by Shlomo Kalo
So we made our way towards that hut with the express intention of celebrating the day of the goat’s deliverance from certain death and in this way to give suitable expression to boisterous feelings, elevated and human to the same degree. But the clay-built hut was too narrow to accommodate all the revelers, and so a few mats and carpets were spread on the bare floor of a woodland clearing not far away, and when these proved insufficient, rags and dusters were added and whatever came to hand.
The sun set, and the refreshments arrived: fresh goat’s milk, still bubbling and steaming, served in vessels made of blackened wood and ancient stone, from the days of our patriarch Abraham. The unlucky ones were those who found themselves lumbered with stone vessels, as it required a great deal of effort, and considerable emission of sweat, to raise such a vessel in both hands and drink from it, to the murderous rhythm of the benedictions intoned by the Sheikh in a hollow voice while his acolytes answered him with a conventional response that I didn’t catch, and they raised the fossils that were in their hands and drank and put down, and there were more benedictions and unanimous responses, like the bleating of sheep, and raising the vessels of stone and wood… and it was strictly forbidden not to drink with the benediction and the response that goes with it, because this is reckoned an insult to God and serious apostasy, for which the penalty is stoning to death.
After a long sequence of weightlifting exercises to the rhythm of the benediction and response, I felt that the muscles of my arms, hands and back were about to snap and this stone vessel, dragged to the blessing-party along with the rest of the fossils by a powerful elephant, was liable to seal my fate. I had no option but to call upon my outstanding qualities. So I set my resourcefulness, flair, fertile imagination, dexterity of hand and thought in motion – and at one stroke, as the blessing was sounded, I pushed the fossil laid before me to the neighbor on my right and pulled towards me the wooden goblet which had served him until now. As I raised that blackened vessel to my lips I felt like someone plucked from the maelstrom of a stormy sea and deposited, with grace and providence from above, on a safe shore. My heart leapt within me, and now for the first time I did not hold my silence but added my voice to both the mumbling of the responses and the thunder of the blessing, which emanated, as it turned out, from the deep and cavernous throat of the neighbor on my right who was – no more and no less – the Sheikh Iftheriverdries Imatap in person. But this time his voice was dimmed and his next blessing was almost inaudible, and when he tried for the third time to lift the stone vessel that I had placed before him he failed utterly and thus – the blessings ended and the people were silent. The supply of fresh goat’s milk, which came to us in buckets passed along a chain consisting of the old folk of the village, the women and children – like water for the dowsing of rural fires – stopped.
Gradually, the Sheikh came back to himself, scrutinized me with a confused look, scrutinized me again and finally, having regained control of his voice, he asked me with a series of chirping sounds in several keys, whose ancient meaning I immediately understood – was I hungry? I nodded. At one the Sheikh gave orders that the drinking vessels were to be removed and replaced by wooden plates the size of cartwheels. And then he called out the specific name of the food, tasty food evidently, as the moment the revelers heard the cry of the Sheikh directed towards the one who was at work in the kitchen, some kind of a master-chef if his stomach, almost big enough to touch his chin, was anything to go by – their feelings were positively palpable. A flash passed through the eyes of all those present, and one after another they began licking, a noisy and emphatic licking of lips, which in any European state would have been seen as the height of uncouth behavior, but here the activity seemed altogether different, showing incontrovertible evidence of aristocratic manners, and of a respectful attitude towards the party, the party-goers, the master of ceremonies, and most of all, the appetizing food, which the man with the chin-tickling stomach was hastily preparing for us.
I too was licking my lips. And without any boasting, which is neither my way nor my habit, I can say that if some totally objective person had happened to be present, and seen me licking – I doubt the thought would occur to him that I had not been brought up to this, nurtured since the dawn of childhood in the lap of the extravagant licking principle, and least of all would he suppose this was the first time in my life I had experienced it. And all this I did to show respect for the customs of the place, not wanting to provoke, or keep aloof, or attract unnecessary attention, or create an erroneous impression of alienation or arrogance, the results of which are always potentially disastrous. So anyway I licked my lips which had become swollen after the chain-drinking of natural goat’s milk, licked, in deference to local custom – once twice and three times, smacked them noisily, opened my eyes wide, fell silent – and waited.
And then a massive vessel was brought in, made of acacia wood and with ancient inscriptions carved on the panels. Although it was merely a kitchen utensil, it was somehow reminiscent of Noah’s Ark or perhaps – the sanctuary built by Moses and Bezaleel where our ancestors prayed in the desert.
The lid was removed with the aid of an ingenious apparatus of wheels, pulleys and ships’ hawsers harnessed to donkeys. To my utter amazement – there were no vapors rising from the cauldron. The host leaned over the gigantic tub and with both his hairy hands, very like the hands of an immature orangutan, pulled out slivers of glass of every conceivable size and shape and distributed them among the diners. They accepted their portions gleefully, with polite bows and incessant thanks, and their ink-blackened eyes flashed with a jealous glare that there was no disguising whenever a neighbor received a particularly lavish allocation, or glass of superior quality.
To my lot fell a great many pieces of glass of various types, pride of place going to a piece resembling a chicken’s leg in shape, although in fact it was the broken neck of a big bottle, ten liters capacity at least, the kind used by chemists for storing concentrated acids, and by plebeians to store engine oil or paraffin for lighting.
The truth is, my curiosity was stretched to breaking point and at the same time, a few little ants of trepidation began running up and down my spinal column, slightly stooped as it was.
After the shards of glass had been distributed to all, more or less equally, all those present (and I among them) knelt down and uttered some fearful words which froze the heart, my heart too to some extent, with their sound alone. I should say in advance that to this very day I have been unable to work out the precise significance of these expressions, but they were instantly engraved in my memory, on that solemn occasion, deeply engraved as if branded with a white-hot iron on the lively and vibrant cells of my brain, never to be erased. The words were as follows:
DAMKARPADA DAMESPADA GRONPELADA ROSH-ARADA MAE-ALMOKADA
Immediately after this dreadful imprecation, all of those present, including the Sheikh Iftheriverdries Imatap in person, swooped like hungry wolves descending on a slaughtered buffalo, on their nourishing portions of glass, and began snatching them up with a wild fervor the like of which I had never seen, and cramming the slivers of glass into their mouths, which had widened until they resembled the mouths of toads, munching with lightning speed, eyes popping out from their sockets for the sheer intensity of the pleasure, chewing and swallowing and repeating the process – taking big handfuls, cramming, munching, goggling with eyes that looked more and more like hard-boiled eggs, chewing and swallowing.
Soon, there was not so much as a single sliver of glass left before the assembled company, with the exception of the respectable portion placed in front of me, untouched and silent.
The revelers turned eyes on me that were tinged with purple, and in a state of utter helplessness such as I don’t remember ever having experienced before, I nodded in assent. Those eyes, reddened now, with an expression that needed no interpretation, were turned towards the Sheikh, in tense anticipation of his permission. Sure enough, permission was granted an
d all the revelers, without exception, stretched out hungry hands, and arms so horribly hairy that for a moment it seemed I was sitting in the midst of a troupe of friendly orangutans in Borneo, and within a few seconds they polished off all the glass without leaving the smallest relic.
Gradually and as if against my will, I raised pensive eyes and scoured the scene around me. On the broad faces of all the assembled company, the expression was the same – replete complacency. They looked like creatures who had fulfilled their complete and sublime potential and were prepared from this moment on to love all the world and sacrifice their lives for it. It was clear that for them this had been a ceremonial banquet deserving high renown.
After a short silence, the Sheikh turned to me and in a tone oozing grace and compassion, fellow-feeling in adversity and forgiveness of grievous sins, mouthed some ponderous statements into my ear.
The Tamil-speaker hurried to translate the words spoken for my benefit into the pantomime language, in which he had only recently acquired proficiency.
It emerged that the Sheikh had been deeply affected by my total ignorance of anything to do with sacral banquets, and because he believed my heart had been a holy heart since birth – he came to me with a generous offer, to teach me, in all humility, the art of glass-eating on a fast-track course of eight hours per day for a week, since it was as clear to him as the sunlight that I had been endowed with rare qualities, and would be a much faster learner than any of his devotees. He also expressed his firm confidence that within a week I would exceed all of his devotees with innocent faith (glass-eating) the accomplishment of the local popular saints.
Of course, it was clear beyond any shadow of a doubt that any attempt at refusal, in whatever shape or form, would cause serious offence to the revelers, to the Sheikh and to his sacred lore. Smiling painfully, I expressed my total agreement. At this point I anticipate the sequence of events and point out that instead of a week of eight-hour days, the course lasted a whole month, at sixteen hours per day, and this because the sheikh found something utterly exceptional in me, a unique artistic talent blessed by the Holy Spirit, something he had never before come across, not even in his star pupil, the erroneously named Ismail Imatap, reputedly a genius – and to his knowledge there was no reference to it in the History of Glass-Eating – Artistry and Faith, which as is well-known, is the third most widely read book in the world, after the Bible and Signora Tintoretti’s masterly compilation of 1001 spaghetti recipes.
The above-mentioned book comprises seventy-three bulky volumes and is thus superior to the Encyclopaedia Britannica, richer and far more detailed, and much preferred in refined scientific circles.
So for the first time in his life the Sheikh rejoiced in that he had found a pupil of my caliber and that he could expand upon his precepts in his own language, which I mastered immediately after beginning my studies. He put forward a number of scriptural verses in ancient languages, which existed in the world even before it was a world, and stood open-mouthed for minutes on end, as I anticipated him in my usual way, pointing out to him the sources to which he referred but did not always remember.
The first rule of the art of eating glass, so it seems, is to avoid injury to the hands. The cavity of the mouth, the tongue, the stomach and the guts are protected from glass by the power of the imprecation which the glass-eater utters before starting to eat. The whole art of glass-eating, in a nutshell, boils down to the picking up of the slivers of glass in the correct manner – with delicacy accompanied by an air of nobility and fine breeding, in the most aesthetic fashion, which also helps to boost the appetite of the one taking the glass and of those keeping him company. Once the glass has reached the cavity of the mouth, all rules of caution are superfluous. On account of that imprecation, as previously mentioned, the glass-eater can chose for himself whatever mode of eating appeals to him – the way of the idiot which is marked by noisy chewing, flooding saliva which drips from the corners of the mouth, belches and hiccups, crude and rapid swallowing, and a portion of glass rapidly disappearing, when the eater is more interested in quantity than in the fine quality of the taste of those thin and gleaming shards of glass, originating from choice works of art such as vases and statuettes, old and new, or finely wrought glass goblets from the courts of barons and kings, held in the dainty hands of princesses and queens who left traces there of their fresh and vernal fragrance. And of course there exists a mode of eating preferable to me, to which I was brought up from the dawn of my childhood, and which in fact flows in my veins – the way of the born aristocrat, of the king, real or potential, of the artistic genius who is capable of appreciating the truly beautiful, the elevated and the sublime, in every object set before him, and in particular – in slivers of glass which are sometimes clear and airy, like mountain air before dawn. This style of eating is marked by its decidedly aesthetic moderation – which results in the full enjoyment and absorption of all the subtle tastes of the food eaten, and the keen discernment of all the fragrances accompanying it.
The second rule of the art of glass-eating decrees that there is no need to be alarmed by certain phenomena which normally accompany a lavish meal of glass, especially when this is repeated at regular intervals for all kinds of reasons which time dictates. And here the Sheikh told an enlightening story in support of this rule, a kind of parable, but one which did not deviate from absolute truth.
The Sheikh described to me his sojourn in the notorious Gobi Desert, for the purpose of sanctified seclusion, over a period of seventeen years, eight months, three days and four nights, when his only food throughout the above-mentioned time had been glass produced from the sand of the desert by the action of the heat of the sun, which in certain sectors of the desert reaches levels equivalent to a thousandth of the temperature on the surface of the sun itself. After the first week of continuous and unvaried consumption of glass – instead of normal excrement – the Sheikh was excreting lumps of sand, sand of perfect purity, which could easily be baked again into edible glass. The eater of glass thus affords incomparably solid testimony in support of a well-known scientific law according to which nothing in nature goes to waste. He also refutes another law, just as scientific and no less well-known than the former, which holds that is impossible to construct "perpetual motion", in other words, a machine which feeds itself. In this instance every glass-eater in the desert turns into such a machine, a durable, top-of-the-range model and science, if it awakes from its slumber and wants to conduct an experiment, should recruit some volunteer glass-eaters, and I am prepared to be the first of them – a statement which I make on oath.
And the third and final aspect which the serial glass-eater should be aware of, but not perplexed or, perish the thought, intimidated by – although by its very nature it is a subject liable to perplex and perhaps to intimidate as well, is the absolute transparency which the accredited glass-eater acquires after a week of unremitting glass consumption, becoming as transparent as the glass and sometimes – even more so.
Later, the transparency of the glass-eater takes on a kind of luster, soft and delicate, like the luster of superior crystal, which can easily be seen through, affording a clear view not only of the internal organs, such as spleen, liver, stomach, heart, brain, etc, but also the soul of the glass-eater in all its various colors, shapes and forms, his ebullient spirit, his imaginative visions, his creative thought processes, the reception, development and utterance of thoughts and what is of incomparably greater importance - the thoughts themselves, with the emotions linked to them. In simple terms – the constant and dedicated glass-eater loses all his privacy. He stands naked before anyone who is minded to look at him. The serial glass-eater is incapable of deceiving anyone, even himself. There is a kind of blessing in this, in that the glass-eater understands all his most repressed motivations, and he will never be a murderer or a thief or lead people astray. And here is the place to raise a suggestion which, if accepted, could bring about a fundamental revolution and a radical up
heaval of barely imaginable proportions in the intellectual perceptions and physical life of western man: instead of the lie-detector which is used in all kinds of interrogations, simply feed the interviewee with glass, and persuade offenders of all kinds to become devotees of the vitreous diet. Thus all crime will disappear from the world, and wrong-doing will be consigned to the age of barbarism. Clearly, if mankind does not mean to mend its ways, it would do well, of its own accord, to eschew all other forms of nourishment and their traditions, and live on glass alone. Then relations will be changed completely and in my opinion – for the better. "The healthy future of the world," Sheikh Iftheriverdries Imatap smiled at me, "depends on an increase in the number of glass-eaters in it!" And basic logic requires a categorical declaration that he was right. I only wish that leaders and statesmen would commit themselves to the right courses of action, issuing enlightened laws regarding the obligation to eat glass from infancy onwards.
Anyway, the two of us, the Sheikh and I, provided living testimony to the words of my benefactor. Immediately after the second week of continuous and exclusive glass-eating, we were entirely transparent, lucent as fine crystal, and each of us capable of reading the thoughts of the other with ease. To the Sheikh’s credit, every thought passing behind his transparent glass mask – was a noble thought, radiating glory and beauty and dignity. What he saw in me – I did not care to know, not being prone to curiosity. But at the end of the course, which instead of a week, as previously noted, lasted a whole month, the Sheikh made a formal and authoritative declaration, founded upon incontrovertible truth: "You are my brother, esteemed Baron, brother in feeling and in thought, brother in speech and action, brother in aspiration and in nobility of spirit! Now arise and roam the world, for this is your sacred assignation and radiant mission, and spread the radiant truth of the principle of eating glass! And we will be with you whichever way you turn, from near and far, in spirit and in substance, in hope and in faith and in love, and with baited breath we shall observe your heroic and resourceful acts, to which you have been destined since the six days of Creation!"
