by Shlomo Kalo
On the gun-locomotive one of my European friends was going to apply to take out an international patent. The process dragged on and on, a common phenomenon in the issuing of international patents, years upon years and when ultimately, after forty years, the patent was issued, the value of the artillery train had declined to nothing, its place being taken by the airplane, and later – by the missile, in which the same ingenious principle of propulsion was applied in the most minute detail.
IN THE WAKE OF THE TITANIC
In the early twenties, immediately after the cruel war, chaos reigned in my homeland and God was overthrown. People murdered one another on the basis of elevated ideas, theories that were supposed to bring relief, freedom and happiness to mankind. On the same grounds they also robbed one another, cheated, led astray, oppressed and extorted – with a kind of quiet idealistic delight, forever citing the principle that "the end justifies the means". They were hungry too, and did their level best to starve their neighbors.
The hunger spread and struck, in its accustomed way, the poorest of the people, and they expired in the full light of day, in the scrupulously clean and well-tended streets, in avenues broad as the estuary of the Danube, at the foot of the sumptuous government buildings, as taciturn as ever.
I offered my good services to the government of the time, but I was politely rejected, with a tolerant smile that they made no attempt to conceal.
In those days of foolish national pride and failure to foresee the future, they all saw themselves as the geniuses of the age, comparable with me, in fact – and the results were grim.
The stories of Erich Maria Remarque had not yet been published, and the writings of Thomas Mann were of no use at all. In fact, all art was in a state of severe decline, sinking to the very lowest of levels, and there were famous painters who offered their jealously preserved creations (there was no money for paints, canvases or frames for new pictures) in exchange for a quarter of a loaf of bread, and when offered one moldy slice they did not haggle over the price, but lost no time grabbing it and running to the first street corner to bolt it down, fungus and all, and a quarter of an hour later, to spew it all up again, swooning in a most unartistic manner, with no one paying any attention to their bodies, slumped at that dark street corner.
The awareness of the public, their consciousness, thoughts, feelings, sensations, desires and intuitions, reached impressive heights of sharpness and lucidity. Consciousness, for example, was no longer diffuse and wayward, but closely focused on one exclusive point, in a way that would be considered impressive in the lore of yoga – on food and on food alone.
It is possible that if food were to turn into some kind of "mantra" – the whole of the people, for all its levels and cliques and classes would be delivered from its dark instincts, would rise above itself and prevent future bloodshed. But a certain learned Indian, of whom more will be said, explained to me that it is impossible to achieve any kind of spiritual gain if it is motivated by obsessive cause for example hunger, which is not in itself to be denounced, that has no merit to help the spirit advance towards its lofty objectives.
In this atmosphere and in these circumstances, I found myself surplus to requirements in my homeland and not wanted by my people, and since I had an old friend who was the captain of a passenger liner setting out for the United States of America, and who was constantly trying to persuade me to join him for the trip – I finally gave in and accepted his invitation, and one fine day when the skies were high, arousing great hopes and spreading youthful optimism, I embarked on the ship and left the shores of my homeland although – as will yet be apparent to my readers – not forever.
The ship was thronged with surgeons from all the continental countries, on their way to a major international surgical conference in New York, the first of its kind since the end of the war, to be convened under the decidedly pacifist slogan: "Peace will not necessarily impair the livelihood of the surgeon".
The steam ship was massive, stunning in its dimensions, altogether reminiscent of the late-lamented Titanic, and in the course of a conversation I held with a veteran crew member it was explained to me that this was in fact the sister-ship of the doomed leviathan, constructed in the same shipyard, using the same materials and the same craftsmen, with the exception of the chief engineer, who perished along with the passengers on the Titanic, not long after uttering his impassioned, historical and famous boast: "Even God could do no harm to my ship!"
The journey followed exactly the same route as that of the Titanic, and the number of passengers perfectly matched the number of passengers then, as did the strength of the ship’s company, and all were in high spirits, cracking jokes and playing roulette, cards and dice, like their counterparts not so long ago, and like them – they filled their stomachs with all the good things of the land that could be loaded and stored in such a legendary craft, resembling in every respect a European city of medium size, densely populated.
And no one paid any heed to a certain bearded prophet, Irish in origin, who every morning and evening was raging and shouting, heaping curses on his long and reddish beard and on the community of "revelers" as he called them, and trying to convince everyone he came across that disaster lay in store for this ship, the same disaster as befell the Titanic, and it was God speaking through his mouth, and as convincing proof of this he made extensive use of the ancient formula, "Thus spake the Lord", which Nietzsche famously and unashamedly corrupted beyond repair, with the alternative version "Thus spake Zarathustra."
Things followed their predictable course. People paid no attention to the words of the angry prophet, or to the warnings sounded in their ears by the icebergs floating on both sides of the ship, proud and majestic, soaring to the height of mountain peaks.
Many crowded into the spacious and sumptuous casino, which Monte Carlo in those days and Las Vegas in ours would certainly have envied. There was also a modern innovation – the cinema, and naturally enough this was where most of the surgeons used to congregate with their wives or future wives, or in the company of the ship’s stewardesses, or making do with their own company, occasionally laughing with surgical precision at Chaplin’s youthful antics.
And there were also tables set out on the upper deck, and around them sat the self-styled adventurers, recounting their fascinating and breathtaking stories, striking their audience – and themselves – mute with amazement.
I happened to be at one of those tables in the company of the skipper, the chief engineering officer, the famous pianist Arthur Rubinstein and his vivacious wife. We drank brandy in moderation (except for me) and Mrs Rubinstein sipped hot cocoa. We wore fashionably warm clothing on account of the wintry temperatures.
Forbidding mountains of ice were passing slowly by our side, in a silent parade of kings from ancient times, with their trusty knights in attendance. And because the waiter, an undeniably busy young man, for some reason was serving the brandy neat, without any addition whatsoever, I was not idle and with a stylish yet well calculated movement, the movement of a born artist and a man of the world, without standing up from the comfortable armchair, with the aid of a penknife, a fine "Solingen" blade of stainless steel – I cut cubes of ice from the monsters passing close by, and without touching them with my hands, I flicked them into the glasses of the dedicated brandy-drinkers.
Those sitting there did not conceal their sincere amazement, which they expressed with a supportive look and with warm words. I received special praise from young Mrs Rubinstein, who evidently appreciated not only fine music but also the art of elegant movement, in which there is a kind of music in its own right, and exemplary fortitude – two qualities with which I have blessed since birth, as is well-known, and there is no point in being modest about this, as I have never been the sanctimonious type.
The engineering officer sighed and remarked that his brother-in-law had recently opened an ice-factory in Brindisi in Italy, and his business was proving somewhat stagnant. And even if it were pos
sible to send him one of these mountains drifting close to the ship – he would not benefit from it, because demand for ice was not as robust as the brother-in-law had hoped before going into the business.
I consoled him with the assurance that, throughout the Levantine region, ice-coolers were proliferating at a spectacular rate and the demand for ice was bound to rise from day to day and from hour to hour.
And here the congenial Mrs Rubinstein intervened and observed that her home-help owned an ice-cooler too and she always made a point of buying a block of ice at the end of the working day from the neighborhood ice-seller.
"The interesting thing," Mrs Rubinstein commented, "is that on a number of occasions I have watched the local ice-seller at work, and still I don’t understand how with just one light incision, using a rusty awl – he can cut out a thick slab of ice of exactly the dimensions required."
The captain tried to explain the phenomenon in a scientific – hence dry and wearisome – manner, and the engineering officer quoted some formulae which raised the eyebrows of the young wife into a large and emphatic question-mark, and even Mr Rubinstein spoke about certain notes which would melt even a block of ice… finally – they all fell silent and it was clear that the lady wasn’t satisfied, and the issue had embarrassed all those who had tried to explain a part of it and found the effort beyond them, since they themselves did not really understand it.
The captain sighed and with a rather forced smile, not characteristic of him, turned to me and said:
"Perhaps our resourceful and richly experienced friend, Baron Leutenlieb von Munchausen, who has proved his practical expertise in the matter by plucking, with the style typical of the Munchausens, perfectly shaped cubes of ice from the body of the iceberg that passed by us – will try to explain this strange phenomenon of cutting a slab of ice with an awl, lightly wielded – delicately even…" – and in his voice there was more than a simple question mark, a kind of entreaty could be perceived there, an appeal from one gentleman to another for an outstretched hand and extrication from the thicket.
I am not ashamed to admit – the situation was delicate, and the pretty eyes of the young lady were fixed on me in pure childish hope, and in confident expectation that I would bring matters to a close, with illuminating explanation of everything requiring explanation. The gentlemen also fixed me with stiff, almost crude glances, since it was obvious that the matter would not have arisen, and would not be weighing heavily on the spirits of all, were it not for my action in plucking ice-cubes from the body of the floating mountain, in other words – it was my fault.
I took a deep breath of chilly but healthy air, smiled and turned to the young lady and explained what I had known for a long time:
"A block of stone, a block of ice – even concrete – contains a network of invisible veins, going to and from the center of the block, the ‘heart’ of it in common parlance. Anyone endowed with healthy intuitions and senses that are particularly alert, honed and acute, such as – hunters, and perhaps musicians too" – I tried to pay her husband a compliment, a compliment that earned him a particularly sympathetic look, one of the marvelous looks in the repertoire of his wife, thirstily drinking in my words – "would know exactly where to insert the point of the awl or any other sharp instrument – and the block splits exactly as required, however large it may be – large even as the mountain that has just brushed against the rail of the deck!"
"Wonderful!" cried the lady with spontaneous enthusiasm, clapping her hands – sparing no effort in other words, removing her pampered princessly hands from her warm winter gloves and applauding at length – so impressed was she by my words,
Not so the men, who exchanged looks of disguised tolerance, and doubt that was tangible, bordering on scorn which never testifies to anything other than excessive confidence and misplaced feelings of inferiority.
At that precise moment, the angry Irishman appeared before us, crying out in a thunderous voice, sometimes tempered with sticky spittle:
"Thus spake the Lord: they of little faith shall never earn the enlightening redemption of truth! Down they shall sink, down, down!" And he continued, his voice rising to a deafening screech – "And swordfish shall cleave their pampered flesh with the avenging sword of God, and the bellies of sharks will be their final grave!" And without waiting for a response, he moved on to the nearby tables, growling like a lioness, shrieking like a crane, making the hearts of his hearers leap in their breasts with the fire of his bloodcurdling prophecies. And from the deck, as usual, he turned his attention to the entertainment zone, the casino, the ballroom and the cinema.
"That lunatic could scare the whales themselves!" declared the engineering officer, lowering his hands from his ears. It seemed that the others at the table had done likewise, and stopped their ears in advance. So the prophecy of the angry seer was not heard and digested in full, but against his spittle – no effective means of defense had yet been devised.
Mr Rubinstein and his lady exchanged apologetic smiles, as also did the skipper and the engineering officer.
The celebrated pianist remarked in a melodious voice:
"Whales and dolphins have a special language of sounds… not long ago I read about research done by a famous ichthyologist, who defined these sounds and even recorded them in clear and simple musical notation." And he showed us the scale and the notes which were indeed simple in themselves, but in combination were not easily repeated or vocalized properly. Anyway they were engraved deep in my memory, and aroused my interest, since I was endowed with a marvelously acute musical ear and a memory for notes that had no equal, even among the most eminent professionals. And it seems that rumors of this had also come to the attention of Mr Rubinstein, because he turned to me and proposed to set me a test, if, of course, I was willing to take it on, in order to prove for himself the accuracy of the rumors which at first sight seemed implausible from any viewpoint. And since I expressed explicit willingness to be tested, and was glad of the opportunity given to me to refute the doubts of the short-sighted of all the generations and the avowed skeptics of this generation, the celebrated pianist revealed to me the method of the test:
"I shall hum to his honor an extract from a little-known symphony by Rimsky-Korsakov. The best musicians have failed in the attempt to perform it, by heart and even – from the written notation… let his honor try to repeat it," and he took from the pocket of his winter overcoat, made of the precious fur of the beaver, a sheet of notes that he had prepared secretly, and in a pleasant voice he intoned a melody that was complicated and intricate and at the same time – all divine inspiration, lyrical and captivating to the sensitive heart.
The distinguished pianist finished performing the tune and for a brief moment deep silence reigned around the table, on account of the charm of the musical inspiration of Rimsky-Korsakov and also on account of the tense anticipation that the test had aroused in our hearts.
Without moving from my place, without any break, I repeated the melody, without even skipping over the very brief pauses that are not conventionally regarded as essential. My performance left my audience stunned.
The first to recover was Mrs Rubinstein who showered all kinds of enthusiastic compliments on my head, compliments that I accepted with due humility and without any response other than a gentle smile, all affability and appreciation. Finally she declared in a tone of voice to brook no argument:
"If you wanted, Sir, you could be one of the greatest musicians in the world! You have no peer!" – she concluded emphatically.
I rose from my seat, bowed in aristocratic style – a gesture of respect and higher feelings towards this delightful creature, that Rubinstein had won and rightly so, and hastened to respond:
"I am most gratified to hear what you say, ma’am, but there is no comparison at all to be made between my almost provincial talent, and the shining talents of the greatest musicians, among whom your husband is the star performer, and I am proud to be counted among his fervent admi
rers!"
This declaration of mine mollified the pianist, and he mastered his momentary envy, especially as his wife was quick to send him a sidelong glance of sincere appreciation. The others at the table also smiled with satisfaction on hearing my apt words. At that moment the captain was summoned to deal with a fracas in the ballroom caused by "that red-bearded Irishman" (as the prophet was dubbed). And after he had left the table, with some mumbled words of apology, befitting a man of his status, I followed his example, rose from my seat, made my apologies and went away to my cabin.
On the same day of the year and at the same hour of the day, our ship passed by the very spot where the Titanic collided with the giant iceberg, and without any hesitation, executed precisely the same maneuver, running aground on one of the mountains of ice floating close by. It was even the same kind of ice, in other words – nothing could be done to avert the impending disaster.
The terrible panic began, the same kind of panic that gripped the passengers on the original Titanic. And of course, as on the Titanic, there were valiant individuals who calmly stood aside and left the way to the lifeboats clear for women, children and the elderly. There were also mean-spirited members of the male sex who dressed in women’s clothes in an effort to save their craven skins.
I stood alone on the bridge, casting my eyes alternately – over the deck of the ship which was in a ferment and over the surface of the chilly, dark, all but steely sea. And then my friend the captain appeared, holding two glasses of French Pernod, his favorite tipple, and white as a sheet but still in control of his nerves, he offered one of them to me although he knew I never touch alcohol. But this time the circumstances were exceptional, and knowing the captain’s sensitive nature I consented and took the glass. He held the other and before pouring the liquid into his parched throat, he turned to me and with a sad smile declared:
