He strode from room to room and looked at the arches of the small inner courtyard. Most of the flowers had withered, because there was no one to water them. Again he recalled Abulafia’s dead wife, and her child who had made strange growling sounds here. He was holding an authorization signed by Abulafia to sell this accursed house on his behalf, and he suddenly felt sorry for the empty house, which at this pleasant summer hour revealed nothing but charm and pleasantness everywhere. He fondled the pouches of gold and silver bound to his loins, concealed under his robe, and calculated what he would do with all that money. Suddenly he had the idea of not selling the house to a stranger but buying it himself. But what would he do with another house, which was much too lovely to use as a storehouse for the new goods that Abu Lutfi would send him from the south during the year ahead? Perhaps he would lend it to his famous uncle as a meeting place for his pupils, and thus gain the credit for a meritorious act. But Ben Attar knew only too well that Ben Ghiyyat sometimes had difficulty in bringing together even the minimum number of ten worshippers, so where would he suddenly find enough disciples for a second house of study?
Then, standing alone and at peace in this courtyard drenched in the sweet light of late summer, watching the little fountain quietly playing, Ben Attar felt that the fears of the journey that had just come to an end had been transformed within him into a gentle desire. Why should he not take another wife and install her in this house? The thought of marrying a second wife had occasionally flitted through his head, and he had sometimes conjured up an image of this or that woman whom he knew from a snatched glance or by hearsay. But now he felt that the decision had been taken in his mind. His wealth would probably continue to increase, he still had strength in his loins, and his wife had begun to weaken a little. Several of his kinsmen and his Jewish friends, not to mention Muslim acquaintances, kept two and sometimes even three wives, in some cases under a single roof. He was now thirty-five years old, and if he managed to exceed the lifespan of his father, who had died at the age of forty, he still had ten years ahead of him, or even more. This was the right moment to widen his horizons. When his time came and his children stood around his deathbed, the leavetaking would be easier, because the wealth he would have amassed by then would enable them to part on easy and generous terms.
The sudden new thought so captured his heart that after locking the door behind him he did not hasten to his home but entered Ben Ghiyyat’s synagogue. His uncle interrupted his meal to greet him, and Ben Attar, stooping to kiss his hand and receive his blessing, was on the point of taking a few coins out of his pocket as a gift to the poor students who sat around the table when he suddenly thought better of it and decided to tell Ben Ghiyyat first about the new desire that had seized his heart, and then to fix the size of the gift in proportion to his uncle’s reaction. The sage listened with a smiling countenance, nodded his agreement, and only inquired whether he had spoken to his first wife yet about the second one. As he responded in the negative, he immediately offered to go and tell her and receive her approval, so that the announcement might seem to be an invitation to a meritorious act rather than an order. Who knew, she might even agree to help him select a suitable woman, so that there would be twice as much joy for all of them.
4.
Slowly the dawn began to break and the European continent opened up before them, sucking in the remains of the fog and enchanting the passengers on the old guardship with the lush greenery of the banks of the River Seine emptying lazily into the ocean. Small, unfamiliar birds with multicolored wings filled the air with their chirping, as though they had only been waiting for this ship. Everything that had appeared inscrutable and menacing in the night became clear and friendly with the gathering daylight. The flame that had burned so threateningly in the night had turned into a pleasant curl of grayish smoke, and the outline of a giant bird hovering in the darkness over the sea was now revealed as a wreck, which, to judge by the seaweed that had invaded it, had evidently been lying at the mouth of the river for many a year. Although Abd el-Shafi took pains to give it a wide berth, for fear of unseen projections, his heart drew him closer to it, because his sharp eyes had recognized excitedly the beautiful carvings of the savage Vikings. Even without the wreck he would have had no doubt that he was steering the ship into the right estuary, but the greenish presence of this living ancient testimony confirmed with the sweetness of certainty his confidence about the whole journey. He nearly shouted something about this to the ship’s owner, but he held himself back at the last minute so as not to arouse the memory of his forebear the captive pirate, which was liable to undermine the trust he had acquired in the course of the voyage from the two women too, who were now sitting on the old bridge, quiet and thoughtful after the double night, staring with fresh-eyed curiosity not only at each other but at the first bend of the river, which was now approaching.
It was at this time, as the ship began to penetrate the River Seine, solemnly raising the spirits of passengers and crew alike, that the chimes of the black slave’s little bells died down, for after a night replete with activity he now sank into slumber in the hold, sprawled like a black octopus among the jars of oil and sacks of condiments and heaps of sheep’s wool close to the two little camels, who eyed their young lover anxiously. With the rising and falling rhythm of his breathing he now became the hidden heart of this Muslim guardship that had come from so far away and was now sailing slowly through the Christian lands. Abd el-Shafi, who for several days had feared the opposing force of the expected current, was surprised not only by the gentleness of the summer stream but also by the unexpected generosity of the northwesterly wind that blew from behind them, whose good intentions he had discovered from its caress on his naked back. If these infidels are so successful, he mused with the strange jealousy of a veteran sea salt, at balancing current and wind to facilitate the passage of travelers on this river, why then, despite their primitive faith in a divinity who vanished from his tomb, they have a slight advantage over the Muslims, who are drawn to the decrees of fate. But despite the hope aroused in him by the northwesterly wind, his anxiety did not leave him, for he had never before sailed such a wide ship up such a narrow waterway, and his reckless wine-bibbing of the night before now bound his head with bands of iron, and each one of the unnumbered cups of Bordeaux wine that he had downed in the night had become a needle to stab his brain. He decided to talk or shout as little as possible, to avoid disturbing his brain, and preferred to give his orders in silence. With help from his sailors he lashed himself to the great mast, so that he would feel the sail on his body and know the precise direction of the wind and so that he could estimate from a height the safe distance between the two banks of the river. In order not to lose contact with his sailors he attached cord harnesses to them, and by lightly tugging on the cords he could transmit his orders to them, as though he were in charge of a great chariot rather than a ship, with its horses contained within it. And so, softly and silently, the ship traversed the first five bends of the river.
Ben Attar and Abu Lutfi, however, were untroubled by the river and its bends. After forty days of successfully sailing the ocean, they had absolute confidence in their captain’s skill; indeed, they would have trusted him, had it been needed, to steer his ship up the very steps of Abulafia’s house. However, they nervously awaited the first encounter with Franks, if only to discover whether merchandise coming from abroad was taxed in these remote and savage lands, or whether it was merely a matter of generous hospitality. But until the afternoon deep silence reigned all around, and there was not a living soul to be seen apart from the cheerful birds, as though the progress of a Moroccan ship down the arteries of Francia did not stir enough curiosity in any inhabitant that he should ask himself about its intentions. Where were all the new customers that Abulafia talked about so hopefully? True, little Samuel Elbaz, who since dawn had occupied his favorite spot at the masthead, high above Abd el-Shafi, and could see beyond the wall of trees and undergrowth,
was constantly observing things that the other travelers could not, such as the sails of a water mill, or a goose girl leading her charges down a hill, a peasant plowing in a field, or children playing next to a thatched cottage. But for the time being he was silent, because it seemed as if none of the inhabitants had noticed the outlandish ship sailing secretly so close to their homes. Surely even if someone had happened to raise his eyes and catch sight of the tip of a white triangle swaying above the tops of the trees, topped by a naked youth half merged with the pinkish sky, he would not have hastened to verify the import of this apparition but would have simply fallen to his knees, crossed himself, and bowed his head in excited gratitude for this portent announcing the advent of the approaching millennium.
This is what the young local couple did at first; even though their little boat was almost crushed by the prow of an alien ship, they did not seem surprised by the sudden encounter in the river, as though it was entirely unremarkable that a strange potbellied ship should suddenly appear, with a huge triangle of canvas for a sail and half-naked Ishmaelites scurrying up and down its ropes. Thus they did not flee but merely stood gaping and smiling, as though this were not a real ship but a picture floating against the background of a dream that projected its wild fantasies for its own entertainment. But when Ben Attar hailed the young lovers from the deck they were panic-stricken, as though his voice had shattered the dream and a terrifying reality had come bursting out of it. First they tried to escape, but their way was blocked by the large ship. Then they hurriedly doffed their hats and fell to their knees, pleading for their lives in a strange, lilting tongue. But since no one on board knew how to reply so as to calm their spirits, the two women were told to stand on deck and wave peaceably in greeting, so the local couple would realize that the fear and panic were inside them and had nothing to do with the peaceful reality of those on board. However, the spectacle of two barefoot women in brightly colored robes waving to them did nothing to allay the young couple’s fears but if anything aggravated them, and Rabbi Elbaz had to be summoned to scatter over them a few verses in Latin that he recalled from the prayers of Christian friends in the little church in Seville, to let the terrified couple know that even if this was no Christian ship, it was not an anti-Christian ship either. The fears of the young lovers were gradually calmed. The smiles returned to their faces, and they rose to their feet, crossed themselves gracefully, and chanted a Latin prayer to a captivating tune, so endearing themselves to Ben Attar that he could not resist inviting them on board. They were very hesitant at first, afraid that the strangers might seize them and, who could tell, perhaps cook them alive and eat them, but their curiosity got the better of their reluctance, and they clambered on deck, careful not to be separated from each other. Seeing them close up, the people on board were astonished at their youth, and Rabbi Elbaz attempted to ask them in sign language if in these lands love was habitually so precocious, but the pair did not appear to comprehend the meaning of the question, or perhaps they did not see any connection between a person’s age and his capacity to love. Eventually they were seated on the old bridge and given a greenish herbal brew to drink, which they sipped politely despite its unfamiliar taste. Then they were offered dried Andalusian figs and lemons preserved in sugar, which they ate with evident delight, while the crew and passengers surrounded them, enjoying their enjoyment. Rabbi Elbaz was particularly attracted to them, partly because he still hoped that they might react to a word or sentence in Latin, and partly because their evident love for each other captivated his heart and reminded him of the lost days of his own love. In an effort to extend their stay he suggested they should be taken down into the hold, to enjoy the spectacle of the pair of young camels. But Ben Attar refused. He was afraid that they might spread the news of the rich cargo to customs officers who would lie in wait for them farther up the river. So as not to let the charming young pair depart empty-handed, he spread before them some embroidered cloths, to judge their reaction as potential purchasers. And so the voyagers amused themselves with the couple for a while, and then they gave them a little salt wrapped in a twist of paper and asked them how far Rouen was and what the city was like. To judge by their reply and their gestures, the distance was not great. Abu Lutfi, who had stood apart scowling all the while, approached and told Elbaz to ask them how far it was to Paris. Although the rabbi hesitated at first to ask such young people about such a faraway place, he did put the question. The young couple’s faces at once lit up. Paris: they repeated the name over and over again in a smiling cadence and a charming accent, pointing reverentially toward the east, as to a Jerusalem or Mecca of their own. Not only did they know how far it was, even though they had never been there, but their joy was evident at this opportunity to pronounce the name of a place whose enchantment extended even to those who would never behold it. But while Ben Attar and the rabbi smiled at the couple, delighted with their answer, Abu Lutfi continued to glower at them skeptically, as though notwithstanding the many wearisome days and nights that he had invested in the voyage to that distant city, he still nursed a hope that it would finally emerge that it had never existed.
In truth, even Ben Attar at first had not understood what his nephew had been getting at when he pronounced the name of Paris so enthusiastically, even before he had been there. This Paris had been first named at the second summer meeting in the Spanish March, the year after the bewitched child was returned to the care of her blood father. The Moroccans had reached the Bay of Barcelona on the first day of the month of Ab, and after leaving their merchandise at Benveniste’s tavern, loading their two boats with timber, and sending them back to North Africa, they took three horses and rode up to the old Roman inn, faithful to the promise they had given the previous year to take the nurse back to her home. But to their surprise, Abulafia came alone. The nurse had consented to remain a further year in Toulouse, since every effort to replace her by a local woman, whether Jewish or gentile, had met with frantic opposition from the wretched child herself, who in the darkness of her soul had probably assimilated the tattooed face of her nurse to the spirit of the mother who had abandoned her.
At first Abulafia had had difficulty persuading the elderly nurse to exchange the sighing of the waves and the scent of citrus orchards steeped in the limpid copper-hued light of the North African coast for a pent-up existence in an alien Christian town with a creature whose inscrutable wishes could be compensated for only by sorrow and pity. Indeed, whenever the Ishmaelite woman took the child out into the narrow streets around the castle of Toulouse, dressed in the white robe that Abu Lutfi had brought her and a fine veil of bluish silk that half concealed the large ring in her nose, the local inhabitants would screw up their eyes and mumble suitable phrases of advice and reproof from the Gospels to reinforce their human toleration in the face of the strange sight. To persuade the nurse not to abandon her charge, Abulafia was obliged to raise her wages and make her into a sort of supernumerary junior partner, paying her a large coin every time the moon was full and a small coin each Sabbath and agreeing to move from the foot of the castle to the street of the Jews in the heart of the city, not only because Toulouse had no street of Ishmaelites, but because the nurse herself opined that the Jews, who from their early childhood consorted with Asmodeus and delved into his lore, would be bound to find within themselves some sympathy for one who was caught in his thrall.
In the end, the special effort that Abulafia made to keep her paid off, not only in terms of his own peace of mind but in terms of the partnership as well. It was only this that made possible his long absences from home, which he needed because it was hard for him to put up with his daughter’s hopeless presence and also because his rich imagination and his restless nature pushed him on to find new and ever more sophisticated customers, demanding refined goods, light in weight but of great value, such as little daggers studded with precious stones, snakes’ skins, or shiny necklaces made from elephants’ teeth. His soul was weary of the carts sinking into the mu
d under the weight of the great sacks and jars that Abu Lutfi brought from the desert. Therefore, after winning over the nurse and attaching her to the community of the Jews, he started to travel to the north, at first heading east, toward the Burgundian kingdom, on the road leading from Rodez to Lyons, turning off to Viviers and joining the trade route of the Rhone Valley. But he realized that he would not make his fortune here, for there was too much traffic, and quick-witted merchants from Byzantium who came up from Italy via Toulon offered treasures for sale that originated in the real, Asiatic East, brilliant merchandise compared to which his African wares seemed shoddy and dull. And so he changed direction and headed northwest, toward out-of-the-way places in the heart of Aquitaine, to the duchy of Guienne and the townships of Agen, Angoulême, and Périgueux, via Poitiers and Bourges, and from there to Lusignan and as far as Limoges, and there he was shown a way through to the Loire Valley and the border of the Capetian kingdom, where new towns such as Tours, Orléans, Chartres, and Paris were springing up and beginning to attract him.
When Abu Lutfi returned and asked Abulafia during their summer meetings to draw a new map of his peregrinations and locate the places that would suck in so lustily the other, lighter, more valuable merchandise, Abulafia became confused, and each map he drew for Abu Lutfi was different. He had particular difficulty fixing the precise place of Paris, the port town in the midst of the river that so attracted and excited him even though he had not yet been there. It is hardly surprising that this confusion kindled antagonism and suspicion toward the city and its surroundings in the breast of the Muslim partner, for with his keen mind he understood that the further the Jew pressed northward, the further he, the Muslim, would have to push desertward, so as to supply him with the light but valuable merchandise that would capture the hearts of the new customers. Ben Attar too, who always tried to achieve a compromise between his two partners, sometimes wondered where Abulafia’s adventurous spirit would lead them. Unlike Abu Lutfi, however, he did not oppose his partner’s northward thrust, not particularly out of commercial considerations, whose benefits were still in the realm of speculation, but in the hope that the further Abulafia traveled from North Africa, the easier he would find it finally to give up a strange, childish delusion that had pervaded his soul since he had abandoned his native town: that he would amass enough money, return to his town, and avenge himself on all those who had mocked his wife, particularly his mother. This was why, even after crossing the Pyrenees and entering a new world, he had chosen to avoid the company of Jews, who might enmesh him in the coils of a new marriage and undermine his vision of a vengeful homecoming. In the first year Ben Attar had feared that someday the young widower might return, not from nostalgia or because he missed the little girl who had stayed on her own, but to sully the escutcheons of those who had forced him to bury his beloved wife outside the fence of the graveyard. Consequently Ben Attar rejoiced retrospectively that he had responded so swiftly to the advice of his wise uncle to travel to Barcelona and return the child to her father, because apart from the discovery of the pleasant summer voyage and the importance of the face-to-face meeting with the man who was disseminating his goods, he hoped that the contact between the child and her begetter would teach Abulafia to face up to the facts, so that the purposeless delusion of returning like an avenging spirit to his native town might be moderated and weakened.
A Journey to the End of the Millennium Page 7
