The Weeping Chamber

by Sigmund Brouwer

  I attempted a wan smile at their concern. “Travel has left me weary.”

  “That was your excuse yesterday,” Pascal said. He paused to swirl his wine, sniff it, and leave some on his tongue several seconds before swallowing. “You are beginning to sound like an old woman.”

  “Pascal . . . ,” Seraphine began in admonishing tones.

  “Don’t start on me, wife,” Pascal told Seraphine. “He and I are cousins and business partners, and I also lay claim to the privilege of old friendship.” Pascal took another swallow, grimaced, and handed her his wine cup. “We have better. Find it.”

  “Only if the steward delivered more today,” she said tartly. “And don’t show off by attempting to treat me as chattel.”

  Pascal lifted his bearded face to stare at her directly. For a moment, I saw the iron that made Pascal the king of Jerusalem silk merchants. So, obviously, did Seraphine.

  “My darling,” he said, meaning it, “would you please bring us some better wine?”

  She hesitated only briefly, hid a smile, took the wine cup, and left with a defiant swish of her dress.

  “I’ll pay for that later,” Pascal said a few seconds later. His grin was crooked, showing large yellowed teeth. “A man’s a fool if he thinks he rules his own home.”

  I thought of my home overlooking the sea and of my wife on the balcony as the wind blew her dark hair when she loosened it to dance freely. Regret must have crossed my face. When Pascal spoke again, his tone was much gentler.

  “What is it, my friend?” he asked. He gestured at the table loaded with salted fish, sweetmeats, fried locusts, grapes, figs, honey, and breads. Jugs of beer, wine, and water sat among the plates. It was a feast for many although there were only three of us. “You have eaten little and refused all my wine. And this morning, the unexpected offer to sell everything you own . . .”

  “One matter is not related to the other,” I said. “We shall find time this week to discuss business. As for my appetite, again blame travel. I am older now. I do not recover as quickly.”

  “A few weeks at sea exhausted you?” If our business matter was foremost in his mind, Pascal did a masterful job of pretending otherwise. “With a stopover in Alexandria? And a few days of rest in Caesarea? Don’t lie to me, Simeon. I sent Seraphine away to give us time alone here, as you seem to disappear during the day and retire early upon your return.”

  “It is nothing.” If he was trying to give me the opportunity to talk about the fire that had left me scarred, I had no desire to oblige him.

  “A dozen times over the last twenty years, you have joined me here for Passover. Each of those dozen Passovers, I was hard-pressed at any meal to keep your wine cup full. And now? All you take is water and bread. Is that why you have become so gaunt?”

  “In the last months I have fasted,” I acknowledged.

  “You? A religious man?” Pascal laughed. “I thought you were far too practical for that. And your love of wine and beer was—”

  “It no longer suits me!” I said, surprised at the vehemence of my voice.

  Pascal closed his eyes in instant remorse. “Forgive me for prying.”

  “There is nothing to pry,” I said, trying to keep the edge out of my tone.

  A moment later, I sighed. “And there is nothing to forgive. As you said, it is a privilege of old friendship to speak openly.”

  Pascal nodded as if he understood. But he didn’t know my secret.

  **

  The day before, I had overheard him speaking to Seraphine: “Simeon has always been robust,” he’d told her; “he always had an air of dangerous wildness that attracted the wrong kind of women. Now, he is a different person. Where he once kept his thick dark hair long, it is nearly shorn and dull. And if that doesn’t show something seriously wrong,” he’d added, “all you have to do is look at his skin, loose and parchment gray. Yes,” Pascal had concluded, “today’s Simeon is not the Simeon of old.”

  Seraphine’s only response had been a cluck of sympathy. They both knew of the tragedy that had befallen my family. A son lost. A daughter crippled. And, of course, even if they had not received a letter from my wife, Jaala, there was the damaged flesh of my face, mute testimony to the accident eighteen months earlier.

  **

  “Since we speak of religion,” I said, looking to stop Pascal’s speculations regarding my troubles, “tell me about this prophet from Nazareth. I was near the temple today, and He caused a tremendous stir.”

  Pascal poured himself some beer. He did not remark on the unusual aspect of my spending more than the required Passover time at the temple. If he has gone as far as to fast, he was undoubtedly thinking, how far will Simeon go with his new religious efforts?

  “As you know,” Pascal said, “a good many of my friends belong to the Sanhedrin. Caiaphas, the high priest, in fact, is one of my best customers. Of course, with the proceeds from temple sales, he can afford to be. Do you know what kind of profit there is in simply changing coins to the half shekels demanded for the yearly tribute? Let the peasants grumble if they will, but you have to admire the strong business sense of Annas and his family. They—”

  “The prophet.” I brought him back to the subject that was on my mind. “The one they call the Messiah.”

  “We have had dozens of messiahs,” Pascal snorted, unfazed by the directness of my question. “The countryside is rife with them.”

  “Dozens who raise men from the dead? Dozens who refuse to call for action against the Romans and instead preach love and compassion? Dozens who are followed by crowds of thousands?”

  “You’ve heard the stories then.”

  I nodded.

  “Understand that it is unsettling for those of us in Jerusalem.”

  “A dead person brought to life?” I snorted. “ ‘Unsettling’ is an understatement. If it is true, then—”

  “Truth has nothing to do with the situation,” Pascal said. “This Yeshua could be a magician. Or He could be working with the devil, as some of the Pharisees say. Besides, what does truth matter against hard practicalities? This country is dry tinder, ready to be set ablaze by the tiniest spark. A so-called messiah with a following is more than a spark; it is an open flame. Surely you, as a merchant, understand the implications.”

  “A revolt is bad for business,” I said dryly.

  “When business is good, life is good. Would you rather watch soldiers go through the city, killing men, women, and children? I’ve heard Caiaphas say it myself. Better that one should die than we all perish.”

  “So the prophet is marked for execution?” I asked.

  “I’m surprised He marched publicly into Jerusalem. If you want to hear His teachings, you had better do it as soon as possible. If they can ever get Him away from His adoring public . . .”

  “Perhaps He is unafraid. If He can raise a man from the dead . . .”

  Pascal dismissed me with a gulp of beer and a wave of his hand. “Don’t give that rumor a second thought, my friend. Only God Himself could do such a thing. And I doubt He would come from the backwaters of Galilee.”

  Chapter Eight

  My dearest love,

  Another day begins. It is so early that I again write by oil lamp, but soon, although the passage of time seems endless, the sun will rise.

  I am tired. The night does not treat me well whether I sleep or not.

  When I lie awake in my bed, I am at least able to distract my mind. I run through calculations on anticipated prices for this year’s silk. I judge the chances of losing ships in storms. I plan mild revenges on the harbormaster for his annual tax increases. And when I feel I can bear the sadness, I open the gates to my memories of moments with you.

  Remember the evening we evaded the guests at our own party and sneaked through the silent city to be alone on a hillside? Beneath the moonlight, we giggled not like a long-married couple but like teenagers. Remember how, at a passionate moment, the appearance of a herd of wild swine wandering the hillside
sent us running?

  I also remember a time when you fell asleep curled against me, with your hand on my chest and your face resting on your hand. When you woke—for I had been watching the rise and fall of your breathing—you blinked and lifted your head, and I saw the line of your rings in the skin of your lovely cheek. My heart burst to think that someone as beautiful as you would have accepted those rings as gifts from me.

  Do you know what I worship most about your beauty? Your nose. The small freckles of perfection. The delicate curves. A profile of grace. How your nostrils flare during your quick surges of anger. It is a nose I can gaze upon for hours. Think me silly if you will, but I love your nose.

  Now, this far from you, I am grateful for all the times early in our marriage when I woke in our chamber and silently watched you in the silvery moonlight, my near reverence as much for the beauty of your face surrounded by the hair draped on your pillow as for the love inside me that would thicken my throat with sadness and joy and longing and gratitude.

  Even now as I write, I smile, because for all your perfection in flesh and soul, it is not difficult to recall how thoroughly you have caused me vexation. I will remind you, as I have on many occasions, that a bath is not meant to take more time than the rebuilding of the temple. Nor was it intended by marriage vows that a husband be forced to pace for hours while his wife leisurely applies perfumes and chooses attire for a public occasion, all the while hearing assurances that the final result is but moments away.

  But as I remember now, my smile fades, for I know I threw it all away. Even before the horror of the fire and your unspoken blame, I had lost much of the love you once gave me. Now, looking back, I see it happened in the way that dust settles. Slowly. Layer by layer.

  How could I have been such a fool to let my ceaseless work become more important than my time for you and with you? Yet slowly, layer by layer, day by day as I pursued the wealth that would give us comfort in our old age, I was losing you. Worse, you even warned me many times, begging me to spend more time with you. All those days I threw away, days I could have idled hours with you and listened to you sing lullabies to our children.

  Yet I spent my days at the harbor and at the warehouses. How could you not finally believe that gold was more important to me than your love?

  Thinking of it, I sigh here in my lonely chamber. I long for you, more so for the final reason for our separation. I believe that I truly could win back the love we once had if not for that final, irrevocable event that put the chasm between us.

  Yes, all of this remorse I carry and ponder during my wakeful state here.

  Yet no sooner do I find the blessed relief of sleep than the demons begin to hiss and coil around my unconscious soul. I do not dream, but instead see the startled wideness of our daughter’s eyes, the fear on her face. I hear the screams of panic. I feel the panic and strength in her arms, as if once again she is clutching me in the throes of her agony. And then—as if once was not enough pain, I am cursed with it again and again. I see the flames. These details are inflicted on me so clearly that, as she screams in my nightmare, I see flames licking at her oil-drenched skin. And I smell the scorch of tortured flesh. The smell brings me back to wakefulness, trembling and sweating and determined never to sleep again.

  Pray for me, I beg. You embrace our Yahweh with far more devotion than I have ever shown Him. I have distanced myself from any hope of mercy from Him . . . pray for me.

  Your Simeon

  Chapter Nine

  The blind beggar cocked his head. In the early quiet of the city, even before the priests blew the trumpet calls to prayer, did he hear footsteps crossing the plaza?

  Yes, his ears told him. Coming from the west.

  The footsteps were soft. Slow. A man not in a hurry.

  The footsteps belonged to me. Pascal’s guest chamber had become too much of a prison. I had dressed quietly, trying to run from my memories by walking the city streets in the pale gray of the new light.

  Later, I would come to know this man better. Well enough to guess that as I began to cross his path for the first time, he concentrated beyond the cramp of his hunger pains to visualize what his milky cataract-covered eyes could no longer tell him. He knew from memory the imposing sight presented by the temple behind him. Indeed, in his youth, he had been one of thousands of laborers who had worked on the massive reconstruction under Herod the Great. Each block of stone of the temple wall was almost the height of a man and easily several paces long. Hundreds of these blocks, piled hundreds of feet high, formed the massive walls. Here at the south entrance, two sets of wide steps led to the gates of the temple compound. In a few hours, it would be crowded with Passover pilgrims coming to make offerings, awed to stand in the temple’s shadows.

  Now, however, only he and I shared the vast plaza. The markets had yet to open, the wailing of public prayers had yet to begin, the wind had yet to rise.

  The air was so quiet and still that the crowing of a rooster easily crossed the valley from the top of the Mount of Olives.

  As the first rays of the sun warmed the beggar’s shoulders and ribs, he might have found it pleasant to sit and think of earlier days when a hard day’s work was enough for bread and wine. Pleasant, except for the hunger that tortured him constantly. Pleasant, except for his nervous tension. At this hour, he did not have the teeming public around him as protection. There was a strange intimacy in sharing this open empty place; how could he know what I might do to him, a helpless, blind old man?

  My footsteps approached. Closer . . . closer. I could see on his face that the sound made my approaching presence the total concern of his world.

  My footsteps faded as I passed him by, telling him that his hopes and fears and past were worthless and insignificant to me. In anger, even more than from the need for money, the beggar rattled the two coins in his bowl.

  I stopped and looked at him more closely. His beard was streaked with gray and grease. He stank. Flies crawled across his rags.

  I walked back toward him.

  He knew I was there.

  The beggar stared straight ahead. Who was I? Soldier? Priest? Cruel? Kind? With just the two of us there in the plaza, I held power over him because of his handicap.

  “I once was strong,” the beggar said, speaking to me, the stranger he could not see. “Now I can no longer work. My wife died before I lost my sight, and we had no children to support us.” He spoke simply, maintaining his dignity.

  “You have not eaten in some days,” I said. Did the beggar hear the accent in my voice? “There is a smell to a starving man. His body begins to burn impurities.”

  I knew this because I had recently fasted, almost to the point of death. What I had found interesting was that after the first week, my body lost its hunger. What I had found discouraging was that my self-imposed fast had not relieved the burden of my soul. And that I hadn’t found the courage to take my fasting to its final stage.

  “I have not eaten in some days,” the beggar acknowledged.

  Undoubtedly, the beggar heard rustling as I opened my money purse. I poured coins into the bowl between his legs. After all, what did money matter to me?

  “May God’s peace rest upon you,” the beggar said. From the shakiness in his voice, it seemed he might weep in gratitude.

  “And upon you.” But my mind was already elsewhere as I turned away.

  I took a few steps. Then I realized he did not know me; I could speak to him without worrying about his opinion of me.

  I returned and crouched beside the beggar. “Tell me,” I said. “If you were to die, what method would you choose?”

  I saw him recoil in fear. There were men, of course, who killed simply for the pleasure of inflicting pain on another. For all the beggar knew, I was holding a knife. A sword. A length of rope. I could kill him swiftly, with no witnesses.

  “P-please,” the beggar stuttered. “Keep your coins. I mean no offense by stopping you.”

  I laughed softly. “I shou
ld ask your apology,” I said. “I have startled you when I simply meant the question in a philosophical way. After all, if one attempts to discuss such things with friends, they become nervous. But you and I are here alone. You do not know me. I do not know you. Strange, how that makes it possible to share thoughts that would not be possible with someone you knew.”

  I paused. “So tell me, what do you think is the least painful way to die? My own opinion is that the Romans do it best. They sit in a steam bath and open a vein. Death approaches as a faintness that comes with the loss of blood. Of course, the mess is very inconsiderate to those left behind.”

  The beggar relaxed somewhat. This was an eerie topic to discuss.

  “There is, however, the matter of the obvious sin of taking one’s own life,” I continued. “Especially with the iron rod of Moses and his commandments hanging over one. So instead, should a man attempt to deceive those close to him? Perhaps a fight might work best. One could throw himself into battle against Roman soldiers. This would give the appearance of a heroic death. God Himself might be fooled into believing it was not suicide. And a wife . . .”

  I sighed. “A wife, too, might find it at least forgivable.”

  “If it’s only a woman’s opinion that concerns you,” the beggar said, “I would give it no more thought. If she loves you, no method of death would be forgiven. If she doesn’t love you, any death will suffice, as long as you leave behind enough to attract the next suitor.”

  I thought about his words. From the lower part of Jerusalem, we heard the first arguments of vendors at the market as they set up their wares.

  “Well spoken,” I finally said. “You have responded well to a question designed to amuse me.”

  Before the beggar could reply, I straightened and walked away. What troubled me most was that I had meant my question for more than amusement.

  Chapter Ten

  It would be a wishful twist of memory to say with certainty that I noticed Yeshua and His disciples as they journeyed to Jerusalem early in the day.