A Journey to the End of the Millennium
Page 39
Back again came the slight rocking motion, which seemed to have been forgotten during the forty days on land. Although it was the gentle motion of the river rather than the violence of the ocean, the current was still surprisingly rapid, either because they were now going downstream or because of the autumn winds. No sooner had the travelers remembered to turn around to take their leave of the little Parisian isle than it was gone, hidden by the first bend of the river and swallowed up in the brilliance of the eastern sun soaring relentlessly behind them, soon to dance before the prow of the ship as she gathered speed. But the calm presence of the beauty of nature on either bank no longer soothed the Jewish travelers’ hearts as they leaned silently on the ropes that fringed the deck, but a faint dread forced them to scan the undergrowth for a human figure with whom they could at least exchange a parting wave. The chill and gloom of the European autumn seemed to intensify the silence of the world, and since there was no child at the masthead to survey the world beyond the vegetation on the riverbank, anyone wishing to make some contact had no choice but to seek a sign of life in the beautiful purple leaves that fell slowly and soundlessly from the boughs of the great, sad trees that cast their shadows deep on the fast-flowing water.
Although the captain, who had once more bound himself to the mast and attached crewmen to his traces to navigate better, clung resolutely to his decision to press on night and day toward the great ocean, he could not fail to accede to a firm request from Abu Lutfi, whose authority on board was growing hour by hour, to put in briefly at the port of Rouen. Perhaps the duke who had bought the little she-camel from them had realized that for the sake of the health of the young desert creature in his care it would be best for him to furnish her with a male partner, at a modest price. Thus, in the twilight of the second day after the tawny ship pulled out of the port of Paris, the anchor was lowered again not far from the little houses of Rouen. Abd el-Shafi, who was unwilling on any account to detain the ship until daybreak, had a dinghy lowered into the dark water and sent the Ishmaelite merchant, with the Andalusian rabbi as interpreter, in search of the duke or his Jewish counselor, to make them the astute offer. But before much time had passed Abu Lutfi returned despondently to Ben Attar, clutching some yellowish tatters in his hand. The she-camel had not endured for long in her new owner’s care, and because of neglect or pining for her mate, she had breathed her last and collapsed in an open space behind the cathedral. Instead of wrapping the noble desert beast in a shroud and giving her decent burial until the millennium arrived, with its promise of universal resurrection, the Christian duke had exposed her to the curiosity and greed of the local inhabitants, who had soon cut her up into little pieces and realized whatever they could for them, so as to recover something of the purchase price. They had not spared even her hide, but had stripped it off and tanned it, and discovered its wonderful property of restoring the shine and sparkle to tarnished gold or copper.
But Ben Attar paid no attention to the plaints of his old partner, who since the disappearance of the black pagan had become bitter and domineering. Without saying a word, he took a strip of soft, yellowish hide from the remnants of the she-camel and brought it close to his face, to see whether the little tatter of skin still retained the smell that used to assail his nostrils each time he made his way through the hold on his way to the second wife’s cabin. While the captain gave orders in the dead of the night to weigh anchor, light a great lantern at the prow, and sail on, the North African Jew was so overcome with the sadness of sweet longing for the wife he had lost that he could not resist descending into the bowels of his ship to take a brief look at the abandoned cabin.
In the semidarkness, beside the outline of the he-camel, whose fate was apparently sealed since the death of his mate in Rouen, the Jewish proprietor discovered that his captain had cleverly given the new slaves oars that protruded outward through ancient openings in the side of the ship, which had been closed up and now had been reopened. As he groped his way amid the creak of oars and the splash of water, he observed, from the number of the shapes moving around him, that his partner had increased and reinforced the stabilization of the ship. Feeling a new excitement rising up and shaking his guts and his loins, he approached to inspect the nature of the new arrivals, who were huddled in the cabin where he had sat as a mourner. But before he could lower his eyes he was pierced by the frightened, curious looks of three flaxen-haired, blue-eyed women shackled to each other by their long legs. Abu Lutfi explained with a conspiratorial smile what a good bargain he had made just before they set sail, but he was pushed away impatiently by the Jew, who hurried up on deck to discover that despite the late hour, everyone was awake—not only the captain and his crew, but even his wife, who was sitting swaddled in several layers of clothing on the old bridge, listening to the chatter of Rabbi Elbaz, who was still wondering if he had been right to leave his only son, an orphan, in the care of a strange woman, an obstinate adversary and childless contestant.
Even though Ben Attar knew that it would be impossible to conceal from his wife and certainly from the rabbi what his eyes had just beheld belowdecks, he tried to delay giving the news, and wordlessly, with a weary gesture, he gently indicated to his wife that she should leave the rabbi from Seville and return to her cabin. Right then, as an improper and unworthy suggestion rose up to him from the bowels of the ship, he needed to discover again, with a fearful body, how far one could push the limits of a sole wife in carnal knowledge, which always contained some spiritual knowledge as well.
But when he left the cabin at the close of the third watch of the night, while the indefatigable Abd el-Shafi, full of the excitement of being under sail again, looked down on him from the mast, he knew what he had always known—that one woman could never fulfill the promise of another. His eyes sought in vain for the black slave, who would always emerge from a corner and between watches, between wives, would prostrate himself and touch the hem of Ben Attar’s garment submissively before handing him the steaming herbal brew. Where was the idolater? the Jew asked himself longingly. Who had detained him? Was he alive? Had the new slaves so turned Abu Lutfi’s head that he had so easily abandoned his faithful servant? For if Ben Attar were to exert his imagination to the utmost, he could not imagine that he could never track the slave down, even if he exercised the full weight of his old authority and managed to stop the ship and turn her around to search for the lost African all over the Île de France. This was not only because the black youth was too well hidden in that faraway cottage, secure in the clutches of three women who were determined, as the millennium drew nigh, to satisfy the desire of the old woodcarver to add the lines of an alien race to his vision, but also because the captive himself, the gleaming black youth, had fallen in love with his captivity, within which the spring of his passion flowed so strongly.
So Ben Attar strode off dejectedly to seek out another co-religionist, who would stand with him against a loneliness that he had never acknowledged before and that now flooded his whole being. Since the rabbi was fast asleep, he drew aside the thin partition to inspect the girl, his own kin, who was sailing back to her birthplace as a counter-pledge. Only now, in the silent moonlight that contended with the first rays of dawn, did he observe how the baby who had crawled on board the first boat to Barcelona had grown and filled out. A strange idea gripped him—to surprise Abulafia and his wife and to give them back at their meeting in the Spanish March a little girl who was betrothed, if not actually wed. If he persisted, there was no doubt that despite the enchantment or, who knew, even because of it, he would be able to find someone who would want to make love with the heavy but lush and youthful form that was now sleeping, cramped and curled up, in the tiny cabin. Despite her accursed enchantment, she recalled the beauty of a young woman who had abandoned her and disappeared into the depths of the sea.
Now he rose, so surprised at the new thought that had been born in him that he could not find rest or return to his bed before descending into the belly of t
he ship, of which he still considered himself the sole master, to check not only whether Abu Lutfi was really keeping watch but also whether the three blue-eyed women were still attached together at their long legs. There in the bowels of the ship, it turned out that one of the women had fallen suddenly sick and had been loosed from her bonds, and was sitting in a corner, pale and trembling, with her head thrown back, covered in a soiled and torn silk robe that had been found among the sooty timbers. Ben Attar, recognizing with pain the source of the torn robe, stood silently staring at the blue eyes, which opened and turned in defeat to his feet, and at the thin hands of the idol-worshipper, who was clutching the image of an animal. Because he knew that he would never, ever touch her, or her companions, he went back up on deck.
The North African Jew thought to himself, This is what the new wife and all her wise friends who dwell on the Rhine desire—that from now on I shall take on every day anew, but only in my mind will there be crumbs and tatters of a second wife who has vanished. He was enfolded in such deep sorrow that he could not resist waking Rabbi Elbaz to look him straight in the face and tell him how great was the defeat he had suffered, for the renewed partnership between north and south could never atone or comfort him for what he had lost forever on this journey.
But the rabbi from Seville, caught up in his own sleepy thoughts, heard the words of the ship’s owner as he lamented for what he had lost as if all the troubles of the world were subsumed in this sorrow. It was as if they would not soon have to face the waves of the raging ocean, where the river flowed into the sea and an ancient sunken Viking ship stood like a great bird, and fierce northern winds would turn the fate of the second wife into a gentle, easy story compared to the story of what awaited her husband and his party. Suddenly the little rabbi was filled with joy at having agreed to leave his son with Mistress Abulafia, so that despite the millennium he could return safely overland to his home. He already imagined Master Levitas and his sister clothing the child in the black garb of the people of Worms and placing a hat with a horn on his head, and waking him in the morning, a little feverish, to sit and study an ancient text and a new law. Then tears welled in his eyes for the child who was saved, and once more the poetic urge woke within him, to write one more poem, the fourth. He felt around him to see whether that old quill pen and inkwell were still there among the timbers of the cabin. But he found nothing. And so he was compelled, to the accompaniment of Ben Attar’s long drawn-out keening, to save in his head the first line that had composed itself inside him: Is there a sea between us, that I should not turn aside to visit thee …
Haifa, 1994–1996
About the Author
Born in Jerusalem in 1936, A.B. Yehoshua is the author of nine novels and a collection of short stories. One of Israel’s top novelists, he has won prizes worldwide for all his novels, and in the UK was shortlisted in 2005 for the first Man Booker International Prize. He continues to be an outspoken critic of both Israeli and Palestinian policies.
By A.B. Yehoshua
The Continuing Silence of a Poet:
The Collected Stories of A.B. Yehoshua
The Lover
A Late Divorce
Five Seasons
Mr Mani
Open Heart
A Journey to the End of the Millennium
The Liberated Bride
A Woman in Jerusalem
Friendly Fire
Copyright
This ebook published in Great Britain by
Halban Publishers Ltd.
22 Golden Square
London W1F 9JW
2012
Originally published in Great Britain by Halban Publishers, 1999
www.halbanpublishers.com
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the Publishers.
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN 978 1 905559 50 3
Copyright © 1997 by A.B. Yehoshua
English translation copyright © 1999 by Nicholas de Lange
A.B. Yehoshua has asserted his right under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
Nicholas de Lange has asserted his right under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.
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