into rags, strange fur hats and turbans, bare feet. Tiny, buckling houses made out of clay, even here, on the market square. The smell of malt and dung, the odor of damp, decaying leaves.

  At last she sees, right in front of her, a frail old white-haired priest, his outer garments not in great condition, a bag slung over his shoulder, gaping at her in surprise. She seizes him by his coat and shakes him, hissing through her teeth:

  “For the love of God, help me find Starosta Łabęcki! And not a word of this to anyone! You must keep it absolutely quiet!”

  The priest squints at her. He’s frightened—he doesn’t understand if he’s supposed to answer or not breathe a word. Maybe point toward Łabęcki’s home? This woman tugging at his coat so mercilessly is short, with a somewhat rounded figure, prominent eyes, and a sizable nose; a curly lock of silvering hair pokes out from under her hat.

  “It’s a very important person, incognito,” she tells the priest, nodding at the carriage.

  “Incognito, incognito!” the priest murmurs excitedly. He fishes some young boy out of the crowd and tells him to lead the vehicle to the starosta’s house. The child, much defter than might have been expected, helps to unharness the horses so that the carriage can be turned around.

  Inside the vehicle with its curtained windows, Kossakowska moans.

  After every moan comes an emphatic curse.

  Of bloodstained silks

  Szymon Łabęcki, married to Pelagia, of the Potocki family, is a cousin—a distant one, but a cousin all the same—of Katarzyna Kossakowska. His wife isn’t there, she’s visiting her family’s estate in the next village over. Overwhelmed by their unexpected arrival, he hurriedly buttons up his French-cut jacket and pulls down his lace cuffs.

  “Bienvenue, bienvenue,” he repeats mechanically, as Drużbacka and the servants take Kossakowska upstairs, where their host has given his cousin the finest rooms in the house. Then, muttering something to himself, he sends for Rubin, the medic of Rohatyn. “Quelque chose de féminin, quelque chose de féminin,” he says.

  He is not altogether pleased about this visit—or rather, he isn’t pleased at all. He was just getting ready to head to a certain somewhere, a place where cards may, on a regular basis, be played. The very thought of it raises his blood pressure in an agreeable way, as if the best liqueur were taking effect. Yet how much nervous energy does he squander upon this addiction! His only consolation is that more important people, and richer people, and people commanding much greater respect, also sit down to a game of cards from time to time. Lately he’s been playing with Bishop Sołtyk, hence this better outfit. He was just about to head out, his vehicle was already harnessed. But of course now he can’t go. Someone else will win. He takes a deep breath and rubs his hands together, as if trying to reassure himself that it’s okay, he’ll get to play some other evening.

  Kossakowska’s fever rages all night long; Drużbacka fears her friend may be delirious. She and Agnieszka, the lady-in-waiting, apply cold compresses to her head, and then the hurriedly summoned medic arranges herbs about; now their aroma, which seems to contain anise and licorice, hovers in a sweet cloud over the bedclothes, and Kossakowska falls asleep. The doctor tells them to put cold compresses on her belly and on her forehead. The whole house gets calmer, and the candles dim.

  Of course, it’s not the first time Kossakowska is so troubled by her monthly ailment, and it will certainly not be the last. There is no one to blame for it—the reason is most likely the way young girls are brought up on these nobles’ estates, in musty manors, without any physical exercise. The girls sit hunched over their embroidery hoops, embellishing their priestly stoles. The diet in such places is heavy, meaty. Muscles get weak. And on top of all that, Kossakowska likes to travel, whole days spent in a carriage, relentless noise and jostling. Nerves and endless intrigues. Politics. For what is Katarzyna if not the emissary of Klemens Branicki—it is his interests she is pursuing now, after all. She does a good job of it because she has the soul of a man. That’s what people say about her, anyway, and she is treated in accordance with this view. Drużbacka doesn’t see that supposed masculinity. All she sees is a woman who likes to be in charge. She’s tall and sure of herself, and she has a booming voice. People also say that Kossakowska’s husband, who is not exactly blessed by nature—he is shrimpy and misshapen—is impotent. When he was trying for her hand, they say he stood atop a sack of money to compensate for his small stature.

  Even if children are not in God’s plan for her, Kossakowska does not appear at all unhappy. The gossip is that when she argues with her husband, when she gets really angry, she seizes him by the waist and sets him on the mantel, and because he’s afraid to get down, he is forced to hear her out. But why would such an attractive woman choose a runt like him? Very likely in order to fortify the family finances, as finances are best fortified by such political stratagems as these.

  The two women undressed Kossakowska together, and with every article of clothing the castellan’s wife shed, the being by the name of Katarzyna emerged a bit more from within, and then there was Kasia, moaning and crying as she sank through their fingers, depleted utterly. The doctor told them to place dressings of clean linen between her legs and give her lots of fluids, to force her to drink, particularly his decoctions of some bark or other. How thin this woman seems to Drużbacka, and because she is so thin, how young, though in fact sh
e is already thirty.

  When Kossakowska fell asleep, Agnieszka and Drużbacka got to work on the bloodied clothing with its vast crimson patches, starting with her underwear, her petticoats and her skirt, finishing with her navy-blue coat. How many such bloodstains does a woman see over the course of her lifetime, wonders Drużbacka.

  Kossakowska’s beautiful dress is made of thick, cream-colored satin, covered here and there with little red flowers, bellflowers, and one little green leaf on the left side and another on the right. It’s a light, cheerful pattern, which suits Kossakowska’s slightly darker skin and dark hair. Now bloodstains have flooded these joyful little flowers, their ominous, irregular contours completely swallowing up any ordered pattern. As if malicious forces had escaped from somewhere, surfacing here.

  There is a particular kind of science that exists on these sorts of estates—the science of coaxing out bloodstains. For centuries it has been taught to future wives and mothers. If a university for women ever came about, it would be the most important subject. Childbirth, menstruation, war, fights, forays, pogroms, raids—all of it sheds blood, ever at the ready just beneath the skin. What to do with that internal substance that has the gall to make its way out, what kind of lye to wash it out, what vinegar to rinse it with? Perhaps try dampening a rag with a couple of tears and then rubbing carefully. Or soak in saliva. It befalls sheets and bedclothes, underwear, petticoats, shirts, aprons, bonnets and kerchiefs, lace cuffs and frills, corsets, and sukmanas. Carpets, floorboards, bandages, and uniforms.