Unscrolled : 54 Writers and Artists Wrestle With the Torah (9780761178743)
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TAMAR
What did she look like, then?
JUDAH
I did not see her face.
TAMAR
Tell us why.
JUDAH
She was veiled.
TAMAR
A harlot, then.
JUDAH
Yes.
[Beat.]
TAMAR
When did you meet her?
JUDAH
Three months ago.
TAMAR
Why did you give her these things?
JUDAH
I promised her a kid from my flock.
TAMAR
Why?
JUDAH
As payment.
TAMAR
Payment for what?
JUDAH
She was a harlot. What else?
TAMAR
And?
JUDAH
I had to send for the kid. Until it was received, she asked for these things as a pledge.
TAMAR
Did you send her the kid from your flock?
JUDAH
I did.
TAMAR
But she didn’t receive it?
JUDAH
The person I sent went back to the road but could not find the woman. They said there was never a harlot there.
TAMAR
So she kept your cord, your seal, and your staff.
JUDAH
So it would seem.
TAMAR
”There was never a harlot there“ is what they said?
JUDAH
Yes.
TAMAR
So.
[Beat.]
JUDAH
I do not understand. How did you come by these things?
TAMAR
I received them. As a pledge. For I am with child by the man to whom these things belong.
[Reaction from the HOUSEHOLD. JUDAH picks up the staff, cord, and seal. He looks at Tamar. A long moment.]
JUDAH
She is more righteous than I am.
[The HOUSEHOLD moves in and surrounds them, unties Tamar, and helps her offstage. Judah is alone. He speaks directly to us. His tone becomes contemporary, conversational.]
JUDAH
Years ago I had a brother. I had a lot of brothers, actually, brothers and half brothers, it was a big family, but this one I’m talking about, Joseph, stood out because he was my father’s favorite: Dad just doted on the kid; to hear him tell it, he could do no wrong and the sun more or less shone out of his ass, you’ll pardon the expression.
And whether it was because Joseph really was all that wonderful or just because on some level——and I’m not even saying he was necessarily conscious of this——he enjoyed the envy all that favor inevitably aroused in others——or some combination of the two——Joseph, I felt (and I wasn’t alone in this), went out of his way to sort of emphasize his righteousness to the rest of us and make us feel bad for getting up to the kinds of things young unmarried men have always gotten up to since the beginning of time: I mean a certain amount of drinking, brawling, and fooling around with girls, some of them tarts.
Don’t misunderstand me: If Joseph had simply chosen not to participate, that would have been one thing, and we probably wouldn’t even be discussing it now. It was his bizarre and infuriating eagerness to proclaim his superiority that really rankled. It was aggressive. Example: The group of us would be up at dawn with the flocks, cranky and exhausted after a chilly night spent sleeping rough in some rocky pasture somewhere, no breakfast, and Joseph would come running up, bright-eyed, just dying to tell us about some dream he’d had the night before. You know how annoying it is when someone wants to tell you their dreams. And Joseph’s dreams, according to him——who knows if he was making it up or not, it doesn’t matter——would always be something like he’s a sheaf of wheat in the field, and the rest of us are all sheaves of wheat, too, only he’s the largest sheaf, and we’re all bowing down to him. Subtle, Joseph.
So given all that, it was probably inevitable that some of the more hotheaded among us started talking about getting Joseph out of our hair more or less permanently. I’m not going to take you through all the arguments and all the plotting that went on. That’s ancient history. Suffice it to say that at a certain point we’re out in the middle of nowhere standing over a pit, and Joseph’s down in it. And there’s a faction——a sizable majority of the brothers——that’s all for cutting his throat and filling in the pit and calling it a day.
I’m not going to stand here and tell you that in the moment I was appalled or shocked at what we were contemplating, or even that I argued against it very forcefully. I was part of it; I had let it get that far, and it wasn’t just passivity or cowardice that had prevented my stepping in earlier, before we were actually at the point of murdering a brother. I carried no brief for Joseph and had fresh memories of mornings when, hungover and sore-balled after a night of degeneracy in some fetid one-whore fleshpot, I had staggered out to the fields and met the eye of my youngest brother, virtuous, virginal, and smug, watering the flocks by a wincingly sun-dappled stream, and hated the little shit.
Still, somehow I managed to propose what I guess you could call a compromise: Don’t kill him; fake his death and sell him into slavery instead. Even that was a tough sell with my brothers, but eventually I did win that one, and now it was my turn to feel righteous and noble as we dipped his cloak in goat’s blood——sorry: I forgot to mention that he had this ridiculously fancy and expensive cloak my father had given him (and, needless to say, only him), which Joseph practically slept in, he was so proud of it——and sent the thing home to poor Dad, who promptly went into protracted and inconsolable mourning. Joseph we sold to some traders.
Why am I telling you all this? I don’t know. I guess when Tamar . . . You probably wondered why I folded so fast when she turned the tables on me back there. I mean, couldn’t I have put up more of a fight? ”She is more righteous than I am,“ I said. I didn’t think about it, it just popped out, and boom, that was the end of it. I’m not even sure I believe that. Yes, I had slept with a prostitute and failed to recognize her as my daughter-in-law (embarrassing), and yes, I had broken the pledge I made——not the goat one, which I did try to fulfill, but couldn’t, because you heard why, but the one about my third son——and she was probably right about that: She deserved a child by him, that’s the way we do things. But on the other hand: The deception! The disguise! The sheer brazen manipulation! Not to mention the sexual exploitation——it’s outrageous, disgusting. I could have made that case. It would have been easy. Why didn’t I?
I don’t know. I couldn’t. I was standing there and the spirit just went out of me. I was looking at her, thinking, SHE’S PREGNANT WITH MY CHILD. Or children——the midwives say it could be twins. And that phrase: leaping into my head, onto my lips, heard by everyone before I was even aware I’d spoken it. ”She is more righteous than I am . . .“
[Beat.]
What were we talking about? Oh yes. Joseph, my little brother. We never heard from him again. No idea where he is today.
I dream of him most nights.
“And Pharaoh said to Joseph, ‘I have had a dream, but no one can interpret it. Now I have heard it said of you that for you to hear a dream is to tell its meaning.’” —Genesis 41:15
MI-KETZ (“At the end”)
Genesis 41:1–44:17
The dream team: two years later, Pharaoh dreams he is standing alongside the Nile when seven healthy cows emerge to graze in the reeds. They are quickly followed by seven feeble, sickly cows, who proceed to devour their more vigorous counterparts. The dream momentarily shocks Pharaoh awake, but once he returns to sleep, a second vision appears: seven ears of grain growing off a single stalk. But a neighboring stalk, scalded by the hot wind, bears seven shriveled ears, which gulp up the perfect ones.
Pharaoh begs Joseph to divine his dreams, but Joseph modestly admits that the interpretation skills are God’s. Pharaoh recounts both dreams, and Joseph says that the visions amount to the same prediction. God is telling Pharaoh that seven healthy years will be followed by seven years of famine.
Homeland Security
Joseph advises Pharaoh to prepare for the oncoming crisis by appointing a wise man to oversee the land and organize the nation during the time of abundance. A food surplus should be reserved and grain stocks built up. Pharaoh announces that because God has revealed this through Joseph, he should be the crisis manager, a position second in authority only to the Egyptian king. He then removes his own signet ring and places it on Joseph’s hand, clothing him in finery and gold, before renaming him Zaphenath-paneah and giving him a priest’s daughter to be his wife.
Though only thirty, Joseph journeys across the Egyptian kingdom organizing grain reserve silos as vast as the ocean. He and his wife also bear two sons, Manasseh (“God has made me forget adversity and my homeland”) and Ephraim (“God has made me fertile in the country of my suffering”).
Brothers Grim
The seven years of feast and famine occur just as Joseph has predicted, but there is still bread to eat, because of his preparation and rationing. Neighboring countries that have not stockpiled food are not so lucky, and starving foreigners cross into Egypt in search of sustenance. Jacob dispatches ten of his sons to bring back supplies. Only Benjamin, Joseph’s youngest brother, remains behind; Jacob is determined to keep him out of harm’s way.
In his ministerial role as vizier, Joseph dispenses rations himself; he recognizes his brothers the moment they bow deeply before him. Joseph chooses not to reveal his true identity, electing to interrogate his brothers and accuse them of spying on Egypt while it is in a weakened state. They assure him they are not spies, referring to themselves as his “servants,” and echoing the dreams he envisioned as a child. Joseph grills his brothers. They tell him they had been twelve brothers, but that one of them was lost and one remained at home. He demands they prove that fact: I will imprison one of you as a hostage, he says, while the rest of you return for the other brother and bring him back to Egypt. The brothers immediately guess they are being punished for their treatment of Joseph. Reuben blames the others for failing to listen to him when they dispatched their brother into the pit, and suggests they are about to receive a reckoning for their actions.
Joseph has used an interpreter to speak Egyptian to his brothers, so they are unaware that he can understand their bickering. As he listens to their heated arguments, he cannot help but turn away and weep. Once he has recovered his emotions, he has Simeon tied up and tells the rest to load their asses with grain and begin their journey. He also orders his men to return the money they have paid for the provisions.
On the journey home, the brothers discover that their money has been reimbursed and fearfully take it as a sign that God has done something terrible to them.
Once they have briefed their father, he admonishes them, blaming them for the loss of Joseph, Simeon, and now, potentially Benjamin. Reuben vows that his father can kill him if he fails to protect Benjamin, but Israel (Jacob) cannot cope with the possible loss of Benjamin and refuses to send him.
The ongoing famine forces his hand. Once their grain runs out, Israel orders his sons to acquire more in Egypt, but Judah reminds him that they can return only with Benjamin in tow. Israel screams at them for telling the Egyptians about their youngest brother in the first place, but the brothers defend themselves by reminding their father how brutally the vizier interrogated them.
Judah tells his father he will take full responsibility for Benjamin’s safety, suggesting the family has no choice: They will die of hunger if they tarry. Israel instructs him to load up with gifts for the vizier—balm, pistachio nuts, and almonds—and to take double the money they carried on the original visit. He begs God to be merciful and prepares himself for the worst.
The trap is set
The brothers arrive in Egypt and appear before Joseph. He sees Benjamin and orders his servants to prepare a feast in his home. The brothers are afraid that Joseph plans to enslave them. They try to explain themselves to Joseph’s servant, but he tells them not to worry and that the God of their fathers is watching over them.
The brothers are treated like guests in Joseph’s household. Their feet are bathed. Their asses are fed. Once Joseph arrives, they present him with their gifts. He inquires about their father’s well-being, but when introduced to Benjamin, he becomes overwhelmed by emotion and has to excuse himself. When dinner is served, the rest of the Egyptian company sits separately, as it is not socially acceptable for them to sit with Hebrews, but Joseph sits with his astonished guests. When Benjamin is served, his portion is huge in comparison with all others.
Joseph then instructs his servants to load up his brothers’ bags with as much food as they can carry and to return their money. He also commands them to secrete a silver goblet among Benjamin’s possessions. Once his family departs the following day, Joseph orders his stewards to pursue and catch them, then accuse them of repaying good with evil by stealing the goblet.
The brothers, nonplussed by the allegation, suggest that if it is true, the thief should be killed, and the rest of them turned into slaves. The servant counters by proclaiming that only the thief will become enslaved. Each of the brothers opens his bags; the goblet is discovered in Benjamin’s possession. The panicked brothers ride back to the city and find Joseph. He asks them why they have committed a robbery they knew he would detect. Judah begs him to reveal how they can prove their innocence and urges him to inflict a collective punishment. Joseph refuses this request, explaining that only Benjamin was found with the goblet, so only he will be enslaved. The rest are ordered to return to their father.
Todd Rosenberg
Being an artist before having my talent recognized often felt like living in a jail cell.
I worked for a large company, sitting in a cubicle selling products. Technically, I was called a “salesperson” or “account executive,” but for the most part my job was answering calls and writing down orders. I wasn’t ambitious, or a go-getter, or a ladder climber, or a morning person, or a schmoozer.
My work ethic was maintained at an extraordinarily low level. Ankle height. Just enough to keep me anonymous but still somewhat profitable. I exploited my lack of upward mobility by using all my free time at work to pursue artistic goals on their clock. I’d doodle furiously. Make flipbooks on Post-it notes. I’d write a short story about being in a meeting during the meeting I was in. I’d illustrate a blood-soaked battle scene on the back of an agenda.
The company had one division that was reserved for artists and creators. The Creative Dept. I wanted to be a part of that world. But the jobs that existed there weren’t applied for. There were no help-wanted signs posted. To become a part of the Creative Dept., you needed to be chosen.
I suspected I was a writer. And an edgy, funny cartoonist. And a fantastic illustrator. A triple threat of artistic potential. Evidence of my artistic value was a pile of scribbled paper and rant-crammed notebooks that filled a large wooden box I kept under my desk. I saw my creative work as practice. A grand exercise. Preparation for the day I would escape my cubicle world and finally be acknowledged as a talent worthy of promotion.
My cubicle row was filled with others like me. Artists. Musicians. Painters. Sculptors. All snared by the need to make a simple living. All trapped in occupations far removed from the Creative Dept. We all hoped to one day be recognized and freed. Until then we were a family together. Unified in our struggle to be chosen. Supporting one anothe
r’s passions and attempts to spotlight ourselves as genuinely inspired.
Now and then, the Pharaoh of the Creative Dept. would stroll among our cubicles unannounced. He’d walk with his hands behind his back, trailing behind him a wake of hope. We knew that when Pharaoh visited, he was looking for something new. Someone new. He wandered casually, yet emanated the immense power of life-changing potential based on a whim or mood. He’d listen to a song and squint his eyes. He’d look at a painting and nod cryptically. We’d all pray and hope he would find what he was looking for in our work.
On rare occasions, I watched with immense jealousy as a lucky one, a fortunate one, was freed from his cubicle. Pharaoh would see a spark and tap someone. This person would leave his desk glowingly and rush straight into the embrace of Pharaoh’s robes. I’d hear Pharaoh whisper to him promises of wealth and fame. I’d squeeze my pencils till my knuckles turned white as they headed off together. I’d mark the person’s age in comparison to my own—then I’d go back to work. Selling for others.
When I’d see him coming, I’d cover my desk with sketches, journals, and doodles, so he’d know I was a hard worker with history. I’d wave sketches in the air with proudly ink-stained fingers. But year after year, Pharaoh refused to shine a light on me. He’d reject my work with a wave or ignore it altogether. After he’d leave, I’d grumpily clear my desk and put everything back in the box under my desk. Time after time, start anew.
At times of discouragement, it was good to have my workmates or “family” around me. We were all in the same place with the same hopes. Suffering through the same sadly defaulted careers. We were brothers and sisters both blessed and cursed with the same hesitant, tortured surname. Creative types. We’d share our creative energy. Inspire one another. Exchange ideas. Weather failure together. Interpret one another’s dreams.