Noah opened his mouth, looked at the Jew of Assen and shook his head.
‘Isn’t it too late for…’
The rabbi with the dog cart smiled. It was a smile that seemed familiar, as if the smile of the son were on the face of the father.
‘It’s never too late for the queen of days.’
And as his mouth returned to normal, lights flickered around them, a lustre beamed towards them, the smell of fresh bread entered their nostrils, hot chicken soup and boiled potatoes and steaming vegetables. Candles burned on the table with the white cloth, a big challah with poppy seeds lay under an embroidered cloth, six silver cups sat on a little tray. Levi Philips the elder stood at the head of the table, he spoke the blessing over the wine and the bread, scattered salt on the piece of challah that he had broken off and then, when everyone had bread, his wife brought in the soup tureen. She set the steaming bowl down on the table and everything gleamed and the white of the Shabbat tablecloth shone the black poppy seed of the challah lay on the white plates making them look like an inverted night sky. For a moment Jacob Noah remembered his grandfather, the knock on the door on Shabbat evening, his father going to the door and coming back with a rustling paper bag, a brown bag with a pair of worn-out shoes, and the face of his grandfather, which first looked up, then withdrew, and at last slowly, but inevitably, landed in the plate of chicken soup that still lay untouched in front of him.
Jacob Noah closed his eyes and felt a great exhaustion falling upon him. The darkness was a balm for his thoughts.
‘Go and sit down, Mr Noah, light a cigar. No, make yourself comfortable.’
‘What? Where…’
The shop. That is to say: what was once the shop. Everything sold, after all. And yet…As it was.
‘Just go and sit down peacefully. For a moment you looked as if you weren’t quite there.’
He sat down, set his left foot on one of the slanted footrests and lit a cigar. Through the smoke he looked at the pedlar, who was walking back and forth, lost in thought.
‘The story of Levi Philips and Levi Philips…’ said the pedlar.
Noah nodded.
‘There’s another story about Levi Philips and Levi Philips. The same story, about the same father and son. And yet it’s a different story.’
‘The same story, but a different story…’ croaked Noah. He closed his eyes and leaned back. ‘Why doesn’t that surprise me?’
‘Listen, Mr Noah. Listen.’
There was no alternative.
‘Levi Philips the elder could tell from a tuft of hair whether a cow was sick, what was wrong with the cow and whether the creature would live or die.’
Noah shuffled irritably in his chair.
‘Yes, a story. But everyone is a story, to other people and also to himself.’
‘Levi Philips had “the gift”, as they used to call it, and for that reason his advice was sought just as eagerly as his name was argued over. There were some who accused him of having the evil eye. “Watch out for the Hebrew,” they whispered, when he was gone. “Take care lest his gaze fall on you.” But others said he had cured a good milk cow of staggers, or a heifer of colic. Levi Philips was argued over as much as he was loved.
‘Now the story goes that one Friday he went to the annual fair at Rolde, just after midday, when a lot of buying had been done, and just as much drinking. Someone had inquired after him and another one, his mind inflamed with drink, had said he planned to unmask the Hebrew. “I’ve got a sick cow at home,” he said. “I’ll give the Hebrew a tuft of hair from this healthy one here and then he can tell me what’s wrong with the sick one.” There was a lot of laughter, the brandy bottle went round again and a silver daalder and more was staked on the outcome. It wasn’t long before someone spotted the impending victim. The company put their glasses down and walked over to him. Levi Philips was busy inspecting a cow’s udder. When he stood up, he met the fiery eyes of five farmers. “Tell us, Jew Levi…” said the instigator. “I have here a tuft of hair from a cow that isn’t well. What’s wrong with the beast?” Levi Philips took in the red faces crowding round him. It was a long time before he took the tuft out of the farmer’s hand. “Are you absolutely sure, Farmer Veenstra?” The man opposite him snorted and spat on the ground. “What are you bloody talking about? ’Course I am, Jew Levi!” The warm cows’ bodies steamed around them. It smelt of dung, alcohol and cheap cigars. “OK, then. If you’re so sure, Veenstra. This cow…” Levi Philips held up the tuft of hair. “This cow will die.” He handed the tuft back to the men and strode away among the cows’ arses. He heard the laughter rising up behind him, but he didn’t turn round.
‘That evening Farmer Veenstra came home and found his wife and farmhand in the stall. They were standing by the sick cow, which stood peacefully chewing the cud. That afternoon the animal had started eating again, and appeared to be bursting with health. The farmer told them about the prank he had pulled on Levi, and his wife and farmhand laughed heartily along with him. The Hebrew had declared the healthy cow sick and the sick animal was cured.’
‘There goes the myth of the rabbi with the dog cart,’ said Noah. He stubbed out his cigar beneath the heel of his shoe and stood up.
‘Wait. The story isn’t over yet. Behind every story there’s another story, Mr Noah, the same story and yet another story.
‘Saturday came and Sunday came and that Monday there was a visit from the cattle trader to whom Farmer Veenstra had sold his cow at the market. He was drinking coffee in the big kitchen when Veenstra came in from the fields. One glance was enough to tell him that something was wrong.
‘The cattle trader had put the cows that he had bought at the market out to pasture and they had all started grazing peacefully. But that same evening, late, his neighbour called him. Veenstra’s cow was dead.
‘Some say the cow wasn’t just lying in the grass with its legs stretched out. It was supposedly under the tree at the end of the field, kneeling, its legs folded and its head still raised. There are some who maintain that the animal was still standing up, but already stiff, like a life-sized statue.’
‘Hmm,’ said Noah.
‘Wait, it’s not over yet.’
‘Still not? The bloody thing keeps starting up again. Outside a hundred and fifty thousand people are getting legless drunk and I’m here listening to a fairy tale that gives birth to a fairy tale, that gives birth to a fairy tale, that…’
‘I thought you didn’t much care for the drunkards’ party?’
Noah looked down and lowered his head. It was strangely quiet here. As if all the din and shouting stopped at the door of the shop.
Which wasn’t there, mind you. The door. Like the shop. It was something he was constantly forgetting, that for a long time he had been in situations that…that weren’t there. The same story, but a different story.
‘The cattle trader received compensation. He got the sick cow that had recovered so suddenly.’
‘All’s well that ends well,’ sighed Noah.
‘You could say that…’
An eyebrow was raised. It was Noah’s.
‘Farmer Veenstra wouldn’t leave it there. Wherever he went after that he blackened the name of Levi the Hebrew. And not just him, but all the other Jews he knew and even the ones he didn’t know. It’s strange, but however good the name of the Jews was, honest traders whose promises could be depended upon and whose goods were in order, there was no cure for Veenstra’s hatred. Within six months all the Jewish cattle traders were ignored and no one wanted to buy a cow from them.’
‘The outsider is an easy target,’ said Noah.
‘Or we might say: anything that’s different. Or other. Or perhaps even: the Other.’
Noah nodded philosophically.
‘It wasn’t very hard for Levi Philips to get to the source of the sickness. This one had heard from that one that someone else had said that someone had been stuck with a rickety animal from Levi the Hebrew. This one had heard from tha
t one…The last link in the chain of stories was always Veenstra.’
‘But what are you going to do?’ asked Noah. His attention had been aroused. He knew this story. Not this particular story, but the form and the structure of the narrative. Always the same, endlessly repeated, the same only different. How his grandfather couldn’t find any customers who weren’t Jewish, how he himself hadn’t been able to join the shopkeepers’ association…Here, there and everywhere. The story of the Jew or, as the pedlar put it, the Other, because the same would doubtless apply just as much to the Moluccans who lived in this town, the guest workers who had come to the country, the dissidents, redheads, dwarves, socialists in the nineteenth century, women before they got the vote and were made economically competent. The other. The Other.
‘When Levi Philips walked up to Farmer Veenstra, exactly a year had passed since the market at which the incident had taken place. Rolde fair. It was, as it had been a year before, packed. Veenstra was clinching a deal with a lot of clapping and shouting, a cigar stump in the right corner of his mouth and a greasy green hat on the back of his head.
‘“Are you sure that cow is healthy, Veenstra?” said Levi Philips when he had joined the ring around the buyer and the seller.
‘The farmer’s hand hovered above the seller’s palm for the final blow.
‘“Levi the Hebrew,” he said.
‘“I know you don’t want to buy any animals from Jews, Farmer Veenstra.”
‘The farmer looked at the seller.
‘“No,” said Levi Philips. “Harms here isn’t a Jew. But where does his cow come from?”
‘Veenstra muttered something indistinct.
‘“If you buy a cow from a trader who does business with me, the money finally flows into my pocket, Veenstra.”
‘“I didn’t buy the cow from you,” said Harms with a frown.
‘“But you did buy it from Cohen in Groningen.”
‘Harms nodded.
‘“Who bought it from me.”
‘Veenstra drew back his hand.
‘“I know what needs to be done,” said Levi Philips. “I’ll buy this cow from you, Harms. And I’ll give you another two and a half guilders more for it than Veenstra will. No one is going to say I don’t pay my way.”
‘The frown above the trader’s eyes deepened.
‘Veenstra stuck his hands in his pockets and stared straight ahead. The group of bystanders moved like a herd of cows going to stand out of the wind.
‘“What do you say, Harms?”
‘The trader shrugged. “I buy and sell. Your money is good enough for me, Philips.” He held out his hand and looked quizzically at Levi Philips.
‘“Farmer Veenstra,” said Levi Philips, “if you don’t want to buy this cow because the animal has passed through the hands of a Jew, then say so now.”
‘Veenstra shook his head. The veins in his neck were thick.
‘Levi Philips spat in the palm of his hand and slapped it into the trader’s. “Done.”
‘He took the rope with which the cow was tethered and prepared to leave. But before he turned round he looked at Veenstra. “And this cow, Veenstra, I will sell. Because I am a trader, as you know. Someone will buy the animal, although I will have to put some money into it. And one day you will buy it back. If it isn’t this animal, it will be another one. I will buy and sell cows and you will never know which animal has passed through my hands. You will never have that certainty. But the certainty that you do have, like all the other customers I have ever had and will ever have, is that my wares are good. Anyone who buys a poor cow from me gets his money back without hesitation. That’s how it has always been and always will be. Anyone who says otherwise is not telling the truth.”
‘He tugged on the rope and walked away with the cow. Veenstra opened his mouth to say something, but the group that had gathered to watch the sale had drifted apart. Only the trader was still there, and he was counting his money.’
Noah stood up with a groan. He straightened his back and stuck his thumbs in his waistcoat pockets.
‘So that was how it turned out, Jew of Assen. All’s well that ends well. Where to now?’
The pedlar looked at him crookedly. ‘You seem to want to go, Mr Noah. But no, the story isn’t over yet. Sadly enough it isn’t.’
Noah shook his head. ‘You have a long-winded way of telling a story. The shortest path between two points is a straight line, Jew of Assen. Sometimes it seems as if you’re not entirely aware of that geometrical fact.’
The pedlar smiled. ‘Often the crooked path is the only way to the end.’ He seemed to be thinking for a moment. ‘I would even say: in most cases.’
Noah let his hands drop to his sides and nodded as he looked at the little man. He walked around the chairs with their footrests, leaned against the counter and looked invitingly at the pedlar. The Jew of Assen raised his hat and wiped his brow. Noah felt the soft wood of the counter in the palms of his hands. He wondered if he could smell his mother.
Even long after his return, when he stood in the shop in the evening, in the dark, among the boxes and the rolls of tissue wrapping paper, in the faint light from a lamp that fell in through the shop window, he had smelt her. A pair of shoes in his hand, his eye on the window, and there all of a sudden was the smell that he would recognise out of thousands, the powdery warm smell of her skin, the spot at her nape where the neck becomes the shoulder, the heavier smell that lurked in her dark hair, the vague memory of soap in the fabric of her dress and her blouse (and also the immediate image of her, bent over the tub, sleeves rolled up, red hands, a loose curl hanging over her eyes…), and finally her breath, which when she put him and Heijman to bed at night smelt of coffee. Now, without photographs, he could no longer say what she had looked like. The forgetting had happened quickly, not very long after he came back, when he thought of her once and suddenly realised that he could evoke a description but not an image of her: small, lots of dark hair in a bun, long dress, waist…Barely a face. There were no photographs left to recreate that faded face. They were gone. Never again would he know, he had understood at that moment, what she looked like. It had felt like betrayal.
He had blamed himself for no longer being able to evoke her face. As if it was his lack of…love…yearning…as if it was his badness that had caused this hole in his memory.
Shortly after that self-reproach came the thought that this inability to remember was not a matter of now but of always. He would never be able to see her again. He would never be able to remember her except as a vague form, assembled from the clichés that time had left in his mind, as the sea leaves foam and seaweed and flotsam on the high-water mark as it pulls back on the ebb tide.
Only her smell remained.
And over time it too had vanished.
It hadn’t gone gradually, it hadn’t become more and more difficult to remember what her neck, her heavy, dark hair, her…It had happened all at once.
One night he had had a dream. It was just before he married Jetty Ferwerda, but after the ice-dark period when he used to wake in the middle of the night and walk through the sleeping dark town to the empty station to wait for something that didn’t come. It was before the time without dreams and after the time that consisted of nightmares. It was before his affluence and after his poverty. It was before he was what he became and after what he was when he was nothing.
He had been lying in his bed, in the empty sleep of those who have forgotten, and had suddenly shot upright. When he looked around he saw light chinking through the boards, the sound of iron on iron rang out, a scraping as if the world was made of iron and was spinning through an iron universe. Day dawned and on a surface of hard snow there glittered little crystals that made his eyes sting. In the distance the sky was still dark and under the darkness there gleamed the glow of blazing fires.
Suddenly the smell was there.
He saw his mother’s face and through it his brother and his father, standing together far aw
ay in the snow, apparently waiting for something. And then a crowd of people, a pile of naked bodies clinging together, his mother in the middle, the only one standing, and the people around her feet turned into flames, as if she was Joan of Arc on her flaming stack of kindling. She looked at him directly and penetratingly, with a look that seemed to tell him something. He called to her. But she said nothing and just looked, as if he was supposed to know what she wanted to tell him and it was his fault if he didn’t know. And meanwhile the flames rose up, they wrapped her in a reddish-orange haze, a shroud of fire and clouds of smoke and…
He knew what the smell was when he woke with a scream.
That night he had crawled creeping and vomiting and wiggling to the bathroom, leaking from every orifice like a sick animal, a dying rat, no: like a worm that leaves not a slimy trail but a river of puke and piss and shit and tears, and on the cold stone bathroom floor, still in the dark, limp and wet like an empty sack that’s been in the gutter for days, on the bathroom floor he had lifted his head from the chilly stone and looked at the things around him, the cold porcelain of basin, toilet and bath, the tiles gleaming softly in the dark and the hard surface of the mirror. He wanted to call someone, but there was no one. He wanted to shout something, but he didn’t know what. And then, still with the smell in his nose, he heard himself.
He was yelling.
The pedlar coughed meaningfully. For a moment Noah had to shut his eyes tight to get him back in his sights.
‘You were somewhere else for a moment,’ said the little man.
‘I’ve been somewhere else all evening,’ said Noah with a deathly voice.
The pedlar smiled.
It was silent for a little while.
‘Shall I…’
‘Don’t let me stop you, Jew of Assen. Insofar as I can do that.’
‘Levi Philips and Farmer Veenstra.’
Noah nodded. ‘It didn’t turn out all that well, I suspect.’
The Jew of Assen rocked his head slightly.
‘One Friday in October there was a knock on the door and when Levi Philips the elder opened it he was looking into the face, that is, beneath the visor of the cap, of Farmer Veenstra, who was no longer Farmer Veenstra, but a soldier in the Dutch SS. Behind him stood policemen who had that very afternoon still been directing traffic, chasing little boys away from a pond where fishing was forbidden and fetching a cat down from a tree in Molenstraat. Behind the policemen could be seen a group of rucksacked Jews in winter clothes, heading silently for the station.
In a Dark Wood Page 25
