Solomon's Song

by Bryce Courtenay

  She had grown so accustomed to talking about her impending death that the whole family had long since given up protesting. Rebecca tended to get her own way in most things, and it did not surprise them that she would choose the timing of her own death.

  ‘But, Mother, isn’t pride a sin?’ Abraham remembers teasing her.

  ‘Believe me, in death a little pride does no harm,’ she’d said with great authority. ‘It’s the English Jews got it, not those immigrants from Poland and Russia who do all that lamentation, weeping and gnashing of teeth. That lot, they got no pride!’

  ‘Anyway, what sins could you possibly have to confess?’Abraham recalls humouring her further.

  ‘Sins? Never you mind, my boy! Believe me, I got plenty! You want I should miss you saying the words so I can say them back, my very last words to my only beloved son?’ she’d said accusingly.

  ‘Aren’t you supposed to say them to God, Mother?’

  ‘Him also,’ Rebecca had snapped. Then, finding the confession in her prayer book, she’d marked it with a hairpin. Abraham now sees that the hairpin is still in place after all these years and, not quite knowing why, he opens the book and begins to read aloud the long since forgotten words of the yezi’at neshamah in the presence of his dead father. If Rabbi Abrahams asks whether he has performed this particular mitzvah, he won’t mention the disparity in time between the death and the reading, explaining only that his father had suffered a stroke and therefore was unable to respond to the words in the ancient ritual of confession.

  I acknowledge unto Thee, Oh Lord my God, and the God of my fathers, that both my cure and my death are in Thy hands. May it be Thy will to send me a perfect healing. Yet if my death be fully determined by Thee, I will in love accept it at Thy hand. O may my death be an atonement for all my sins, iniquities and transgressions of which I have been guilty against Thee . . . Hear O Israel: the Lord is our God, the Lord is One.

  He completes the prayer and places the prayer book where it can be clearly seen on the bedside table, then he presses the electric buzzer three times to summon the housekeeper.

  When Mrs Tompkins arrives, she carries another cup of tea. ‘Nice fresh cuppa tea,’ she says, putting it down beside Abraham and taking up the old one.

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Tompkins,’ Abraham says. ‘Now there are several things I want you to do immediately. I want nine candles, well-used ones if you please.’

  ‘Candles, well used? Oh dear?’ The housekeeper appears to be thinking. ‘I dunno, sir,’ she says, ‘I shall have to try and scrounge them from the servants’ quarters.’ She suddenly brightens. ‘Plenty o’ new ones in the kitchen, mind, kept in case the electric lights should fail.’

  ‘Yes, yes, thank you, I shall require only used ones, the more used the better, and don’t remove the wax that’s melted down the sides. Do please hurry, Mrs Tompkins,’ Abraham urges. ‘Oh, and while you’re at it, see if you can find me a chicken feather, a small one will do.’

  ‘A chicken feather? Don’t have chicken on a Thursdee.’

  ‘From a pillow perhaps?’

  ‘That’s goose,’ Mrs Tompkins says.

  ‘Yes, well, a feather. Find one, please! Oh, and another thing, tell the maid who irons my shirt every morning to make a tear, a big tear where my heart would be, then to bring it to my bed chamber.’

  ‘Tear your shirt?’

  ‘Yes, yes, tear it.’

  ‘You ain’t got no old shirts, Sir Abraham.’

  Abraham sighs. ‘A good one, Mrs Tompkins, a very good one!’ he says, showing some signs of exasperation.

  ‘Hmmph!’ Mrs Tompkins expostulates, clearly showing her disapproval, then she turns towards the door.

  ‘And tell Adams to take the motor car to fetch Rabbi Abrahams, he knows where he lives.’

  ‘Worn-down candles, chicken feathers, torn shirts and Mr Adams to fetch the rabbi, right then,’ Mrs Tompkins mutters unhappily as she leaves the room.

  With Mrs Tompkins dismissed Abraham walks into the reception room where his mother always kept a silver menorah, the traditional Jewish candelabrum consisting of eight branches. He finds it tucked away in a cupboard and takes it to his father’s bed chamber, where he places it on a chest of drawers to the left of the bed.

  Then he moves a chair beside the bed and leaves for his own bedroom where, fortunately, the maid has not yet removed yesterday’s suit for pressing. Drinking the cup of tea, Abraham waits until the laundry maid brings in the freshly ironed shirt and when she goes to pick up his suit trousers from the carpet where he’s thrown them the previous night, he instructs her to leave them. Abraham examines the shirt and discovers that the maid, though it was probably Mrs Tompkins, has made a small, almost tentative cut around the area of the heart with a pair of scissors. Abraham gets into his vest and long johns and, pulling on the shirt, examines the tear in the mirror.

  Deciding that it does not appear sufficiently contrite, he rips it further to expose a goodly area of his undervest. Abraham is a modern Jew and doesn’t habitually wear the tallit, the tassled prayer shawl traditionally worn under the shirt. His mother never threw anything out and he wonders if a little rummaging might produce the one he wore at his bar mitzvah but then decides that Rabbi Abrahams is astute enough to know that, in his case, it would be an affectation or perhaps even be seen as a hypocrisy.

  He retrieves his trousers from the bedroom carpet and is pleased to see that they give every appearance of having been much rumpled. Abraham pulls them on and hooks the still attached braces over his shoulders. Leaving the starched collar off the shirt, he cunningly inserts a gold collar stud into its topmost buttonhole to give the appearance of a soiled collar removed. Finally adding his weskit, socks and boots he presents himself once again in front of the mirror. The total effect, taken together with the dark stain of his overnight growth, gives every impression of dishevelment; of clothes and man having endured a long night at the bedside of the dying.

  By the time the rabbi arrives the candles of varying sizes that Mrs Tompkins has scavenged from the servants’ quarters are well alight and look as if they have worn their way downwards throughout the long night’s vigil. Adams steps aside at the door to let Rabbi Abrahams into David’s bed chamber. The rabbi observes Sir Abraham sitting slumped in a chair at the bedside with his chin resting on his chest, giving an altogether convincing imitation of someone who hasn’t slept a wink all night. Abraham, who is not by nature duplicitous, is relieved when the rabbi nods his approval.

  ‘The vigil of a faithful son, I commend you and I wish you long life, Sir Abraham,’ Rabbi Abrahams says as he crosses to where Abraham sits. Abraham rises wearily and they shake hands. ‘Ah, he has not been touched,’ the rabbi exclaims, seeing David’s staring eyes and open jaw.

  Abraham points to a saucer on the bedside table on which resides a rather small chicken feather. ‘Am I not required to wait for you to say the Baruch Dayan ha-Emet?’ Abraham asks, hoping he has correctly pronounced the Hebrew words taken from his mother’s prayer book.

  ‘Oh, you should have done that yourself, then placed the feather to the lips of the deceased to ensure there is no breath coming afterwards, leaving the body untouched for eight minutes only.’

  Rabbi Abrahams points accusingly to where David lies with his toothless mouth gaping, his head sunk deeply into the goose-down pillow. ‘It is the task of the eldest son to close the eyes and the mouth,’ he says, reproving Abraham. ‘Rigor mortis has already set in, now it will not be easy.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Rabbi, as I said, I was under the impression he was not to be touched.’

  Rabbi Abrahams shrugs and sighs and points to the candelabrum with the stubs of nine candles still burning. ‘And the menorah you don’t need. Only one candle to be lit beside the dying, nine is an extravagance, one candle is all that is required to symbolise the flickering of the soul. A Jew’s death is a simple affair, a rich man and a poor man are equal in death, so in God’s law we keep things simple, affordable,
a single candle, a pine coffin, death is no time to show off.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Rabbi, it has been too long since my mother passed away to remember all the details.’

  ‘That is two times you are sorry already. It is unseemly to allow such a distinguished man as your father,’ he points to the gaping jaw once again, ‘to be like this.’

  Abraham looks alarmed. ‘What shall I do, Rabbi?’

  Rabbi Abrahams shrugs his shoulders. ‘It is not for me to say, he will not be seen, it is only a private matter, of respect between you and your father.’

  ‘I thought it important not to touch him. I did not think of rigor mortis.’

  ‘So now he has a big mouth to catch flies?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Rabbi Abrahams.’

  ‘Three times now you are sorry. Perhaps next time the telephone, eh? When you know death knocks at the door you take the telephone and call me and I will tell you what to do?’

  Abraham knows Rabbi Abrahams has not been fooled by his bumbling attempt to cover up. The good reb has a reputation for both wisdom and shrewdness and in the work of the Lord is not afraid to use an acerbic tongue when he is confronted by a sacrilegious Jew. Even David had, on more than one occasion, ruefully admitted that Rabbi Abrahams got the better of him, that the rabbi had managed to effortlessly loosen his tightly drawn purse strings when no other man on God’s earth could have done so.

  Abraham, of course, knows the story of the two ears of God and the resultant birth of Joshua. How the rabbi took a natural and perfectly fair advantage of David’s obsessive desire for a grandson. After all, it was one of the few occasions anyone can remember when David Solomon got his comeuppance and Melbourne’s Jewish community are very fond of relating the story. Abraham himself derived a fair amount of comfort from the tale, for it proved that his father was vulnerable and it pleased him to think that David was made to look foolish for once in his life. But now he has no desire to undergo the same treatment at the hands of the famous rabbi.

  ‘What shall I do?’ he asks the rabbi again, knowing that if Rabbi Abrahams decides to advise him, he will by this act alone have attracted a more than generous donation to the synagogue.

  ‘I can show you, but I cannot help. You understand?’

  ‘Yes, thank you, Rabbi,’ Abraham says, greatly relieved.

  ‘You will need a linen table napkin and a woman’s stocking and also somebody else must be here. Mr Adams perhaps? It is not necessary that this somebody is a Jew.’

  ‘A table napkin and a woman’s stocking?’

  ‘For the jaw,’ the rabbi explains, ‘we must close it, force it into a closed position, then tie it for a few hours so it won’t snap open again. The napkin is for the eyes,’ he adds gratuitously.

  Abraham nods. ‘Right.’ Then he calls Adams, knowing that the butler will be standing outside the bed-chamber door. The jowly visage of Adams appears around the lintel, ‘You called, sir?’

  ‘Get a stocking from one of the maids and bring a linen towel,’ Abraham instructs the butler.

  ‘A stocking, sir?’

  ‘Yes, yes, man, do hurry, rigor mortis has set in.’

  ‘Hurry, smurry, it won’t make no difference, now is already too late to hurry,’ the rabbi looks meaningfully at the hapless Abraham, ‘but not too late for due care.’

  Adams returns after a few minutes with both items, and no doubt there is much speculation and giggling taking place in the kitchen.

  ‘You must stay to help, Adams,’ Abraham commands, glad to be in a position to assert a little authority of his own. ‘And see that whoever is given the money for a new pair of hose.’

  ‘Certainly, Sir Abraham. May I offer my condolences to yourself and Lady Elizabeth.’

  ‘Yes, yes, thank you, Adams. Rabbi Abrahams will instruct us now in what to do.’

  ‘If you please, Sir Abraham, you must place both your hands on the top of Mr David’s head.’ The rabbi turns to Adams. ‘And you, Mr Adams, will push from the base of the jaw to close it. Then Sir Abraham will tie the stocking about the jaw and pull it tight to the crown of the head where he will tie it like a bandage for a sore tooth. Do you understand?’

  ‘Certainly, sir, I was a stretcher-bearer in the Boer War,’ Adams says a trifle smugly.

  Abraham is mortified at the prospect of touching the cold, staring, gap-mouthed face of his father who in death wears an expression not unlike the one he customarily assumed when his temper was out of control and he was looking around for something expensive to break. ‘Er, I say, can we not have Adams do it with someone else?’

  Abraham now asks.

  Rabbi Abrahams shakes his head and looks scornfully at him. ‘It is a task for a loving son, a great privilege and an honour.’

  ‘But you said it was not a religious act?’

  ‘Not religious no, but loving, yes.’

  Abraham sighs and closing his eyes places both hands down on the cold skull of his dead father.

  ‘Push now!’ the rabbi instructs. ‘Push down!’ With his eyes still tightly shut Abraham pushes down and he can hear Adams grunting as he forces the jaw to a closed position. ‘Now bring the stocking,’ Rabbi Abrahams says, ‘cup it under the chin and draw it up over both ears and pull tight, then make a knot.’

  Abraham opens his eyes and takes up the black woollen stocking in both hands and as Adams removes his hands from David’s jaw he quickly loops it under his dead father’s chin and draws it upwards, covering his ears.

  ‘Tight! Pull it tight,’ the rabbi explains. Abraham pulls hard on both ends of the stocking and finds his hands are now a good eighteen inches above his dead father’s head. ‘Keep the strain and make a knot. Mr Adams, bring back your hand on the jaw!’ Abraham makes a knot and pulls it tight then makes another so that an almost perfect topknot appears at the apex of David’s almost bald skull. Abraham notices for the first time that the surface of his father’s skull is blotched with large dark age freckles and is, in appearance, not dissimilar to the skin of an overripe banana. He has a sense of having lost his dignity and feels slightly soiled by the waxy, cold feel of the skin. The too close proximity to death is not at all to his liking.

  ‘Now the eyes,’ the rabbi says, he looks suspiciously at Abraham. ‘You will do the eyes, it is the duty of the eldest son.’

  ‘No, please, no! I do not feel well.’

  The rabbi looks at Abraham in surprise and points to the corpse. ‘Not so sick as him! Tradition, tradition, it is a great honour, for three thousand years the Jews . . .’

  ‘No! Please?’ Abraham interrupts him.

  ‘Tut, tut, it is not difficult, it is very symbolic, you are closing the curtains of life.’ The look of scorn appears again as Rabbi Abrahams looks at Abraham. ‘It is a great privilege to make this gesture, to bring peace, rest and tranquility to the dead.’

  ‘No, I simply cannot do it! I can’t touch him again, not his eyes.’ Abraham visibly shudders.

  ‘I shall do it, sir,’ Adams says, addressing himself to the rabbi, ‘though I must remind you I am not a semite,’ he glances quickly at Abraham, ‘but Mr David always treated me as his son.’

  ‘Yes, thank you, Adams, I am most grateful,’ Abraham says, ignoring the butler’s remark. Like himself, Adams took almost nothing but abuse from his father.

  Rabbi Abrahams sighs and then shrugs, it is a gesture which makes Abraham immediately decide to double the already generous donation he intends to give in memory of his father. ‘As you wish then, Sir Abraham, it is not a religious task.’

  Adams stoops over the bestocking’d head of David Solomon and with a minimum of fuss gouges his thumbs deeply into the cold eye sockets and expertly pulls the lids down over the dead man’s eyes. Then taking up the table napkin he twirls it into a narrow strip which he uses to bandage the closed eyelids.

  Abraham looks down at the now heavily bandaged head of the dead David Solomon. The tightly drawn stocking has pulled his father’s jaw so far upwards that his mouth serves as a hi
nge and the point of the jaw now touches the tip of his nose.

  Rabbi Abrahams rises. ‘You will, of course, cover all the mirrors in the house.’ He looks about him and spies a mug beside the bed. ‘And pour the water from all containers near the dead.’

  He leans over to pick up the mug. Suddenly his eyes grow wide, ‘Oh my goodness!’ he exclaims. ‘The teeth! We have locked your father’s jaw without putting back his teeth!’

  Abraham draws back in horror. ‘Oh no, you don’t! No way! That’s it. I’ve had quite enough!’

  ‘But, Sir Abraham, the jaw will collapse,’ the rabbi points to the dead man’s face. ‘See already it’s not so good, it will be most unseemly, Mr David must have his teeth, it is a matter of respect for the dead.’

  ‘So, let it collapse, no one will see him!’ Abraham shouts in panic, his voice climbing two octaves. ‘He’s dead, my father’s dead, he’s not on exhibition! I’m not going through that again!’

  The rabbi shrugs. ‘That is true but you are the only son, a great privilege!’ the rabbi protests.

  ‘No, Rabbi! You’ve heard me. I’m absolutely not going to do it!’

  ‘It is not such a nice thing you are doing, Abraham Solomon.’ The rabbi smiles, ‘But on the other hand, I understand.’

  ‘Thank you, Rabbi,’ Abraham sighs, greatly relieved. ‘I am not sure I feel well, I wonder if I may be excused?’

  ‘Certainly, Sir Abraham, but first I must say the prayers for the dead, it is important that you be present for these.’ The rabbi turns to the butler. ‘Mr Adams may now leave.’

  With the ancient prayer rituals completed, the rabbi quietly instructs Abraham in his further duties. ‘You will wrap your beloved father with a sheet and place him on the floor with his feet pointed towards the door and then you will place a single candle at his head. Before Mr Moshe Sapperstein of the Chevra Kadisha arrives my advice to you is to remove the bandages from his head and eyes so your father will look the way a father should when a loving and dutiful son has properly attended to his death.’