Death of a Monk

by Alon Hilu

  And all of these matters were recorded by the court secretary and this full confession of Jewish crimes was brought by the court clerk for signing by the man who made it, the Islamised Jewish rabbi Moses Abulafia, and he appended his signature in Arabic under the name Muhammad Effendi, without reading its contents, and from there his confession was brought by ship to the people of Europe.

  After Sharif Pasha had summarised the confession of this crucial witness he thanked him profusely and bestowed two kisses upon each of his cheeks, and Muhammad Effendi apologised for having little time, for he was in a rush to attend the prayer service at the Umayyad Mosque in order to pray to Allah and thank him for his great benelovence in showing him the straight and true and good and just path, would that all Jews were to follow his example, for they were greatly misguided, not merely with their customs of murder and slaughter, not just for drinking blood and mixing it into baked goods and libations, but for their customs of vengeance and envy in which they are so well versed, their wish to annihilate the Muslims and make them perish, and it was not enough merely to despise them.

  And when Muhammad Effendi turned his back on the qa’ah and walked in his slow, arrogant, self-assured manner from the room, a profound sadness befell Aslan for this spiteful rabbi who had turned his back on his people, and the buds of Aslan’s shame returned to him and covered his face and caused his cheeks to redden deeply, and Rabbi Antebi sat in the courtroom mumbling to himself over and over again, You shall not make yourselves abominable, You shall not make yourselves abominable, You shall not make yourselves abominable, and his father sat mute alongside Rabbi Antebi, his head swivelling, slow and heavy, his gaze unfocused, and for a brief moment our glances crossed paths, mine and my father’s, my progenitor’s, that man from whose loins I emerged and who had raised me and educated me and in whose image I was created, this father for whom I had no love and who had no love for me, and the two of us had no love for one another, and in his father’s weakness Aslan recognised the evil of his own deeds, in this man of great wealth before him, with his protruding lips and stooped shoulders and ill, pale flesh, and in a flicker of memory Aslan longed for his father’s swarthy, expressive feet which he would cross, one over the other, on the small stool in the courtyard, and this memory filled Aslan’s nostrils.

  Later, hunched in Mahmoud’s chambers, Aslan came to understand that his mark upon this story appeared and was reflected not only in his father but in Muhammad Effendi and Yaacov Antebi and in his two remaining uncles and all the other male figures, and they splintered in the Damascene mirror he was holding in his hand now, a small mirror, the handiwork of Jews, its frame curved, its edges patterned with many shapes to tease the eye with its deceptive lines and its handle studded with chips of seashells and mothers-of-pearl mourning for their daughters swept away in the strong currents and lost for ever on the shore, chips of those shells inlaid in the mirror itself, their tears alternately sparkling and shining.

  4

  MY HAPPY FRIEND, the trial of the Jews accused of murder dragged on and on, branching out and widening to include witnesses, and witnesses’ witnesses, and witnesses for the defence, and Sharif Pasha interrogated the accused backwards and forwards, and not only them but their servants and their guests and even their washerwomen, and he wished to know every person who came into their homes, and what each of them did on that day of the great storm, and they answered him again and again that they had not gathered to slay Tomaso, they had not stood over him to slit his throat in that unfinished room, but there were those witnesses who, under the power of the iron torture machines in the Saraya prison dungeon, confessed to the crime, then later rescinded their confessions and denied their involvement, and Sharif Pasha’s patience was coming to an end, and indeed, there could be no fitting conclusion to the trial other than a full confession by the accused so that they might cleanse their sins before Allah and make penance for their cruel error and their perverse ways.

  On the Friday eve following the confession of Moses Abulafia for the sins of the Jews, Sharif Pasha endeavoured to bring the trial to a final conclusion and hand down a verdict in the matter, so that when the four defendants were seated on the cushionless yellow bench allotted them, and after the court attendant, Abu Shihab Tufankaji, had declared the session open, Sharif Pasha appeared in his black smoking jacket with its gold pleats, took his place on the governor’s throne and extricated his feet from his gold cloth slippers for their pleasure, then began reading summaries of the testimonies and the grave accusations of Father Tomaso’s slaughter, and he noted that two witnesses were here in situ and would affirm all that was written there, and these were Aslan son of Rafael Farhi and the barber Suleiman Negrin, and he pointed in the direction of the barber lying supine on his stretcher, the blood gurgling in his throat, and then at Aslan, in his beautiful attire, and Sharif Pasha added that even true and tangible proof had been found – the monk’s bones and a piece of cloth from his robe – and he reminded them of the lucid religious argument of Rabbi Moses Abulafia, and now he urged them to confess to their wrongdoing in order to purify themselves before Allah so that He could pardon their sinning souls in their deaths.

  Uncles Murad and Meir cleared their throats to signify their wish to respond to Sharif Pasha’s incisive questioning, but lo, even before they had been given the floor to offer a rejoinder, Sharif Pasha called for a brief intermission in the trial and at once his attendants hastened to provide him with a cup of sweetened tea and several biscuits glazed with honey, and he perused an urgent letter sent to him by his father-in-law and adopted father Muhammad Ali, then requested a quill and inkwell in order to craft an immediate reply that would be posted from Beirut in an Alexandria-bound vessel, and he jested with several of his attendants as they covered him with a colourful patched quilt against the cool Damascus air wafting into the qa’ah; and after all these things had come to pass he removed a pressing missive from inside an envelope and his face grew serious as he read its contents, and at once he dispatched his servants with an urgent command to summon new witnesses with the greatest speed.

  The uncles tried a second time to request an audience before Sharif Pasha, but he did not even bother to silence them with a wave of his hand, merely continuing with the everyday matters occupying his realm, his servants all the while plying him with all manner of hors d’oeuvres and delicacies, and Sharif Pasha cracks open choice pistachio nuts from Aleppo and snacks on apricot pastries and guzzles lemonade scented with rosewater, and he banters with his assistants and kisses the lads and Aslan notices that his uncles are standing apart from his father, attempting without success to catch the esteemed governor’s eye, their jaws sagging each time they swallow the juices in their salivating mouths.

  And before any of the defendants has the opportunity to respond to Sharif Pasha in the matter of their guilt, a short trumpet blast resounds in the courtroom and five members of the Harari family enter the qa’ah dressed in white, with blue shawls draped over their shoulders against the winter chill, their skin well oiled and emanating pleasant fragrances, and Aslan does not know the meaning of their presence until Sharif Pasha questions them for all to hear as to whether the matters about which they wrote in their urgent letter are true, on this, the eve of the handing down of the verdict, and they answer in a cacophony of voices, Every word is true, it is inscribed in stone, to which Sharif Pasha replies, In that case, repeat these words aloud, and David Harari, the eldest among them, takes the floor, and in a voice trembling with the intensity of what he is about to reveal to the courtroom dotted with plain yellow benches, he informs them that in writing the letter he has sent to Sharif Pasha he has resolved to remove a boulder that has weighed heavily on his heart for many, many years and that now he wishes to confess his sins.

  And when those present ask him to what sins he refers, David Harari answers that it is the sin he has committed by failing to inform the authorities for thirty years about the activities of the Khaham-Bashi Rabbi Yaacov Antebi
and his partners-in-crime the Farhi brothers, for the act of taking the blood of a Christian – which they carry out in their wickedness just before the Passover holiday each year – is a known and open secret among the Jews, and they abduct Christian passers-by, among them babes in arms and innocent children and choice young men in their prime, and they slaughter them precisely in the manner described by the murderers’ offspring Aslan son of Rafael Farhi, for all that he wrote in his affidavit is true, and now it behoves the court, as is only right and fitting, to impose the death penalty on these man-killers and free the residents of Damascus from this scum that has settled upon them and sullied them with their sins.

  David Harari has not yet shot all the poisoned-lie arrows in his bow when his brothers rise to their feet, each one telling a different tale of the misdeeds committed by the Farhi family, embellishing many details according to the fertility of their imaginations, such as how the Farhis store Christian blood in glass jars in the pantry of their home, nourishing the vipers living in the walls of the house with it; and how the Khaham-Bashi incites them to perpetrate ever more wicked crimes in order to increase the supply of Christian children, to bring him ever younger children whose blood is redder and more pleasant; how they stow blindfolded victims between the wicker baskets stacked atop the camels’ backs on caravans returning from Baghdad and Mecca, their prisoners barely conscious from the severe desert heat, reviving them on occasion with just enough water to keep them from expiring, until such time as they relieve them of their souls and their blood in one of the cellars of their homes.

  My happy friend, I was overcome with astonishment and wonder to see that this Aslanish affliction had spread and infected all the other Jews, for they betrayed one another and did not abhor the telling of blatant, brazen lies and falsehoods, even the magnates among them, and I was dizzy from hearing confession after confession, and I scrutinised my arms and my tongue to discern how it was that they had released into the air their foul, evil temperament, and Aslan felt overwhelming contempt as he looked upon the Hararis wagging their tongues in slander and fabrications, and with his fingernails he scratched his anus and he rubbed his skin raw and lashed it, and lo, his back and his belly and his underarms and his hands and his legs tingled and reddened at the touch of his pallid, groping fingers, and Aslan resumed his scratching so as to drive the pain from his flesh, but the tingling and redness covered his skin once again and his hands would not obey him and they cast about, seeking out hidden organs and picking at the dead skin, removing it from this living body of his, which was saturated with the venom of snakes and scorpions.

  And the Khaham-Bashi is no longer capable of containing himself and he screeches at the Hararis in his high-pitched voice that his eyes have never before witnessed an act of such imprecation, and he curses them for their wickedness and their excessive perfidy, and he mutters verses in Hebrew and Aramaic to drive out this apostasy, and although the uncles urge him under their breath to desist from this raging torrent before they are all put to death, he does not cease his shouting; rather, he rolls his eyes heavenwards and pleads with He who sits on high to destroy this evil kingdom and rout it from the world and cause His salvation to sprout and bring His Messiah near; and it is only for the sake of the last bit of honour accorded him that the guards of Sharif Pasha do not bludgeon his head with their clubs.

  The face of the Damascus governor turns grave and terribly cross, and he orders his attendants to remove the raisins and dried dates placed in front of him; still, he does not turn to Father or the Khaham-Bashi or the uncles, whose backs are turned to him, but his cheeks rouge like angry roses, and he briefly thanks the Harari family and praises them for their courage, and on the spot he signs a writ of clemency to pardon them for their sin of failing to inform upon my family, and a celebratory feeling descends upon all those present in the qa’ah, for these Jewish magnates themselves had come forth to admit and confirm the deed and now it is clear that this is no libellous or false accusation, but rather the absolute truth, and the French consul Ratti-Menton shakes the hands of all the members of the Harari family, and the men’s fingers intertwine in an act of both strength and caress, and the scent of their sweat is pleasant and sweet.

  After these things come to pass Sharif Pasha announces that the day’s session has come to an end and they will reconvene on the morrow, and the gendarmes rise from their seats to escort the defendants back to their cells and their tortures, and Father stands first to leave along with the Khaham-Bashi, while the two surviving brothers, Meir and Murad, remain seated, and all present see that their throats are clogged with tears, their brows are furrowed, and they are soaked in their own urine.

  Sharif Pasha commands Meir and Murad to rise and leave the qa’ah instantly, for they have polluted the room by passing their water, but Meir and Murad remain seated and do not budge, their heads hidden between their arms and their shoulders convulsing from their copious flow of tears, and Sharif Pasha asks them the meaning of these tears, is it because they, too, wish to confess to the deed, and they answer as one, Yes, and he asks whether Aslan indeed spoke the truth of their crime and their sins, and they answer, Yes, he spoke the truth, and they add through their blubbering that they would not have taken part in this murderous deed or been dragged into it were it not for the bullying and wheedling of their older brother, Rafael almuallem, standing beside them, for from an early age he had pressed them again and again to follow his lead, and in spite of their resolve to oppose him and their countless pleas, he forced them to enter this demonic, blood-soaked covenant with him; it was thirty years and more since he had introduced them to that rabbi who calls himself the Khaham-Bashi, and it was he who induced them and instructed them on this Jewish path of blood, he who made them swear never to relate to another soul this ritual that passes from generation to generation in the greatest secrecy, and they added through a stream of tears that flowed from the bottom of their hearts that they had tried over and over to pull themselves free from this curse, that they had sought to estrange themselves from their brother’s bloodthirsty whims, that they had confronted him and proven to him that his was a path of evil and they had reminded him of the Jewish prohibition against taking a life and consuming blood, but their brother, with the aid of that puny, innocent-faced rabbi with his sharp mind and slippery tongue, knew just how to manipulate them towards the path of murder and crime, until against their will they became experts in the slaughter of human beings, and with their bare hands they had ripped apart the flesh of Christians under the watchful eyes of their brother and the rabbi and had siphoned their blood into the unleavened bread of Passover from year to year.

  And at the conclusion of their fluid, poignant speech, which burbled from their throats in two voices but as a single song, the pair of brothers is presented with new yellow tunics to replace those soiled with warm, sour urine, and they are served hot water to revive them, and they smile at one another, for they have escaped the death sentence, and Sharif Pasha praises them for their courage and with his signature consigns them to life imprisonment with hard labour, for he who chooses the path of truth and honesty cannot be condemned to the same fate as those who remain stiff-necked and steadfast in their insubordination, refusing to make full confession of their weighty sins.

  Father stands beside his corrupt brothers, and he has no love from his brothers and no love from his son, no love from his fellow Jews and no love from gentiles, no parents to console him in his misery, nor is his wife present at his side, only the burning hatred of his neighbours and his family, and Aslan is amazed to see in his father, for the tiniest sliver of a second, his own distant image, and this feminine image is faintly reflected in his facial features, in the curve of his eyes, his nose, and down around his lips and chin, and for a brief moment an echo of my own, tormented female grimace is there between the arced brows and the wrinkles that grace my father’s mouth, and and now it seems as though there are tiny transparent tears twinkling in Father’s eyes; but then,
in an instant, Rafael Farhi has returned to his customary, angry countenance, and he turns his wide back to us and plods his way towards the Saraya prison dungeon, the Khaham-Bashi at his side, his small footsteps tapping like a woman’s.

  My happy friend, since those events I have pondered many a time why I have been made to endure the blind, blocked life that fate forced upon me, a long and tortured life written in the Book of Bitterness, and its binding is tattered, its pages in dispute with one another, its lines of print unkempt, its stories muddled, and this Book is one of many like it among my people, the pages torn and stained and burned, carried by the wind, and all share a common fate: to be snapped shut and thrown unceremoniously on to a shaky heap and forgotten to the end of days.

  Bewilderment has taken hold of my heart, at God, who has lengthened my days on earth in spite of the blundering path I have followed, and when I look upon you, my happy friend, at the beauty of your youthful days and your gracious, pleasant manners, and as I inhale the breath from your mouth, fresh and pure, I can see in your face, if only for a moment, the shadow of my own image, Aslan as a youth, in the days before the Blood Libel, and my tears flow for this life of his, diverted as it was to the path of the evil, the betrayers, for Aslan erred greatly on his way, while you, you are constant in your silence.

  5

  IT SEEMS TO Aslan that a terrible infirmity has befallen him. His legs quiver, there is a pounding at his temples, nausea begins to bark in his throat, contaminated blood floods his veins, but his body is healthy and whole and every organ in it is carrying out its silent task in flawless fashion, and yet he is plagued and tormented by his deepest suspicions, and the fear that his shaky health will lead him to his deathbed gnaws at Aslan.