The Angel of Lust

by Maurice Magre

  “The appeal of the Messiah?” Almazan interjected. “Didn’t you tell me in Seville that you had ceased waiting for him a long time ago?”

  “The Messiah isn’t necessary. Moses had foreseen the dispersion and he had given the chosen people the means to remedy it. Oh, Mohammed claimed not to work miracles. He performed one very great one, however, when he sent Abou Bekr the Truthful30 to Egypt secretly in order to buy there everything that a petty merchant in Cairo bazaar possessed. How had he been able to divine it? Perhaps he was a magician, like all prophets, and only proscribed magic in order to make better use of it.

  “You don’t seem to understand me. You’re wondering whether my mind has gone a little astray. You’ve heard mention of the Ark of Israel, the Holy of Holies, which contained the tablets of the Law, for which Moses had the Temple built. Behind the five golden columns and the crimson and hyacinth veil, the Tabernacle reposed, which only the priests who had attained the third initiation could approach. For Moses had enclosed within it the force of life of which he knew the secret, the attractive power that leads the world, which the alchemists called Azoth and others the Ether, of which every man possesses a parcel, and which it is given to a few prophets to multiply and condense.

  “As long as the Jews possessed the Tabernacle, they resisted calamities. It was on the family of Hillel that the task of guarding it was incumbent when the Emperor Titus burned Jerusalem and Hadrian expelled the inhabitants. A long time ago, because of wars and pillages, the Tabernacle had been removed from the Temple and replaced by an imitation of which the avid Romans made gold ingots. The Hillels guarded it faithfully in Alexandria for several centuries, but the Jewish city of Alexandria was pillaged on the orders of Bishop Cyril, and they were obliged to flee into the desert south of the Thebaid.

  “What happened then? Were the Hillels massacred by the marauding tribe? Did they hide their treasure in the savage rocks, subsequently buried by the simoom, where they were unable to find it again? No one knows. The Jewish race ceased to be in possession of the heritage of Moses. For several centuries, there was no more trace of that heritage—until the moment when, by virtue of his knowledge of magic, Mohammed learned that the Holy of Holies had been bought by a merchant in Cairo from the guides of a caravan coming from the south, and he sent Abou Bekr the Truthful to buy it from that merchant.

  “But the Talisman was not enclosed in the sanctuary of the Kaaba. It was confided to the warriors for the conquest. Okba and Abderame possessed it. They made use of it to vanquish. For the ineffable force that Moses had enclosed in the gold is blind and it obeys those who communicate with it via faith. For as long as the Arabs believed in it, they were the masters of the world. Now their hearts are sealed, and the force is dormant in the inertia of the metal. But suppose that the legitimate possessors of the treasure were to realize their millennial dream of rediscovering it...

  “For if the Jews cherish gold with an invincible and avid amour, it’s because they know, consciously or not that the genius of their prophet, the vitality of their race, their eternal soul, is somewhere in a block of gold, tarnished by time. Suppose that the Talisman were to resume its place in the reconstructed Temple in Jerusalem, in the midst of the people who have remained without alloy and whom denial has not deteriorated. That people could then resume their mission; it would be them who would rule the world.”

  Almazan was amazed to hear Aboulfedia expressing himself with such passion. He was about to ask him what had caused such a change when the latter stopped him. They had arrived in the middle of a narrow side-street in front of the door of a sordid house. Cries, and a kind of continuous lisp escaped therefrom.

  Aboulfedia’s face took on an earthen color, and anger made his lip tremble.

  “They’ve begun to torment him,” he stammered. “They’ll see!”

  He was about to launch himself into the house when a black and hairy form hurtled through the door, which stood ajar, dragging a chain, and hissing and chattering incessantly.

  Aboulfedia received the form in his arms and covered it with caresses. It was a large monkey.

  “What have they done to you now?” said Aboulfedia, rocking it. “They have vice in the skin.”

  In the patio of the house, in the midst of hanging laundry, Almazan saw the pale Rodriguez and the disquieting Rebecca, smiling anxiously.

  “I’m teaching him to dance,” Aboulfedia went on, indicating the monkey. “It’s a sublime art that is in its decadence, like everything else. You see, there’s no spectacle more appropriate to raise the spirits than a girl dancing naked with a monkey. I’ll show you, one of these days.”

  And he quit Almazan abruptly.

  Isabelle was dying of boredom. Her power over Abul Hacen was all the greater, for ennui gives women the mysterious attraction of profound thought.

  No one in Granada was able to play the darbuka for her. It was only in Constantinople that there were suitable musiciennes and dancers. Oh, the Great Lord was very fortunate! What sadness there was in living in a little isolated realm!

  She had persuaded Abul Hacen to send the Emir of the Sea himself, on the greatest galley in the fleet of Almeria, to buy six celebrated dancing-girls taught by the old professor Chosrai of Damascus. The fleet would await Daoud’s return before ravaging the Spanish ports.

  What was more serious was that it was also necessary for Isabelle to wait, So Aboulfedia was welcomed with joyful cries when he announced that, the following day, he would make a trained monkey dance, dressed in different costumes, with young Rebecca.

  A few faithful slaves and a few eunuchs were invited, and it was decided that the performance would take place in the Garden of Cypresses, where there was a large enough lawn bordered with lilies.

  The monkey’s moods were variable and it was shut in a thick wooden box covered with bronze nails, carried by Rodriguez and Rebecca. There were holes in the box in order for the animal to breathe. It leapt out delightedly as soon as the lid was opened. Aboulfedia was charged with an extraordinary quantity of robes of all colors, and asked for a room where he could dress the monkey, which was a long and complicated process.

  Isabelle allowed him to take possession of a room of repose that overlooked the garden and communicated with her apartments, situated on the first floor, by way of a little stairway covered with range mosaics.

  The dances of Rebecca and the monkey were a great success. Rodriguez, sitting cross-legged under the wisteria that had seen the combat of the rival wives some time before, played the guzla, his figure squeezed into a doublet that showed off his hips, as wide as a woman’s.

  For each dance he went to put on a new doublet, by turns indigo blue, mauve and intermediate colors to China red—for, according to Aboulfedia the musician ought to have a costume in harmony with that of the dancers.

  As soon as the guzla stopped, Aboulfedia, followed by his troop, went back into the room of repose to change costumes. That change was abnormally prolonged. The first time, Isabelle became impatient and went to open the door. But when they arrived at the fourth dance, having learned that a monkey has as much coquetry as a woman, she resigned herself to waiting for the final ballet, the costumes for which were Chinese.

  Dusk was beginning to fall gently. Sorbets were drunk. Time passed. No one emerged from the room of repose and the room even emitted a curious impression of silence. In the end, Isabelle decided to go in there, and it was with amazement that she found it empty.

  The costumes were spread over the floor in the greatest disorder along with Rodriguez’ guzla; but the box with the bronze nails had been taken away.

  Isabelle climbed the stairway and went through her apartments, including the bathroom and the steam-bath. There was no one there. What mysterious reason had impelled Aboulfedia to depart with his effeminate ephebe, his girl with the boyish air and his dancing monkey, in the middle of a performance that he had organized?

  Isabelle went back down to the garden. She searched in vain for the key to
the enigma. She raised her eyes to the heavens and saw on the balustrade of the terrace, in the violet mass that the wisteria made, a four-footed Chinese mandarin that was looking at her, and which stated chattering. It was the monkey, dressed in its costume for the final ballet.

  Isabelle made a gesture, and as it ran away it climbed a eucalyptus that spread its silvery branches above the garden and the red terraces if the Alhambra.

  The slaves and eunuchs began to laugh noisily, and it was at that moment that Abul Hacen appeared.

  The Emir’s face was grave.

  He had been remorseful for some time at having left in the hands of an inestimable woman the heritage of his ancestors. It is true that his positive mind made him think that it was better to put his confidence in the number of his soldiers and the solidity of his alliances than the power of a talisman, but are there not unknown forces? Many sensible men believed in magic, and Allah manifests his designs as he pleases.

  That magic must be enormous! It was nevertheless true that he had just given an audience to a dervish arrived from Mecca who had vowed all his life to recite his prayers before the ancient talisman of the Arabs. That dervish had had no pride in asking to see the talisman. He was modest and he would go away satisfied if he could place his forehead against the stone wall that sheltered the marvelous relic.

  The dervish had walked through Granada and certain pious people were waiting doe him at the Puerta de la Justicia. Abul Hacen thought that it was necessary to make a few concessions to the religiosity that engenders the sacrifice so necessary in difficult times. Without giving a definitive response, he had left the dervish in the Court of Lions and had gone to Isabelle’s apartment, glad to have that pretext, with regard to her as much as himself, to take back what he had imprudently given her.

  Isabelle did not understand at first what it was about. A talisman? The night when he had nearly gone blind? Oh yes, she remembered. It was a very old and ugly object in which she threw slippers that she no longer wore. The object had been in her bedroom for some time, and then she had had it transported here to this room of repose, where she had seen only an hour ago, where it ought still to be, buried under a monkey’s costumes.

  Abul Hacen raced into the room. The guzla, on which he trod, rendered an agonized sound. But the holy Ark, the divine tomb where the Tablets of the Law had rested, the cradle of tarnished gold whose handles were borne by two angels with a spirituality so great that one could not look at them without thinking of God, the miraculous Tabernacle, had disappeared.

  Behind the wily and courageous Aboulfedia, carried by Rodriguez and Rebecca in the monkey’s box, it had passed via the little stairway covered with orange mosaics, had traversed the corridors and courtyards of the Alhambra, to return to its legitimate possessors, the faithful followers of Moses.

  In the twilight, the Alhambra was filled with an extraordinary tumult. No one knew what had been stolen but it was necessary to arrest the thieves. Cavaliers departed in all directions through the town, without even knowing who they were pursuing. And it was only much later in the night that Isabelle remembered that Aboulfedia had asked her, a few days earlier, to obtain from the Emir for one of his coreligionists a right of passage on the Emir Daoud’s galley, which was about to set sail for Constantinople.

  But the theft, of which no one knew the value, lost all importance by comparison with the event that followed it.

  Abul Hacen, occupied in giving orders for the arrest of Aboulfedia, had momentarily forgotten the dervish who was waiting for him. He suddenly thought about him and went back to the Court of Lions, more determined than ever to show himself respectful to a holy man.

  The holy man’s right arm could not be seen, hidden by his robe. It suddenly sprang forth, armed with a dagger, in the direction of the Emir, and traced a flash above his head. But the Emir knew that evening that Allah did not bear any grudge against him.

  In taking a step forward to strike, the dervish slipped on a paving stone and fell to one knee. He did not get up again. A guard, thinking he was doing well, dealt him a blow with his scimitar so violent that it killed him instantly, thus depriving the Emir of all that torture might have told him about the motive for the crime and the man who had inspired it.

  As Almazan leaned over the man to make sure that he was dead, he recognized him, or thought he recognized him, for the blows struck by the people in the Court of Lions, which had clawed his face, had partly disfigured him. It was the fake Santon whom he had been tempted to pursue into the great mosque, the man who had introduced himself into Al Birouni’s house, the Dominican once expelled from the Order by Tomas de Torquemada personally, for his indignity.

  That base spy of the Holy Office had denounced and had burned, by means of lying accusations, inoffensive and disinterested scholars. There was every chance that he was the one who had poisoned Archbishop Carrillo, if the Archbishop had not died by virtue of his own imprudence. He was pursuing a work of treason and crime in Granada.

  Almazan searched behind his features, beneath his beard, under the blood clots and in the already vitreous eyes for the stigmata of evil. There were none. He had an ordinary skull, the pitiful head of a man attained abruptly by death. Even the mask of the face had taken on a certain tragic grandeur.

  Then Almazan was struck by a thought. That denouncer, that spy, that poisoner had just sacrificed his life—for the assassin of the Emir, within the walls of the Alhambra, had no chance of escape.

  There were men fanaticized by evil just as there were men fanaticized by good, and who offered their existence to that evil in holocaust.

  But perhaps it was the case that what was evil for some was not for others. There were two slopes that did not communicate, two extremely distant kingdoms, which were juxtaposed, and on the two sides, the inhabitants of those worlds lived with the illusion that their light was the sole veritable one.

  That thought was odious to Almazan, but before the face of the dead man he could not rid himself of it. And that dead man as nothing but an instrument, almost unconscious. What was more terrible was that there were men of great intelligence who were evil through and through. But did they know it? Were they animated by a clear-sighted love of evil, or had they taken a different path, which was their error, but on which they believed they were marching in the truth?

  He recalled everything that he knew about Torquemada, and what he had read about him in his master Carrillo’s notebook.

  Two bright eyes, miraculously profound, which reflect neither hatred, not pity, nor desire, nor pride, but a strange certainty that makes me shiver.

  “Ever more intelligence, ever more love,” said Rosenkreutz. “The rose and the cross!” But there might be minds that had arrived at a high degree of development that had for an ideal the diminution of intelligence and the killing of love.

  Almazan started to walk agitatedly through the Alhambra, filled with tumult. He let himself fall on to a bench in the cypress garden. The stars were radiant and immutable, like unattainable truths.

  In a tree, the monkey in the Chinese robe leaned over and threw a pine-cone.

  Very high in a gorge in the Sierra Nevada, Aboulfedia and the rabbi Anan ben Joshua found a group of their coreligionists who were waiting for them with fresh horses. After descending the steep slopes at a gallop they changed them again at La Calahorra. They traveled all night and all day. They finally reached Almeria and only stopped on the harbor.

  They had to embark immediately. It was their only chance of salvation, for a messenger from Granada might arrive at any moment bringing an order to the Alcaide of the city to seize them and their precious burden.

  A host of mariners, merchants and petty tradesmen were cluttering the port. They asked a softa which was the galley on which the Emir Daoud was about to depart. The softa laughed at their ignorance and pointed at the harbor. At that moment, three cannon shots were fired on the Castle of Seven Towers. The crowd responded with cheers.

  The Emir’s galley had
been waiting since morning for a favorable wind. That wind had just risen, and the galley was preparing to depart. The sails were deployed, standards were flapping, and mahones decked with banners were furrowing the port.

  Aboulfedia and the rabbi saw one of those mahones casting off from a jetty. It contained a few sailors, recognizable as mariners of the Emir’s fleet by their short caftans with narrow sleeves, held at the waist by a blue woolen belt. Aboulfedia hailed the mahone, brandishing a deployed parchment on which the green seal of the kings of Granada was visible.

  The mahone stopped and returned to the quay, its oars raised. Aboulfedia held out the parchment to the officer in command. It was a right of passage for the bearer aboard the Emir’s galley. And he got ready to descend into the mahone, followed by the rabbi.

  But the officer stopped him.

  The right of passage was only for a single passenger; he could not take two. In vain, the rabbi Anan ben Joshua wanted him to refer to Emir Daoud himself. It was too late. The galley was lifting anchor and the mahone only just had time to rejoin it. A single passenger! The oars were about to be lowered.

  The two men exchanged a few words.

  “You’re the more worthy,” said Aboulfedia.

  “You’re the stronger,” said the rabbi. “Who knows what struggles it might still be necessary to sustain?”

  “Death after torture awaits the one who remains. I’ll stay.”

  “Go, I order you to do so.”

  And while the box was lowered, the rabbi added: “The most powerful brotherhood is at Tiberiade. Go to Tiberiade first, where Maimonides is buried. But if you don’t find Samuel Halevy the talmudist there and Abraham Alfassi the commentator of the Kabbalah, go to Jerusalem, where you’ll find the great Hebrew University. Where the spirit is, there is the root of the tree.”

  They only just had time to embrace as they separated. But they did not separate entirely. The thought of the man who remained accompanied the one who left.