by Alon Hilu
CONTENTS
Cover
About the Book
About the Author
Title Page
Epigraph
Part One: Tomaso
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Part Two: Mahmoud
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Part Three: Moussa
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Postscript
Copyright
ABOUT THE BOOK
In 1840s Damascus, Aslan Farhi leads a miserable life. Despised by his wealthy father, bullied by his siblings, and humiliated by his mother, he forms a close friendship with another boy, only for him to mysteriously disappear when their relationship becomes public knowledge.
Aslan is horrified when his father arranges for him to be married to the rabbi’s daughter, but the ordeal of the wedding is unexpectedly lightened by the presence of an exotic dancer, Umm-Jihan, with whom he becomes entranced.
But all is not as it seems and, confused and unhappy, Aslan embarks on an ill-advised relationship with an Italian monk, with disastrous consequences.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Alon Hilu is an Israeli writer and playwright. He was born in 1972. His first book, Death of a Monk, is a historical novel which re-tells the story of the blood libel against the Damascus Jews which took place in 1840. The book was translated into five languages, was among the five finalists for the prestigious Sapir Prize in 2005, and won the Israeli Presidential prize for a debut novel in 2006 and the Israeli Prime Minister prize in 2008. The House of Rajani was awarded the 2009 Sapir Prize. Alon Hilu lives with his family in Tel Aviv.
Alon Hilu
Death of a Monk
TRANSLATED
FROM THE HEBREW
BY
Evan Fallenberg
Then along came this affair and it dawned upon me for the first time that I belong to an unfortunate, slandered, despised and dispersed people that has nonetheless been spared annihilation.
Moses Hess, Rome and Jerusalem, 1862
PART ONE
TOMASO
1
I HAD NO love for Father and Father had no love for me and the two of us had no love for one another, or any other way there is of restating and reshaping the sentence of our non-love.
He had, Father, a pair of large, pendulous testicles and a holy staff that gave off a pleasant fragrance, and when the maids bathed him in our home these would be exposed together as a couple, dripping a thousand drops of water.
He had swarthy, expressive feet which he would cross, one over the other, on the small stool in the alkhosh, the courtyard of our spacious home, and occasionally he would root about between the toes and sniff with pleasure the bit of scum that clung to them.
I almost never saw Father during the day; it was his custom to rise early, pass quickly through the avenue of fruit orchards on the grounds of our home, which would cause him to grumble about the delay involved in walking its length, and attend to his thriving business concerns: lending with interest to peasants, releasing from customs goods that arrived from the far-off countries of Europe and taking care of his interests as far as his eye, which was never satisfied, would counsel and lead him.
Only at eventide, when the maids opened before him the carved wooden doors, would he return home, his presence filling the rooms at once like the blast of a ram’s horn at the conclusion of a fast day. Straight away the members of the household would encircle him, excitedly dancing attendance on him, Allah yatik ela’afia, May God grant you health, and hastening to recount for him the day’s news, starting with all manner of tales to vilify me.
Maman, Father’s statuesque, long-haired, amply bosomed wife, bedecked with golden rings and chains, who throughout the day pretended to be my good friend and dress me up in silk clothing in which to prance about her room, would lecture him about things I had said to my cross-eyed sister, Rachel, for example that I had teased her about her deformed eye and her grating voice, and my whingeing sister of the blue eyes and pure white skin would affirm it all, teary-voiced, adding her own evidence, blasphemous notes that I had supposedly sent her and blessings I had bestowed upon her wishing a slow recovery for that malformed eye and, at the apex of her account, her pupils rolling like buttons fallen from tattered clothing, she would add that I had teased her with the words Imek muvhama alleh eljamous, that while pregnant with her my mother had gazed upon a water buffalo, which explained her perpetually angry countenance.
And while Maman and Rachel embraced and consoled themselves in one another’s arms, my younger brother Meir would recount, each evening, each time in a different manner, how Aslan had confiscated his playthings, how Aslan had taken his garments and how this Aslan had a finger in every pie of mischief, and lo, I can picture Father’s eyebrows contracting, the hairs protruding and erect, as he loosens his belt, the siblings grabbing hold of me in my tunic, which was always clean and pleasant as were all the garments I loved, and they convey me to wrathful Father, to his belt that is lashing my tiny feet, stroke after stroke, to the accompaniment of a long and vociferous string of curses, from the mild Stupid! to blessings of May God take your soul, Allah yela’anek, or Allah yah’dek, after which I would not cry, nor shed a tear, but would walk, snivelling to my room, shoulders stooped and head bent, leaning for support on the arms of one of the servants.
My happy friend, while I impart these words to you, and as you record them with your industrious fingers and with expression in your large brown eyes, I would ask your indulgence in reviving for a few moments the former, innocent image of Aslan, the image of a hollow-cheeked youth whose days were as roses, plagued by persecution at the hands of members of his household; still, it is incumbent upon you to recall that his excessive wickedness is yet to come, and that you must not be bound to him by bonds of love, and further, you must establish no hard and fast hatred for his enemies, rather, take extreme caution to avoid his infectious, burgeoning evil.
Let us return to my father, seen through the eyes of young Aslan, who is steeped in senseless hatred. Indeed, when Father’s thunderous voice rose from one of the rooms during one of his frequent disputes with Maman – the two would quarrel nearly every evening, after I had been given my lashing, about matters of great importance, such as why it was that his turban was once again stained and dirty, and why there was insufficient water in his narghile, and why once again the cesspit at the edge of the fruit orchards was filling the air with a putrid odour – when their voices rose and overwhelmed me, I would return to the date palms with their succulent fruits, a pure and cloudless desert day, and the sound of hooves reaches my ears and I am riding a wild stallion, tall leather boots on my feet and a sickle-shaped sword brandished in my hand, my arms no longer thin and spotted but thick, firm, hardened, and my legs are no longer blighted and evil, they sport the light calves of an experienced rider, and they push into the ribs of the horse and cause him to gallop and increase his speed, and my eyes do not covetously drink in all the beauty and grandeur of the world; instead they are generous and pure and appreciative, and I ride there, bare-chested and bronzed, exposed to the sun, my trusted ally.
I would bathe alone, never at the hammam in Kharet Elyahud, the Jewish Quarter, with the other men, but with a bucket of
hot water in the room at the edge of the fruit orchards, so that no unfamiliar eye could catch sight of me, and I could gaze in wonder at my feeble body: the pale and bloated belly, which had not seen a ray of sunlight for some time and was always hidden under thick clothing; the toes, as separate and distant from one another as a band of brothers in hot dispute; the brittle fingers, unfit for labour, mottled pink and red; the shoulders, made like two marbles that roll and sway in every direction. And in summertime, when a tardy sunbeam flickered suddenly through the window and lit up the small room, tiny pores that covered my skin in flocks would reveal themselves and I would regard them without comprehending their meaning.
The long days and weeks when Father was absent from the city, travelling to Aleppo or Sidon and from there by ship across the sea, were my moments of happiness and pleasure; upon returning from the Talmud Torah school, when my evil and angry sister had turned her blue eyes to her games and my little brother was preoccupied with matters in his room, I would circle the large apricot tree that stood in the centre of the alkhosh, tossing crumbs of bread to the goldfish sailing the fish pond at the foot of the tree, and then with hesitation tinged with anticipation I would ask one of the servants to request an audience for me with Maman, and when the response came – that she awaited me in her room – I would walk slowly to her, close the door behind me, and give myself over to her cursory kisses and sugary hugs.
Then we would spread about the costly bolts of fabric she had had sent by special delivery from shops in Europe, and alongside them garments and dresses she had obtained from sharp-eyed local traders or from the travelling merchants who sometimes visited our estate. There were long-sleeved dresses adorned with feathers, and dresses ornamented with shiny beads and shells, and I would draw the choice cloths to my chest and inhale their fragrance, and when Maman was certain that no evil eyes were watching us, waiting to tell Father about our forbidden acts, she would remove the brooch pinning up her tresses in one swift motion, freeing her hair to flow to her waist, and then she would remove my tunic, momentarily fearful of my naked body dotted with the mysterious pores, and she would wrap me in an evening gown of her own choosing, a gown that covered my legs all the way to the toes and twisted around my arms and, in order to enhance the excitement, she would slip a pair of black, patent-leather shoes over my small feet with the disputatious toes, commanding me to sit upon her bed while she passed a variety of powders and coloured lotions over my face, after which I would stand before her glowing visage.
Not a soul knew of the garments I would don from time to time, not even the servants toiling in our home. Once, only once, while we were under the mistaken impression that he was off somewhere tending to one of his numerous business concerns, Father returned home early. His shoes hammered the marble floor as he rounded the fish pond, while Maman rushed frantically to strip me of my gown and remove the spots of makeup, almost ripping the expensive fabrics from my body so that Father would not catch us in our misconduct, and when he entered and found me in the room, sitting upon his bed, he grabbed hold of me at once by the forearm and faced us, awaiting our explanation.
She would not grant me the wink of an eye confirming our complicit secret, not even the quickest flash of mischief between conspirators: Maman rushed to inform him of my conduct during his absence, how I had come to her and bothered her and recited coarse poetry to her learned from the boys at the Talmud Torah, how I was uncouth and uncultured, more evil even than the wild Bedouin who plundered our caravans, and that my place was not in the pampering bedroom of my childhood, but in the prison dungeon beneath the Saraya fortress, seat of the governor of Damascus, where the cries of tortured prisoners could be heard each night. And when Father heard all this, his eyebrows became enraged once again, and he said I was worse even than the Harari brothers, may their name and memory be blotted from the earth, and he pushed me outside the room, towards the marble fountain standing in the shade of the apricot tree, and shoved my head into the small fish pond, the permanent residence of the goldfish, and pressed upon my neck until I choked and retched and did not know what was to become of me, and she called to him from behind, her breasts ample, protruding: Harder, deeper, teach him a good and bitter lesson.
I fared no better at the Talmud Torah, in spite of the good name of my family. Father and all the uncles were important personages, pillars of the community, and our family name – Farhi – stirred up envious whispers, though the exception was and always would be Aslan.
Farhi – yes, these were the sons of wealth, of roses, of merry days, but as far as Aslan was concerned: no, and again, no. Of Lazy Aslan it was said Alvaga varda valtiz farda, His face was as a rose, his arse like a pillow; Aslan was weak of character and prone to tears, Aslan had a strange way of walking, prancing about and wiggling his bottom, Aslan was thin and fragile and quick to fall, Come, let us push Aslan, let us prod his ribs with dark objects, let us press upon his eye sockets and break his teeth.
My only friend throughout all my years in the Talmud Torah was Moussa. He, too, was narrow-boned, dreamy, his eyes blue and his hair fine and light unlike that of the Jews; he, too, was despised by many pupils and together we would remove ourselves to the corner of the room during break, and while the other children were tugging on one another’s sleeves and teasing each other and stirring up quarrels and strife, Moussa would gaze into my eyes and I into his and we would recite poems that we loved, old, forgotten poems, poems that would never pass the lips of a soul in the Jewish Quarter, lovers’ poems telling of succulent fruits in the orchards and the sweetness of nectared flowers in full bloom and sometimes, when no one was about to see or hear, Moussa would begin to hum, and his humming voice would rise to song, and in a clear and tender voice he would sing to a distant lover who had passed beyond the hills and mountains, never to return:
Min badak ahgor khali
Ya a’aeb an aynya
To you I will depart from myself
You, who are far from my eyes
And Moussa would gaze into my eyes and I into his and our eyes would fill with tears and we would sob, and on slips of paper we passed between us we drew small and feeble figures, females, grasping and clinging to one another, large yellow flowers adorning them to the right and left.
Once, when we believed we were hidden from view, I held Moussa’s hand and he held mine and we regarded one another, drawing closer and diving deep into the other’s eyes, but the other children noticed us and began to call us names and in no time the rumour that Moussa and Aslan were beloved and congenial with one another like the biblical David and Jonathan spread through the Jewish Quarter, and from that moment on they did not leave us alone or take respite from us, from the morning they would mock our love and pinch our bottoms and throw stones from the River Barada and muddy dirt from the streets at us, and from behind this barrage, this downpour, I am there, at the head of a bare-chested merchant army on its way into blood-drenched battle, a hoisted flag and a lance and dagger in my hands, poised to behead my frightened enemies, to rout them from my patch of desert, their decapitated heads the path I tread on my glorious way.
From my bedroom in our spacious home I hear Maman and Father speaking in low voices of my disgrace, for the rumour about Moussa and me has reached their ears, though this time his thunderous voice is not heard, Father has a different method, and I know nothing but this: that at the end of seven days from the time Moussa held my hand and I held his and we spoke words of goodness and grace, Moussa ceased to appear at the Talmud Torah and even when I asked and investigated I heard no mention of his departure, the only sound was that of children’s laughter as they hurled taunts, mud and slander at me.
I had three uncles, Murad, Meir and Joseph, each pot-bellied like Father, their bodies covered in short, frizzy hair, their shoulders broad and thighs fat, their eyebrows arcing from one to the other and their eyes always scheming, their laughter vulgar and their conversation insipid.
On Fridays, when we met in the private sy
nagogue the brothers built near Joseph Farhi’s home so as to avoid mingling with the poor and wretched Jews, they would send evil looks my way, eyeing my stooped and crooked back, my long and spindly frame; they denounced me for abstaining from eating meat and other delicacies, for their own children were large and healthy, each one boasting a pair of chins, and Father joined in their laughter and they threatened to blow me down in order to demonstrate just how feeble my grasp on solid ground was, for I was sabakh balah ravakh, a shadow devoid of life.
After days such as these I would descend to the cellar of our home, beneath the kitchen, where a large and gloomy pantry stood, teeming with clay pots and glass jars filled with the very best of everything, and I would open lids and stuff apricot marmalades and date jams into my mouth, heedlessly shovelling the sugared fruits between my lips and swallowing them without desire or pleasure in order to add fat to my body like theirs, and from there I would move to the beans and lentils and other legumes, even though they had been neither blanched nor boiled and had stood for months in their cool glass jars, and I would take handfuls of them and chew them and reach the brink of vomiting, but still I would force, compel and will myself to swallow the foul-tasting mixture, and I imagined that I could discern, between the walls of the dim cellar, pairs of snake eyes boring into me, for they were fattening me up in preparation for their early summer feast.
At holiday meals I was compelled to see the faces of my relatives and watch as they occupied themselves in yet another orgy of drinking and eating, swallowing the ma’udeh and the sfikhah without pausing to chew and, on occasion, in spite of protestations by the Khaham-Bashi, chief rabbi of the Jewish Quarter, they would invite Jewish women, dancers and singers, to strut and sing before them; but worst of all is the Seder night of the Passover holiday, when I must watch them all for many hours on end and listen to their collective whispering, and I shoot unrequited glances at my beloved mother of the black hair, willing her to hide me between her breasts and save me from the claws of the avaricious women my uncles have taken for themselves, but she turns her face from me, and here is Aunt Khalda, Meir’s wife, coarse of flesh and voice, calling to me in the presence of the uncles and the cousins and the brothers and fathers and mothers: Aslan, Allah yahdek, ta’el hon! May Allah take you, come over here! And she quizzes me and poses difficult questions and if I answer she is quick to mimic my voice, small and weak, in her sharp and mocking tone, after which all present respond with a chorus of laughter, and I am horrified to see Maman among them, her skin shining and her jewels sparkling, adding her own taunts about my manner of speech, which is dissimilar to that of other boys and not at all in the way of men, but rather as though I were a featherless chick, bald and blind as he emerges from an unfamiliar shell; and the story of the Exodus from Egypt and the preparation of the matzah, the bread of affliction, and the words of Rabbi Tarfon and Rabbi Eliezer in Bnei-Brak as recited from the Passover haggadah mix with slanderous exaggerations about Aslan, Aslan, Aslan.