by Naomi Ragen
I think she inherited a wonderful character. A wonderful goodness. And it has made me think that I understand something I never did before.
We are all part of something, something truly great, a oneness that encompasses everything. The important thing is not to fight that. To understand your place in it. Once you see yourself as a part of that whole, a clear ingredient in the universe, a partner with the G-d who created you, you will stop fighting so many things, accepting them and being enriched by them.
Accept the past.
Learn from the good that was part of your history, that which ennobled and raised your people ever higher. Don’t battle it, don’t insist you were born rootless. It will take so many years of your life to fight, and in the end you will lose, because the truth can’t be overcome. Only when the legacy of one’s ancestors corrupts and enslaves the human spirit should one pick oneself up and walk away, forging a different path. That is the legacy of Abraham.
Accept that there is within you an eternal part that cannot be destroyed. There is no reason to fear death, no reason to fear the future. You will always be part of it in some way. While you live, create your own beautiful bead, the jewel of a life intelligently and generously lived, so that you may leave it behind to be strung on the necklace that adorns mankind, time, and history.
There is also no reason to battle mankind, other cultures, other races. All of mankind is one, each contributing a unique and matchless truth. There is no need for one truth, for one contribution, to negate the others. We are all endangered species, all cultures, all religions, as mankind marches into the future with jeans and Rollerblades and bad T-shirts and Walkmans. There is no danger in our differences; but in the overwhelming tedium of the damning sameness that is drowning out what each of us has learned, what each of us can contribute. A sameness that is turning the necklace of mankind into a string of cheap plastic beads of dull and even color, which jangles around our necks like a noose, cutting off our oxygen, choking us like the detergent-fed plankton of a dying sea.
Fight the degradation of your culture, of your environment, of your nation and community. Dust off the jewels in the attic, shake out the skeletons—stare them in the face.
Stop being afraid.
Wisdom will be yours, because you have earned it.
Peace will be yours, because G-d will be yours, as you rest in His fathering care, His mothering spirit of good.
G-d bless you all,
Catherine da Costa,
of the House of Nasi
43
Eighteen months later.
The phone rang.
Francesca rolled over in bed, groping for it. It was Paul Chorman, her new supervisor. She listened in dismay as he outlined another ten changes he wanted to the presentation she had to give that morning on the client-server current account reconciliation system.
“No, no problem at all,” she lied. “Oh, don’t worry about it. I’m usually up this early. Of course. I’ll take care of it. See you at work.”
She lay on her back a few moments looking at the shadows on the ceiling. They were big and gray with uncertain edges, something like storm clouds in a dull, wintry sky. If they’d just listened to her and gone in the direction she’d wanted to in the first place—an integrated PC network—there wouldn’t be any of these problems!
She dragged herself out from under her warm covers, taking the eight hundred pages of specifications from her attaché case. She looked at the bulky document. It was the old story. Big, solid males wrapped up in big IBM mainframes. She penciled in notes frantically.
It had been fairly simple to find a new job in another big bank. People at the office were friendly, although most of them were already living with someone. Her social life was the usual blank: She’d gone out with a dentist Janice had sent her way, who’d talked about his sailboat all evening. And then there’d been the owner of a shoe store she’d met at the gym—a congenial and sensible fellow who spoke in measured, calm tones about financial strategies, new plays, workout techniques, and summer vacations. Before her trip, she would have considered him pleasant company. Now, she was excruciatingly bored.
She exercised, showered, then went to her closet to find something to wear. It was uncomfortably stuffed. Clothes had been her one indulgence since her inheritance. She’d paid off her mortgage and invested the remainder—almost half a million dollars—in treasury bonds, a sensible stock portfolio, and money market funds.
Along with the cash, she’d inherited Grandpa’s book collection (except for the family Bible and Gracia’s manuscript), some beautiful jewelry, expensive sets of dishes, and half of the heirloom silver. Suzanne had gotten her equal share of everything, and vowed she was actually using the silver ritual objects, particularly the candlesticks.
According to the will, neither she nor Suzanne was allowed to sell the heirlooms. But if they chose, they could donate them to a museum collection in their grandparents’ name. The Bible and Gracia’s manuscript were with Mother, to be passed down to the eldest great-grandchild with the stipulation that they be kept forever in the family.
She looked around. She could certainly afford a larger place now, she thought. But the idea of uprooting all that lovely cash from where it was growing like pretty little plants in the sun was painful.
Besides, she was in no hurry. She had everything she needed, really, didn’t she? Life would go on, calm and serene. She need never get her feet wet again, she thought, with a strange absence of satisfaction.
She looked out at the cold, pale city sky, the indifferent glass eyes of the brick towers. Red geraniums, she thought, spilling out of window boxes in Córdoba; the smell of orange blossoms in Seville; the sound of gondolas in Venice.
Restlessly, she paced around the room, stopping finally at the coffee table. She picked up a photograph. Little Hannah in Suzanne’s arms, holding a tiny flag that read “Save the Whales,” a mass of red-gold curls tumbling over her tiny shoulders. Gabriel was standing next to them, one arm around them both, the other resting on Suzanne’s rounding stomach. In the background was the new Women’s Health Center, which Suzanne had used a considerable amount of her organizational powers—and her inheritance—to help create.
They all looked so happy.
She put it down, discomfited.
Gran had left considerable amounts to charity—all her usual causes, as well as a few surprisingly large bequests to Suzanne’s center and Greenpeace.
I really should give some money to charity, she thought, ashamed.
For the last year she’d been volunteering at the center twice a week, manning the phone lines. But giving money away…That was different. If she found it hard to spend it on herself, even considering donating it was pure torture.
She’d have to work on herself, she sighed.
She picked up another photo: Mom, her plastic claws gone, holding little Hannah in soft, grandmotherly arms as if it were the most natural state in the world. Who would have imagined it? Janice, archetypical grandmother, with the fold-out brag book and the shopping trips to Baby Gap? She was installed in Gran’s apartment on Fifth, happily, now that she’d gotten over the fact that Gran hadn’t left it to her outright, but in trust for the great-grandchildren. Since Hannah’s birth she’d come to peaceable terms with the arrangement, feeling it far more natural and less insulting.
Janice had taken up life alone with surprising grace. She’d been the one to organize the Passover seder this past year, presiding over the rituals with a commendable authority. She was dating some man she’d met in the Catskills, a retired history professor, and seemed content and more serene than she’d been in years.
Francesca put the picture down and picked up the next one, holding it in both hands and studying it carefully. He was standing in the fading afternoon light, in front of the waterless old fountain in Toledo, his eyes smiling, his blue shirt cool against his warm, tanned skin. Her thumb caressed the glass. Marius…
He’d come to Gran’s
funeral, asking Francesca once again to marry him and move to London.
And she’d said something hedging and polite with “more time” in it. He’d taken it as no, and returned home.
He’d called her several times during the past eighteen months, mostly updates on his research on the Gracia memoirs. The last conversation had something to do with the Guenzburg Library in Moscow.
Sometimes the conversation had spilled over into their personal lives: he, probing hers delicately, as if it were an old book; and she, dancing around his without touching, without actually knowing what it was she wanted to ask. And now, for the past three months, there had been silence. She’d tried calling him, but had only gotten through to machines.
But then, that was the problem, wasn’t it? He never was in one place for very long. But even that wasn’t the most insurmountable difficulty in their relationship. Her biggest problem with him, she had to admit, was simply one of imagination: She couldn’t imagine life as the wife of Marius Serouya.
She was afraid, terrified, really, of so many things:
Of marrying the wrong man.
Of never finding the right one.
Of never having children.
Of having a husband who wouldn’t be a good father; who wouldn’t be home for them; who would find domestic life boring.
Of getting divorced.
Of creeping age and of death from sudden accidents and/or a long, painful illness.
Of losing her job, of being left behind at promotion time, of being less than appreciated.
The list went on and on.
She replaced the picture carefully, then glanced at her watch and panicked. Stuffing the specifications back into her attaché, grabbing the unread New York Times and a high-fiber bran muffin, she dashed toward the subway.
The platform was packed, smelling of old, damp wool and grime. Bodies pressed up against her rudely, throwing her petite body off balance. She felt like a piece of not-quite-fresh meat swaying on a hook in some butcher’s window. She made a valiant effort to balance her briefcase between her ankles, opening the paper and turning to the business section. She had just checked the stock prices and was about to glance through the ads when a small article caught her eye:
Serouya Rare Books and Manuscripts, Ltd.
Honored by International Antiquarian Booksellers Association
Alex Serouya, recently retired director of the hundred-year-old firm of Serouya and Company, Dealers in Rare Books and Manuscripts, one of Europe’s premier dealers, has been selected as this year’s honoree at the International Antiquarian Booksellers Association’s annual book fair, to be held this week in London.
Newly appointed successor, nephew Marius Serouya, is highly regarded among his peers and has been responsible for several spectacular finds, most recently a handwritten copy of the New Testament, thought to predate all existing copies, discovered in a cave in Ethiopia.
Francesca put down the paper and hugged herself. She was suddenly freezing.
Marius.
The train stopped. She watched the doors open, then, with a dull sense of hopelessness, watched them slowly close again. She got off three stops later, walking briskly down the platform toward the exit and the huge glass tower waiting to swallow her in its elevator banks, when, suddenly, someone rammed into her, sending her attaché case flying.
“Why don’t you watch where you’re going!?” she shouted at the woman who had pushed her, realizing too late it was some mental case wrapped up in rags, wearing torn gold-lamé house slippers and hauling fifteen filthy shopping bags.
The woman turned around, looking at her in hostile disgust. “And why don’t you get yourself a life, girlie?” she snarled.
Helplessly, Francesca knelt, frantically gathering together the pages that had spilled all over the platform. Suddenly, she had an intense awareness of the dozens of feet rushing by. She stared, mesmerized, at clicking, high-heeled instruments of torture; badly polished, narrow loafers run down at the heels; highly polished, expensive designer imports that squeezed the toes; and comfortable, clean New Balance cross-trainers.
She stood up, studying her own feet.
Getting up in the morning. Suffering through rush hour on the subway. Dashing to some tedious job. It wasn’t some sacred duty. It was simply for the money. People did it simply because they needed money.
But I don’t.
So why am I doing this?
Get yourself a life, girlie!
She felt her whole body tremble as the platform rumbled and the cool breeze of an approaching train washed over her. She turned to look at it, her face radiant with sudden revelation. In a swift and deliberate motion, she turned the attaché upside down and watched as the white papers blackened and shredded beneath the wheels of the oncoming train. Then she took out her day planner. One by one, she tore out the pages filled with frantic scheduling and demands, balling them up and scattering them like confetti.
She ran up the steps and out into the street.
There she was.
“Here, add this to your designer collection.” Francesca laughed, handing the old bag lady her attaché. “And something else.” She took out two fifty-dollar bills and pressed them into her chapped and bandaged hands. “For shoes.”
“G-d bless you!” the woman shouted, shoving the money into her pocket, waving at her.
“You too, Gran,” Francesca whispered, looking after her with odd recognition, just before hailing the taxi that would take her to Kennedy Airport.
To: Paul Chorman, V.P. of Information Services, Metrocorp
From: Francesca Abraham
Sent from Kennedy airport’s business client’s lounge
Dear Mr. Chorman:
Francesca Abraham DEEPLY REGRETS her inability to continue offering you her services as a VALUED EMPLOYEE. On behalf of Ms. Abraham, please accept DEEPEST THANKS AND BEST WISHES on finding someone else to match her HIGH LEVEL OF ABILITY AND PERFORMANCE.
To: Marius Serouya
From: Francesca Abraham
ARRIVING HEATHROW FLIGHT BA428. WILLING TO HOLD LADDER.
She walked out into the waiting room at Heathrow, her stomach lurching with a sudden wallop of fear as she scanned the crowd of unfamiliar faces all waiting for someone else.
Maybe he hadn’t even gotten the fax. Maybe he was in the Cayman Islands or Istanbul. Maybe he was in love with somebody else….
“Francesca!”
She turned toward him in a kind of dream, terrified at every single step. Whatever was going to happen was going to happen, she understood, giving in. For good or evil, for better or worse, this was her life. Her mazel. The thought that through ignorance, stubbornness, or simple cowardice she might have missed it was suddenly the most frightening idea of all.
He was wearing his light blue tie. She loosened it, unbuttoning his collar, then slipped it off his neck.
“We will be happy, Marius, won’t we?”
“Deliriously,” he swore.
44
Marius turned off the motor, paddling the small boat to the dock, then tying it securely. He got out first, giving Francesca his hand. It was early, and the blue Mediterranean sky was still flushed with the pink flourishes of sunrise.
They walked up the banks of the beautiful Sea of Galilee, just west of the old Roman ruins of Tiberias. They had packed a wooden hamper with wine, warm pita breads, olives, hummus, fresh tomatoes, and cucumbers. They had two perfect peaches and two perfect croissants, and a thermos of coffee.
They laid the feast out on the checkered tablecloth and ate slowly, relishing the cool breezes that wafted through the tall eucalyptus trees, and the tantalizing smell of the delicious food.
He took her in his arms and held her close to him, running his fingers through her dark curls. “You’re never going to cut out again, are you?” he pleaded softly, pressing his lips to hers.
“Never,” she murmured, smiling, closing her eyes and feeling little vibrations, like electric shocks, run
through her body. She turned, her head snuggled against his chest, her arms folding over his. “It’s so beautiful here, Marius!”
He lifted her hair and kissed the warm spot on the back of her neck. “I’m glad. I wanted to bring you right after we got married, but then that manuscript in Cyprus turned up.”
“What’s a year?” She shrugged, grinning. “We’re here, and it’s lovely. Thank you, darling.” She kissed his fingertips. “And to think, I suspected you had ulterior motives.”
“What?”
“You know, when you suggested this spot for a belated honeymoon. I thought you’d be working the whole time we were here.”
“Francesca, really! Is that what you think of me? I promised you we’d get away from everything, didn’t I?”
“Jerusalem was fabulous, wasn’t it? That wall around the Old City, built by Gracia’s old friend Suleiman the Magnificent! Reminded me of Toledo, no? In fact, Israel looks so much like Spain: the olive groves, the herds of sheep…I can see why my ancestors fell madly in love with Spain when they were forced to leave here. It must have seemed like home. This part, the Galilee, is the most beautiful of all, isn’t it?”
He nodded.
They sat wordlessly in each other’s arms, watching the sun’s slow climb and listening to the quiet murmur of the calm waters lapping against the side of the boat.
“Marius?”
“Hmm?”
“You know, in that book by Cecil Roth, he says Gracia bought some land from Suleiman and that she was headed there on her final journey.”
“Really? I’d forgotten.”
“He says that the land was right here, in Tiberias, overlooking the Sea of Galilee. Quite a coincidence, wouldn’t you say?” she murmured sweetly.
