When he made his way through the murky waves of yellow streetlamps, hardly moving his feet, to the house that the bartender had described to him, it turned out that indeed the windows were shuttered tight and completely sealed; not that the house had been abandoned or boarded up; obviously it had been strongly secured against the fog, the way a submarine seals its hatches in a storm and dives to the bottom.
But a lemon tree, and such a prolific one—covered with large fruit, the color of malachite in the light of the nearest streetlamp—was indeed growing next to the wall. Arkady went down to the low blue door leading into the cellar and pushed it open; it gave way easily and after crossing the threshold, he froze in amazement, then straightened up slowly.
I certainly got plastered...
It was a rather large cellar room, with a vaulted ceiling of small stones, like those in many old houses of this town, half forgotten in the heavens. It was lit not by an electric light, but by thick candles in four large, seven-pronged candelabras, placed on two casks, and a single square table in the middle of the cellar, at which two men sat facing each other.
Arkady immediately thought of them as black and white. The younger one, black, wearing the usual attire of a Hasid—a long black coat, hat, and a black beard touched with gray—sat over an open book, its pages folded to resemble two large waves on clean wooden boards with no tablecloth. There was nothing special about him: a typical figure from the streets of Old Safed.
But the other one, white...
Arkady had only read that such people still exist. He was entirely white. From head to foot, from gray curls tinged with yellow under a fox fur cap, to his white socks and white shoes with buckles, looking as if they'd been rented in the costume shop of some theater. His caftan was more of a pearly or smoky color, like the underside of a large seashell or a piece of old ivory, and sewn from special Syrian silk, of the rarest kind, produced only in Aleppo, and imported as contraband.
Between these two figures, sunk in deep serenity, stood two goblets and a large bottle of wine without a label. Everything was fashioned of thick, locally made green glass, which, because of the wavering flame of the candles, gave off thick yellow patches of light.
Neither white nor black turned his head, most likely neither had noticed the door opening. They continued talking...
"Hey, young fellow," someone on the left said quietly.
Arkady turned around and saw a tall old man standing in the corner near a counter, rather, behind three wide boards resting on two casks.
The old man was probably the owner described by the bartender; Arkady was surprised how long it had been since he'd been called a young fellow...
"Close the door, will you," said the old man. "Or else the fog'll come crawling in and bring the damp in with it."
He was slow moving, very gaunt, with a white knitted cap on his bald head; he resembled the Tatar yardman of their Moscow home at 6 Lesnaya Street...
Arkady greeted him, wanted to state his name and convey regards from Avi, but with a nod of his chin, the old man indicated the two men sitting at the table, and pulled out an old bentwood chair from behind the counter, shooing away the sleeping cat:
"Sit here."
The cat jumped down onto the floor, stretched itself out, and arched its back. She turned out to be a calico with three vivid colors: black and white, with red patches, and a striped tail like a country floor mat. The red patches on her back appeared orange in the lively flickering of the flames. But the most astonishing thing about her was her roguish expression, exactly like a harlequin mask, divided vertically into two halves, black and red. And the black half was blind and paralyzed, while in the red half one focused eye glimmered in the candlelight.
The old man, apparently, was engrossed by the conversation between the two, black and white. Automatically, almost without looking, he took a goblet of blown green glass down from the shelf and an unlabeled bottle, silently poured a little wine, and placed it on the board in front of the guest. He moved over a plate with a tall pile of small pitas, soft as pancakes.
Arkady tore one in half and began chewing eagerly; he took a swallow of the wine... He'd gotten hungry while searching for this strange place.
In a few minutes, he began listening to the voices of the two men and pricked up his ears because they were talking in some language that remotely resembled Hebrew... Aramaic, perhaps? However, from time to time, their speech cleared up a bit; it felt like when the wipers cleared the watery scum from his windshield, or when someone cleaned the sweaty lenses of his glasses with the hem of his sweater. Then Arkady began to understand more or less the meaning of their words...
So, it was some ancient texts that they were commenting on.
Black's voice, muffled and curt, supplied the counterpoint, but maintained the rhythm and set the pace for the conversation; white's voice, on the contrary—musical and richly intoned—would ascend and then descend to a heartfelt recitative. White spoke in long, expressive phrases, a bit theatrically, helping himself with well-rounded movements of his hand at the end of his phrases.
"Look, it says here: Who is this serpent that flies through the air and goes without a guide, whereas the ant between its teeth receives pleasure from this, the beginning of which is in society, and the end of which is in solitude? Who is this eagle, having fastened a nest to a tree, that doesn't exist? Who are its fledglings, having grown, but are not among creatures created in this place, but where they were not created?'"1
With all the exoticism of his attire, white, as opposed to black, seemed simpler and more animated. He had a broad, duck-like nose, keen, jovial little eyes, a developed thorax, and strong calves. He could easily play the role of an older musketeer in some trashy Hollywood film, but outwardly he resembled Rembrandt, from the self-portrait where he's holding his homely, tow-haired, but beloved, wife Saskia on his lap.
" Who are they that rising, descend, and descending, rise, two comprising one, and one equal to three? Who is that splendid woman on whom nobody rests his gaze, whose body is covered and revealed, who goes out in the morning and hides during the day, who puts on adornment of which there is none?'"
What is he babbling about? Or have I drunk myself into a state of complete stupefaction?
From time to time, Arkady groped for the bottle on his left and poured himself some wine, rather weak, but tasty—it wasn't clear what was sacred about it...
It was just fine that no one here took any notice of him, and that he was in no one's way. The old man, absolutely engrossed by the conversation of the other two, only occasionally turned to the chance guest and smiled at him absent-mindedly. From time to time, after one or another point was made in the heated disputation, the old man clapped his hands, tossed his head in mute ecstasy, and winked to himself as if to say, "Hey, look how clever I am!"
Only now did Arkady realize that the table stood in the middle of the room for a purpose; it was like a stage, a podium for such theological disputes.
"On the first day of creation when the Most High created darkness before light, the pre-element of fire is implied by that point, that which, before its appearance in our world as real fire providing light and warmth, remained cold and dark..." Black uttered these words slowly, the way a stutterer talks who has overcome his defect.
"Correct!" exclaimed white, and once again gestured with his arm, either in sympathy with what was said, or in support of his own words. It was the same way a conductor signals the strings to begin playing.
"There's a hint of this in the Book of Deuteronomy. It is said of the Revelation at Sinai: and thou didst hear His words out of the midst of the fire,' and then again, And it came to pass, when ye heard the voice out of the midst of the darkness.' Rashi's commentary on the word Darkness.'"
"What are they talking about?" Arkady asked the old man. With a raised hand he signaled Arkady to keep silent, and when black leaned over to flip through the pages of the book, he whispered in explanation:
"The id
ea is that, comparing two different accounts of one and the same event, they can grasp its essence... You ought to listen, listen to them! He's an important man, a great scholar from Jerusalem. His ancestor on the female side was the Maharal of Prague. Do you know who the Maharal was, blessed be his name? He was the great Cabalist who created the Golem..." He nodded his head with enthusiasm. "An important man... But our fellow isn't bad either!"
Arkady wanted to clarify which one of them was our fellow, and which one was from Jerusalem, the descendant of the Maharal, but said nothing. What difference does it make, he thought.
Meanwhile white continued with genuine animation, like an actor reciting poetry:
"But here's what Ramban writes: The second time in the same paragraph, the word darkness is used in its usual dictionary meaning as the absence of light, not as the indication of the pre-element of fire. At the very moment when light was divided from darkness, darkness and light became new entities. In the same way, the Most High had concealed the original light, having made it inaccessible to the impious, who—He knew—would appear in the future. And He predestined it for the righteous in the future world. Where is this original light preserved?"
"But both light and darkness are necessary to manage the world," black said, raising his voice slightly. "Rabbi Samson Raphael Hirsch of Frankfurt wrote about this: Light reveals objects in their individual existence, while darkness, temporarily hiding painfully harsh influences, makes the interaction of substances possible, strengthening their effectiveness...'"
God, did I get smashed...
Resting his head on his arms, Arkady managed to mentally compliment the wonderfully comfortable boards lying across the casks. It was better than any table and they smelled like summer: wood... wine... bread... How did it happen that, having lived in this town for so many years, he knew nothing about Duvid Azis's cellar and might live even longer knowing nothing about black and white? He could've missed them talking in the golden mist of this foggy winter night, the night in which darkness was mixed with light.
The tri-colored cat with the harlequin face jumped up onto the boards and lay down next to his elbow, as if she'd been sent by the old man to watch over the guest.
Occasionally, the old man stroked his back with his heavy soft palm, and shook him lightly, as if checking to see whether the guest was sleeping soundly, having downed half a bottle of the full-moon-song wine of the Cabalists of Sacred Safed...
But it seemed to Arkady that it was precisely at this moment that he heard and understood everything, without missing a single beat, not one profound nuance, not one additional interpretation; every one of white's words was illuminated by the sunny clarity of meaning, and every one of black's words shrouded essences and objects in the shadow of doubt.
Arkady felt that he must, absolutely must pose the question that had tormented him for the last few years: if the Most High, who was so concerned about the manifestation of objects in their individual existence, nevertheless permits the murder of one object by another, then shouldn't the aforementioned Most High be hauled into court as an accessory to the crime?
But he didn't have time to ask.
All of a sudden they both started to sing! In an authentic duet—a bass and a baritone tenor—with splendid intonation, as if they'd spent long nights here rehearsing. The melody reminded him somewhat of Bloch's Nigun, that passionate, desperate monologue of a violin hovering over the background; and Arkady was not at all surprised; of course, it should be like that. Where else, if not in music, would light and darkness be irreproachably combined, not canceling, but enriching each other?
They didn't sing of Day and Night, but of Morning and Evening—that's the beginning and the end, the end and the beginning, the eternal circle of knowledge. "Erev"—evening, the time when the outlines of the world blend together. "Boker"—morning, the time when things become distinct from one another, making it possible to discern their differences, to sense their boundaries, to perceive the dimensions of things, to experience in one's soul the beauty and splendor of the world...
...When he raised his head from the leaden weight of his arms and leaned against the curved back of the chair, dawn had already lit up the colored, bubble-fused glass of the two narrow windows over the door, casting long stripes, red and blue, on the small stones of the vaulted ceiling.
Doves were outside, calling at the dawn.
The four large candelabras, encircled by congealed tears of spent candles, stood in the same place on the table; above one holder curled smoke of the last spluttering flame, just like a belated argument in a terminated disputation.
There wasn't a soul in the cellar, but the large book still lay there, its pages still resembling two large waves. The bottles of wine stood on the shelf; on the boards in front of Arkady lay one lone lemon, lit softly by the greenish gold light of dawn.
On the floor, its tail spread out like a country floor mat, the silent cat with the harlequin face was diligently licking its red paw clean.
A vigorous shuffling sound reached the half-open door of the cellar—perhaps the old man was sweeping outside the house. He should thank him for his hospitality, but the strange night he had passed for some reason yielded only silence.
Groping around in his pockets, Arkady placed all the cash he had on the smooth boards. He had the vague feeling that the old man was not expecting any money, but he had to live off something! He placed the lemon he'd been given into his jacket pocket, waited until the sweeping quieted down, and then left the cellar.
He walked through the little streets at dawn, along endless stone fences with traces of blue paint, through a new, unfinished district of Breslav Hasidim; he gratefully gnawed on the very sour, tart lemon, puckering and smiling—how appropriate!
He emerged on the ridge of the mountain, near the old cemetery perched high above the road.
During the night, the fog had cleared; down below, sparse traces of the passing night floated like foam in a washtub...
On the neighboring mountain he could see the remains of some former houses, overgrown with hasty, greedy grass. The old graves descended along the slope into the damp, shimmering shadow of the valley, as if interrupting its triumphant march in a reverie, gathering in groups of three and four. It was the way clusters of people formed in a funeral procession, little groups chatting as they marched.
Below, they grouped together in a small stone flock, a part of them adorned with blue paint, in the very oldest section of the cemetery. On the small stone square, near the grave of the Sacred Ari, stood three tall black figures rocking back and forth—they had already started in on the first prayer...
From the depths of the valley arose a fog of Syrian silk, rising to the sky, melting over the mountains.
Morning was coming, the time when things become distinct from one another, making it possible to discern their differences, to sense their boundaries, to perceive the dimensions of things, to experience in one's soul the beauty and the splendor of God's world...
Arkady remembered how that fellow, handsome and unrestrained, before the funeral of his sister, had demanded an expert opinion on whether she was still a virgin. And Arkady wrote that she was, thinking about the blue-eyed soldier. In such cases Arkady always wrote that the deceased was a virgin.
He imagined how men young and old were sitting in the cemetery in their blue coats, in galabiyas, in their high round hats... They were waiting silently for the moment when, in a loud voice, the sheik would start reading aloud the expert's opinion, utter a prayer, and everyone would raise their hands, raking the air, then splashing their faces, as if with water, stroking their beards slowly.
"Al-lah irkham-m-ma!" the men will chant in a constrained, stern manner, from the depths of their souls. "Have mercy on her, O Lord!"
March 2007
Translation by Michael R. Katz and Denis Komarov
Notes for Fog
1. From the cabalist book ZOHAR.
Anyway
Dunya Smi
rnova
Why oh why did I dislike him so much at first? What's not to like about him, except for the good things? Authority. I don't like authority. No, that's not exactly true. It's not that I dislike higher-ups, but I do like it when they pay attention to me. And the way he came in: a young snob with slender fingers. And those shoes. Suede, without the tiniest little spot. And his foot in an expensive sock. Two feet. Ankles like my husband Valery Ivanovich's wrists. Ooh, what a stud. The iron!—it's sticking! Didn't I ask them to clean it? Now, just one stack. Just this one stack, and then I'm done—enough! This other stack, I'll give it a shot tomorrow. In fact, how about a shot right now? How I love that little shot, when they're all asleep! How I adore—the deep-blue of your wonderful eyes—how I desire—What was it that I just desired? Ah, I desired a drink. Shh!—the goblets are all in Kuvakin's toddler's bedroom. Not a clink. Aah, here she is, sleeping, all rosy-pink. Is it possible they would really call her "Toddler Kuvakin" at the daycare? "Toddler Kuvakin, everyone has to stand in pairs—do you need a special invitation?"
I need a special invitation. I need for him to look at me in a special way. He does look, of course. But not enough, no, not nearly. Goodness, does it have to glug so loud! They call it "white," but how could it be white when it's yellow? It's the bottle that's white. The bottle is clear, the stuff is yellow, and everything together is white. Like the light in a light bulb. My husband Valery Ivanovich will never find my stash. It is amazing, the extent to which a man can be lost in his own home! You could hide a child from him and raise it somewhere in a cupboard. He wouldn't even notice! It would grow till it grew a mustache and began to steal Valery Ivanovich's ties and bring women overnight—into the cupboard, of course. And Valery Ivanovich wouldn't know a thing. He is a dear, serious, good man. How can I hurt a man like him? But I'm going to have to hurt him. Oh, I will have to. Another glass, perhaps? Let's just finish this shirt, and then, the drink. This is who I am: I am an honest, decent woman, a mistress of the house, a mother, a fantastic employee. A Wonder-Woman. A Mamin-Sibiryak. A Rostov-on-Don. Now let's have another one, let's just put this on a hanger first. Let's see. What do we have here besides the pickles? Ah, here's a little apple for a chaser. I was just thinking of something interesting—what was it? Him. What if I got to work a little early tomorrow? He enters, and there I am, all fascinating, with exquisite ears. Laughing. But, on the other hand, how could I let him, being the decent woman that I am? That is, as soon as I'd let him, I'd stop being a decent woman. That's not fair. That's not playing by the rules. But who knows, he might not even ask. He'll ask. Inevitably. And if he doesn't—it's his loss. But I would then remain a decent woman. Well, it would, of course, be a pity, a big, big pity. And happiness had been so near. Ooh, I can't even think about it without this tiny bubble rising up out of my belly and bursting in my throat. No, no, no—no more fantasies, no more thinking! What a darling dress she's got on. She looks so utterly touching in it, with her childish neck, with those fine hairs at her temples. Toddler Kuvakin, my precious little girl. Let's iron the sundress, and then another glass. Oh, but it's a ways to go until the sundress! And I'm going to do the towels first. I'm sneaky that way. And mind you, I'm not here to drown some sorrow. The last time that happened was ages ago. I drank with Alka. But it was no fun with her, once she got going about her cooking pots and her shoes. What she's got with shoes is nothing short of a fixation. He only has gorgeous shoes. I like it when a man has serious shoes. That's important.
Life Stories Page 25