3 Novellas: Home / Leaving for Jerusalem / The Nobel Prize

by Mois Benarroch

  "I don’t even have a quarter. Not even a third."

  "A third is more than a quarter."

  "Right. I don’t even have a hundredth of it, but for a 100 zuzim, well, for a 100 zuzim, I can decide for myself."

  "Okay, then come," she said, smiling slyly.

  She looked very good, like a divorced woman who has managed to become independent after her husband had choked her. Dressed in the best Thai fashion, with expensive Indonesian shoes.

  Those Softics think that they are the only ones who know the truth, sort of Messianic, you know, I copied the program, and in God 1000 it is impossible for a computer to built an alternative world, an alternative world can only be constructed through human imagination, they must forget about it, you can build another world, I can, but not the Softic, because they think that wisdom is in a machine and not in the most perfect creation of the universe, the human being, I haven’t talked about this with anyone for a long time, my name is Zohara, from the Zohar language."

  ‘You really are brilliant, very brilliant."

  "Also stormy," she laughed, "Jerusalem makes me completely crazy, I am not at all a Jerusalemite, that’s what they’re called now, to be a Jerusalemite is a sort of special religion, here, there’s a church on every corner, Scientology, Westernology, the Afula church, reformers who argue all the time with the reformists, never able to understand the difference between them, there are Conservatives, also the Serbic church was established here, you see, that’s the Prophet’s Street over there, and besides that you can see someone, what is someone, everyone, we are all prophets, for 2 zuzim, 2 zuzim, who will prophecy your future, for the entire country, even for your mother—in—law, I go crazy here, maybe I’ll go back to Ashkelon, at least it’s a city with a sea."

  "Ashkelon was destroyed from an earth accident, an earthquake caused by underground vehicles, a gigantic computer that lost it’s way, called the perpetual seeker, a cute name for a computer, there’s no computer any more, also no Ashkelon, are you an Ashkelonite?"

  "Actually my parents were born in Blazone, a small settlement near the Euphrates, it also disappeared, it was the most Eastern Jewish settlement 20 years ago, everything has disappeared in this world except for Jerusalem."

  "Except for Jerusalem?"

  "Except for Jerusalem, it seems impossible to make this city disappear, we’ve arrived, it’s here, let’s go up."

  We went up to the third floor, on the way she asked what I was looking for.

  "A book."

  "Yes, that’s clear, who’s not looking for a book."

  "’HOME’ by Menashe Har Esh."

  "Ah ... HOME who’s not looking for a home.

  "Have you heard of the book?"

  "Sort of, a little, I’ll tell you, I saw it in French and in English but not in Hebrew, in French it’s called LA MAISON DE DIEU and in Spanish CASA EN FUEGO, why different names, I don’t know, something else that’s strange is that his name in Latin is not separated HARESH, one word, I don’t know why, I saw them at friends abroad, but never in Hebrew."

  "Well, let’s ask the computer."

  Very soon we received the answer from the God likeness: Menashe Har Esh, Home, Letter Publications, 1996, Jerusalem. Unknown number of copies, appears to be less than 200, book about the Holy Temple? unclear, appears to be a novel, no copies in the National Library.

  "What is 1996?" I asked her.

  Until recently, twenty or thirty years ago, they used to count the years from the birth of Jesus, the Jew from Nazareth."

  "The Jew from Nazareth, what was so important about his birth?"

  "His birth — not so much, his death was important, that’s what his followers who were called Christians, believed, since Jesus was from Nazareth, they believed that he was God who had arrived in the form of a human being and landed on earth, so they counted the years from his birth."

  "What happened to this way of counting, to the Christians?"

  "Thirty—five years ago, a method for examining the past was discovered, called the Memory of the Stones. One could take a stone and radiate from it everything that happened during the Stone Age, this is a very expensive process, however someone had enough money to prove the existence of Jesus that was, at that time, a very controversial subject. They discovered that Jesus did not exist, he never lived, not in Jerusalem and not in Nazareth."

  "What? Did he want to see God, even stones can’t remember something like that."

  "I never thought of that."

  In the meantime the computer came up with a number of facts about Har Esh. Menashe Har Esh: wrote five books, four books of poetry and one of prose, in Israel he hardly had success even though he had a few good critical reviews, his major publication was in France (today,western Galia) which is in Europe and in Tejas, a state in North America (the former United States). Maybe he lives in Europe now. His last credit card charge was listed in the city of Toulon five months ago.

  "Toulon?"

  "It’s in Belgium."

  "Is that far away?"

  "Very far, I don’t know if it’s possible to go there, one has to go through the Black Rain region, it can kill a person if you aren’t familiar with an alternative route, however I don’t think one can get there a simple way."

  The computer continues:

  Toulon: a city at the foot of the Mediterranean Sea, an area that has suffered catastrophe. There are rumors that the city is still functioning however it doesn’t seem possible to go there. Or to leave. Maybe with the hydraulic helicopter. But, it’s not recommended.

  "Once I flew there in a helicopter of that kind and it wasn’t a pleasant experience. They say that it has side effects. Nothing happened to me but they say that it can even cause impotency and infertility, I wouldn’t go on one."

  "I wouldn’t either, don’t worry."

  "Do you have where to sleep?"

  "I’m staying in a small hotel not far from here."

  We went to her room.

  "You can sleep here if you want."

  "And your husband?"

  "Ah ... Moshe, I don’t think he would care, if he even comes home in the next month or so, there are husbands who disappear for hours, he disappears for months, then he returns and asks if I’ve made lentil soup as though nothing has happened."

  "Jerusalem ..."

  "Moshe ..."

  "Good, yes, yes, I very much would like to sleep here. The idea pleases me, you please me, our chance meeting pleases me. I’m going to stay here."

  "I am also pleased."

  I went to the hotel to bring my things and a traveler who saw me went with her to the house, gave me free advice, just like so much advice I received in Jerusalem: "Be careful — this adulteress will take you astray."

  I said thank you and returned with my small suitcase.

  I was very tired and went to sleep.

  In the evening, after I had fallen asleep she asked a question about the book on the supernet and when I awoke there were a few answers which were no different from those I had received up until now, except for one.

  "Hello, I am Menashe Har Esh, the author who wrote ‘HOME’.

  "Hello, my name is David Koresh and I am looking for your book because I am writing an article for the Modi’in Paper. Can you help me? First of all, I am concerned that perhaps you are not Menashe Har Esh, maybe you are someone else."

  "Maybe you are someone else, maybe you aren’t David Koresh, maybe you are Simcha Ben Balul, maybe you are Menashe Har Esh, maybe you wrote ‘HOME’",

  "why not?"

  " I suggest you not ask questions like that if you don’t want me to disappear from the line forever."

  My concern didn’t leave me, so I decided that I had nothing to lose so I continued with my questions.

  "When did you write the book ‘HOME’?"

  "I haven’t yet finished it. I’m writing it now."

  "I found one copy of the book. How is it that you didn’t write it?"

  "I wrote it and didn
’t write it, that is, there were a few earlier editions, they weren’t important, I’m bringing out a new edition very soon, or perhaps a first edition, ‘HOME’ is a book that is constantly changing, it changes from year to year, it changes from reader to reader, it changes from copy to copy."

  "Where do you live?"

  "In Austin, in the free republic of Tejas, Viva Tejas!!"

  "Why so far away?"

  "Far? ... far from what? Far from Mars, you are also the same distance from Mars, and also from Jupiter if you don’t mind. We are both the same distance from Jupiter."

  "From Jerusalem."

  "Exactly the same distance, you are as far from Austin as I am from Jerusalem, to the millimeter."

  "Is it true that you left Jerusalem because your book didn’t succeed? Is it true that ‘HOME’ is to be published in French and English?"

  "No, my books did succeed, there was even one reader who understood it, and this is great success in today’s world, who has time to read a book with Supernet, with all the home computers, and a book in hard cover, that is hard to digest as a hard—boiled egg. Yes, the word ‘HOME’ appears in two books in French and Spanish, however, it’s not the same book. In addition, no book can be the same as ‘HOME’, if you haven’t understood this until now you are a lost case."

  "I certainly am lost, the more I look for your book, the more lost I am. The more I know about it the more lost I am, could you send me a copy of the new edition?"

  "Ah ... there won’t be any change since the entire new edition will be one copy, maybe two, no chance, you’ll have to look for it yourself, this copy certainly will not remain with me, it will be sent to some place, randomly, maybe to you, who knows, maybe add your name to the list of people interested in my work."

  David Koresh, 95 Parsim Street, Modi’in, 5845/668, Israel.

  "Okay, you’re in."

  "Could you tell me what ‘HOME’ is about?"

  "No."

  "Why not?"

  "Because I don’t know either."

  "How old are you?"

  "70 years old."

  "Are you planning to return to Jerusalem?"

  "I am planning to die in Jerusalem."

  "Thank you."

  She sat behind me all the time, listening in on our conversation.

  "So talkative", she said, "Do you want breakfast?"

  "Why do you think that, maybe it’s him, pretending to be Menashe Har Esh."

  "It’s no great honor."

  "So if it is him, he’s also talkative, a chatterbox."

  Well, before I eat breakfast, I want to say to all my readers whose names I don’t mention, that is what I requested, if I mention his name, or any other name instead of your name, immediately you will be identified, and you are a very familiar personality in Jerusalem.

  "Okay, so tell them."

  "Here — I said it."

  "But, in any event, I could continue asking questions, maybe you would benefit from it."

  "Look, the story went this way, at least that’s what they say: My grandfather, or his father, it’s not important, it was during the time of the plague in the city of Bensahwen where he was born, the cholera plague, he went into one of the large rooms of the house, before doing so he heard a scream. This was such a fatal plague that people went on their own to the cemetery because there was no one to bury them. He heard the scream and decided to close up the room, and it was not opened again for the entire time of the plague. Even some years after the plague was over, after five years or something like that, he dared to enter the room ... and then fell ill with cholera, he was sick for weeks then finally recovered."

  "What’s the connection?"

  "I don’t know, but many times when I don’t have an answer, when a woman asks me a question and I feel like I must answer her, then I remember something about my family, it is something that I can’t control, isn’t that an interesting story?"

  "There are a million stories like that one."

  "Yes, all the million stories like that are interesting."

  Jerusalem will pull you to visit each church, sect and religion, very soon you’ll forget the very reason why you came. ‘HOME’ turned into a background for my constant discovery in the city, during cold sunny days, winter days which bore no resemblance to Modi’in. A different planet. At the beginning I was surprised that every person had something to say about ‘HOME. It was as if everyone knew about it, but no one had read it, everyone had heard about it, from a father, an uncle, or a literature class. I didn’t even find one person who had read the book. All these details eventually stopped interesting me, they also turned into a search for the answer to the significance of life, or sometimes just for the answer. As the preacher of the Spin church said: "Everyone looks for the answer but no one knows the question." This type of sentence stays engraved in your mind for years, maybe until your death. Really, what is the question? Does God exist? Yes or no, does this really solve something in our life, does God interfere in the workings of the world? This answer or any other doesn’t offer a solution to our unrelenting existential pain, even if people tell you that this is so and or that we don’t suffer from the same illness, from the same spiritual wanderings.

  We should stop for a bit in front of an interesting church, the chemical church, constructed just 5 years ago, after the big plague, and after the government decided to impose rules that anyone wanting to use a chemical medicine must have the approval of a homeopath, must make sure that the homeopath is a reliable person. There are rumors about homeopaths who readily give permission in exchange for a bribe and other benefits. This is what the preacher said: "These homeopaths cause harm to our right to prevent our own pain even if it brings about a less difficult death. No one can prevent us from using antibiotics, even if proved that this leads to plagues, even if proof is doubtful, there were plagues before the use of antibiotics, plagues before the use of immunization, it is possible that antibiotics and immunization prevented some plagues, it’s almost been 50 years, from the polio outburst till the outbreak of Aids there were good years, all sorts of chemical medicines were used, the homeopaths, with a strong lobby of homeopathic pharmaceutical companies profiting thousands of percentages that control those in power, convince them to accept laws which would cutback this wonderful medicine, 200 years of research down the drain because of politicians who do not understand anything about medicine, who are bribed to legislate bad laws. Long live antibiotics! Long live cortisone! Long live chemistry!"

  I have repeated these things exactly as they were said, and they are recorded. I gave the cassette to the police since I think that there is more than a hint of rebellion, that no one will be surprised if in two years a crazy, frustrated individual doesn’t turn up to murder the President of the Country."

  D

  The editor looked at me and at the same time looked at the diskette I handed him, placed his hand on top of his bald head, said "sit down", again looked at me, I thought he was going to fire me, something that would be much better for me since I didn’t have the strength to leave the paper because it was comfortable and profitable, but that’s what I really wanted to do.

  "You have an interesting journalistic style, it reminds me of a number of books from the last generation, Ben Zimra, Auster, Libly, Benarroch, that kind of newspaper journalism is actually interesting."

  "Auster? That tells me something, I heard that name before, but I haven’t ever read one of his books."

  "Doesn’t matter, what bothers me in this article, is that we are left without ‘HOME’, and without Menashe Har Esh, maybe you should go to Austin to look for him."

  "Go to Austin? ... that’s really far, and besides I’m not sure at all that it’s him, and I wrote that."

  "There’s good music there, you’ll love it."

  "I don’t like music."

  "It’s hot there, good weather, not many clouds."

  " I know, I know. My wife is interested in their music, but you are hiding the fact
that it is very dangerous to get there, you have to travel through forbidden lands, and we’re only talking about a book, and about a half—forgotten author, anyway it doesn’t seem that there is very much interest in the book, who is interested in books today with the exception of editors and journalists, books are passé."

  "Books are passé… where did you learn that word, they stopped using it fifty years ago, besides it’s not even a Hebrew word. It’s Galic."

  "It is? I didn’t know that, my grandfather used it all the time, he wasn’t from Western Galia at all, once he went to Oran for a year or two, during the time of the Spanish Civil War, you remember, Jews, Moslems, Christians, but I think that Galic was also spoken in Morocco."

  "Do you know what, leave it alone, maybe you should go to live in Jerusalem, and be our correspondent there for a year or so, write a few in—depth articles."

  "A surprising suggestion, surprising suggestion."

  "It surprises me too."

  "I’ll think about it."

  My wife didn’t agree, however I knew that I would go. In fact, I asked her but I knew that my decision had already been accepted, I couldn’t refuse Jerusalem, a city connected with the future, a city in which the past is the future. At that very moment I didn’t realize to what extent, I didn’t know where I would find myself ten months later.

  "The last thing that my grandfather told me, I was thirteen years old," I told her, "it was about the housekeeper he had in Morocco, her name was Fatima, she was very loyal to him and his younger brothers, he always remembered her. Loyal, what does it mean to be loyal, she also taught them by spanking them, it was acceptable then, but less than his mother did, one day she went with her husband to Belgium, and from there to a country that no longer exists today, she found work there, that’s what happened to the African countries at that time, they were freed from colonialism, the Western rule, then they began to look for cheap labor, a type of sophisticated labor, one could say and afterwards when they saw that in Europe they could get citizenship they began to work in weaker countries, were paid pennies. This was even more sophisticated work, until the Ayatollah Muhames came to power and expelled all the westerners from Arab countries and unified the Arabs… doesn’t matter, so Fatima went to Belgium, one day after a number of years she appeared and brought for my mother a gift, a Tea set, and chocolate for the children. He would tell this story with tears in his eyes, that he didn’t hug her, he was too embarrassed, maybe he was nine years old, and since then he hasn’t seen Fatima."