In this place that she had sought out for herself, so close to the bottom of the ship that you could hear the gurgle of the water, Ben Attar was assailed by the special odor not only of her body but of the rooms of her home so many miles distant. It was as if even in this cramped cabin she managed to cook her stews, air her bedding, and cultivate her flowerbeds. By the shadowy lamplight cast on the ancient, soot-blackened timbers of the guardship, which had almost gone up in flames in one of the great caliph’s battles, amid rumpled bedclothes, discarded garments, and candle ends, it occurred to him that this woman had been waiting for him to come to her ever since the beginning of the night. His heart sank at the thought that all this prolonged, eager waiting might have sharpened needles of resentment that would frighten away his desire. He had hoped to enter unobserved and grope his way quietly into her bed, so as to become part of her sleep before he became one with her body, so that she would dream him before she sensed him. Only then would she be able to forgive him for bringing with him tonight the smell of the first wife’s body, which he was always careful not to do.
But she was awake. Her long, fin-shaped, amber-colored eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep, like those of a newly trapped wild beast. In the city a veritable maze of alleys separated his two houses, so that each wife could feel that her universe was separate and self-contained—although he, who plied between the two, knew that the distance was less than it appeared to them, and in fact he was sometimes amazed at how little it was. Some nights, smitten with the anxiety of delicious longing, he climbed up onto the roof and floated across to the roof of the other house over the domes of the white city, which lay still in the moonlight like the breasts of pale maidens floating on a lake, as though he were a sailor leaping from prow to stern. That may have been the reason why at the beginning of the spring, when, at first desperately and later enthusiastically, he had first thought of gathering together the merchandise that had been sadly idle for nearly two years, sailing with it to that faraway town called Paris, and having a face-to-face meeting with the partner who had been severed from them, it had not seemed strange to take both his wives with him. He was convinced that the calm, harmonious presence of the two wives side by side would prove to Abulafia’s new, knowledgeable wife better than any rhetorical argument how far she was from understanding the quality of love that prevailed on the southern shore of the Mediterranean Sea.
Of one thing Ben Attar was always certain: his deep and precise knowledge of the nature of the care and love that inspired happiness and security in his wives. Every act of love with one of them involved an anxious concern for the other. Otherwise, how could he have asked them to leave their children and do without servants, to give up the scented warmth of spacious homes with beautiful tableware and luxurious beds, and squeeze like fugitives from a war into tiny, rocking cabins on board a ship sailing north instead of east, on an unknown route? If he himself, who had passed his fortieth year and was entitled to contemplate seriously the approach of death, was prepared to endure the hardships of such a lengthy journey, were they, being so much younger than he, entitled to refuse? Surely they knew well that it was also for their sakes that he was undertaking this daring voyage. Even if they felt apprehension about their ability to withstand the hardships, surely they should feel no less apprehension about the wandering of a solitary man, who for many long days would be not only without a bedmate but without a kind word to caress his careworn brow. If he were to take with him only the first wife, whose two sons were now old enough to fend for themselves, and spare the second, whose only child was five years old and still tied to the hem of her robe, surely he would be undermining the living and compelling proof of the stability and equilibrium of his double marriage, by means of which he wished to surprise his nephew’s sanctimonious wife, who could not imagine even now, in this dawn when he was at the mouth of the river, that in a few more days he would glide on his strange guardship to the very threshold of her house, to bring her this living proof.
Ben Attar’s uncle, however, the famous scholar Ben Ghiyyat, was not entirely happy about the idea of subjecting two wives who had scarcely met to prolonged and indelicate proximity in the narrow confines of a small ship. Surely it would be an assured source of storms and troubles over and above those caused by the winds and the waves. So that his nephew would not be left alone in the company of sailors, who were in the habit of seeking sin in every port, the good uncle had a mind to send a letter to his friends in Andalus asking them to prepare for the honored voyager, from his first port of call, Cadiz, a third, temporary wife, for the purpose of this journey only. A woman who would be at home on the ship and happy dwelling on the sea, with the waves as her companions. A woman whose bill of divorce would be signed together with her marriage deed and would be waiting for her on her return, in the port in which her married life had begun. Politely, with due respect to his distinguished uncle, whose white hair and beard he greatly admired, Ben Attar swiftly declined this well-intentioned initiative, which would only add fuel to the fire that was already burning against him far away. He was absolutely confident of the power of his understanding love to quell any storm caused by loneliness or jealousy, like that which was now pent up in the confines of this cabin.
At home he was always careful not to lie down beside his second wife, let alone touch her, until he was certain of her utter reconciliation, for even a grain of resentment can reduce desire to mere ardor incapable of bringing relief. Consequently, whenever back in Tangier he entered her delightful bedchamber, with its high, blue-washed ceiling and its window looking out on the sea, he would first scrutinize her long, lovely face, whose angularity sometimes recalled that of a sad man, and if he observed the slightest shadow around her eyes or her mouth he preferred not to approach her, even if the sweet pain of desire was already burgeoning in his loins. First he would go over to the window to look at the boats in the bay, then he would return and walk slowly around her bed, which was covered in striking colorful blankets that Abu Lutfi found especially for her among the nomadic tribes of the northern Sahara. Softly and casually he would start talking to her about the troubles and pains of kith and kin, so that the miseries of the world would enter into her and soothe away any resentment or grudge that she felt toward him. Only then, when he could see the dim amber hue of her eyes sparkling with moisture brought out by the duty of compassion, would he permit himself to sit down on the end of her bed, which was also his own bed, and quivering with excitement, as though traveling back in time to his wedding night, he would delicately draw her perfumed legs, their down smoothed and softened by warm honey, one at a time out of the rumpled covers, and press them to his face as though trying to identify with his lips the legs of the young woman who had stamped on the dust of the small yard of her home when he had come and indicated to her father his wish to marry her. Only then did he permit himself to begin to caress her from the top of her long thighs down to her toes, talking all the while softly and unhurriedly about the prospect of his death, which in the case of a man like him, who had passed his fortieth year, was not only possible but indeed natural. And only thus, with the permission he gave her to contemplate without any sense of guilt a new young husband who would wed her after his approaching death, did her shuddering acceptance begin, and he would feel her foot clench in his hands. Unlike the first wife, who was shaken to the core of her being by any talk of death concerning himself or others, this one, who was younger and sadder, was attracted by talk about his death, which not only stirred her curiosity and hope for herself but also aroused her tender desire for him, which he promptly took up and sprinkled upon himself like fragrant powdered garlic.
But now he was afraid to mention the reassuring prospect of his death even in a lighthearted or jocular way. The subject might appear brightly lit and charged with sweet sadness by the window looking out over the Bay of Tangier, but here, in this cramped little cabin in the very bottom of the creaking ship, it filled even him with dread. Therefore, withou
t a further unnecessary word of apology, he entered, hung the lamp on an iron hook above her bed, unbuckled the belt full of jewels and laid it by her head, then boldly removed all his clothes. But before lying down naked next to his wife he tied his ankles with some coils of yellow rope left over from those with which the caliph’s admiral had reinforced the ship’s timbers, and then he took off the heavy silver chain that hung around his neck and bound his wrists together with it, so that she would understand that nothing prevented her from taking whatever she wanted from his body and his soul. Maybe like this she would be able, if not to forgive him, at least to reconcile herself to the fact that he had married her as his second, not his first, wife.
Although she was surprised that he surrendered himself to her so unconditionally, stripped and bound, which he had never done before, she still recoiled from him and was in no hurry to remove her shift, but took down the lamp to shed light on the body stretched out at her feet, to check whether since their last lovemaking any more curls on his chest had turned that silver color that always excited her so, because it was given to so few men to have their hair turn white before death cut them off. Now she confirmed what she had imagined. The same days of sun and clear skies that had ruthlessly tanned her own skin had whitened the hair on her husband’s head and chest, so that it was hard to know whether to lament the new signs of his approaching demise or to rejoice over the mysterious beauty with which they endowed him. A sweet sadness flooded her soul, and she could not refrain from laying her curly head upon the chest of the man who had come to her so late in the night.
In the silence that encompassed her, she was unable to feel, as she had hoped, the beating of her husband’s heart. All she could feel was the painful and unfamiliar outline of his ribs. With a strange selfish thrill she reflected that not only had her own body become gaunt from seasickness and meager rations, but her husband’s sturdy frame too was becoming lean from constant worry about the future of his business, which was threatened, more than anything else, by his marriage to her. And now a venomous gleam flickered in her beautiful, slightly myopic eyes, which had so far been narrowed to slits and now opened in offense. She looked contentedly at what in her bedroom at home merely appeared and disappeared between her body and the sheets, whereas here it was entirely revealed, shrunk into itself, as though it had changed into a mouse. So sorry did she feel for that part of her husband’s body and for herself that she lifted her head a little, and still without looking at the face of the man who had bound himself before her, she began to speak about the first wife, which she had never dared to do before.
A shiver of fear shook Ben Attar, and his eyes closed. He had become accustomed on this long voyage, in the evening twilight, when the waves swallowed the last traces of the sun, to sometimes finding the two women sitting on the bridge where in bygone days captains had commanded battles. With their gaudy veils fluttering in the sea breeze, they exchanged words without looking at each other, with blank faces, like a pair of spies. He had the feeling that throughout this long sea voyage they were passing to each other the most hidden secrets touching him, and his heart swelled with dread, and also with excitement, at the thought of the horizons of desire that extended before the three of them. And sometimes he went so far as to imagine that he could bring to Abulafia’s new wife in Paris, who was pitting herself against him, not only a living proof that would overcome her opposition but a new, sharp temptation that she would have no defense against—a temptation that he could now feel upon his flesh, in his loins, here in the swaying cabin, between the slurping of the water, the smells of the spices, and the quiet groaning of the young camels, as the young wife questioned him about his lovemaking earlier in the night and answered her own questions.
Her answers caught the picture and the feeling as accurately as if she had somehow participated in that lovemaking, and as if even now that she was alone she did not want to let go, at least in speech, of what he had done to the first wife. Panic-stricken, he tried to free his hands, which were coiled in his silver chain, and take hold of her face and stop her mouth. But the coils that had been meant to be symbolic had become all too real, and as soon as she discerned his purpose she started to struggle, as fiercely and desperately as if he were to be made to pay not just for what he had done earlier to the first wife but for all the unrequited excitement that had quickened within her as she watched the sailors wandering around half naked on deck.
Angrily she reached out to catch the minuscule mouse, as though she wanted to strangle it or even to tear it apart, but the mouse disappeared, and in its place there reared up a gentle young snake, which soon hardened into a fierce lizard that tried to escape from between her fingers and lay its thin vertical lips upon her eyeballs. Then, from the lust that moved painfully before her, she knew that her husband was regretting having tied himself up, and her spirit began to be appeased, for now that he was bound helplessly, not spontaneously, she was able to remove her shift and take from him slowly and right to the end everything that he owed her, not only since they had set sail on this voyage but ever since her father had given her to him as wife, even if she ended up dragging out of herself a wild moan that would rouse the boy sleeping on the other side of the curtain.
But the loud groan that almost turned into a shriek of pleasure did not even scrape the outer shell of Rabbi Elbaz’s son’s consciousness, so deeply was he immersed in youthful slumber. Instead, it startled the young slave, who had crept back to warm himself against the lordly bodies of the young camels and to remind himself of the smell of the desert from which he had been snatched. Virgin though he was, he understood only too well the meaning of the groans, which flooded his heart, as though through two curtains his master’s rod had pierced him too. He stroked the hindparts of the two camels, who also, to judge by their closed eyes, understood what it was that was echoing around them. Who knew, he thought, if they too would not be slaughtered and cooked before the ship reached the city? He wanted to bow his head and pray to the spirit of the fragrant bones that death would draw out of them, but eventually he gave up and shinned up the rope ladder to disappear before the Jew came out and flogged him, even though this time he had sinned by hearing alone and not by seeing. He was suddenly seized with a longing to enter the little cabin in the bow and see the smile of the first wife, whose white body he had seen gleaming earlier in the night. At this time he could go wherever his spirit wished, for the ship was still, every last sailor was asleep, himself excepted. He was kept awake and alert from the start of the night to its end by the divinity that emanated from everything, so that in these last moments of the night he became the true master of the ship, and if he wished he could even weigh anchor and hoist the triangular sail, and instead of sailing east along the river and into the heart of Europe he could head due west and sail beyond the horizon into a new world.
But a little bird striking a rope with its wings proclaimed that dawn was nigh. Before he had time to bow down and worship before its tiny holiness, it gave a chirp and sped off toward a new speck of light moving into the horizon of the new continent. Even though it was but a speck, it was sufficient to wake Rabbi Elbaz, of whom the rhyming words of the poem that had been swaying all night between his thoughts and his dreams demanded order and logic. But since the fine rays of light drawn slowly from the land were still too faint to illuminate the lines rustling on the paper concealed among the sheepskins that were his bed, he took on deck only his quill pen, which soon, as the light grew stronger, he would be able to sharpen and dip into his inkhorn, and then he would be able to insert the correct word in place of the empty space that had been waiting for it for several days. He bowed his head in shamed gratitude to the black slave, who now handed him the morning dish, fat olives drowned in an oily sauce in which to dip pieces of the warm bread that lay beside it. For forty days now he had sailed in this boat, and still he felt embarrassed whenever this slave waited on him, as though he were unworthy of it. After the birth of his only son, his wife ha
d been so weak that he had assumed all the household chores himself. And he had enjoyed the housework that he was forced to do in her place, openly or secretly, so much that since her death he had found it hard to remarry, for where would he find a healthy wife who would consent to be waited on by him?
And so now, as bundles of gray cloud floated in the air, he ate with bowed head, holding the platter between his hands, careful not to make a movement or say a word that might encourage the young slave to continue to wait upon him, lest the slave would get carried away and prostrate himself and kiss the hem of the rabbi’s threadbare robe. He had done this one evening, seized by a powerful religious feeling, and the rabbi had been compelled to complain about him to Abu Lutfi, who had flogged his protégé prodigiously. But no, this time the young man did not seem to be returning to his old ways. As the morning mist thickened, with his master’s two acts of lovemaking and the smell of wine, which still wafted around the deck, a mighty tiredness had befallen him, and now, for all his youth, he would have gladly lain down and died upon the sail folded at his feet. But he still had to carry out Ben Attar’s orders and make certain that the rabbi did not toss all his olive stones overboard but hide one in the pouch suspended near his heart, to ensure the correct counting of the days, for it had already happened that the Jews had lost count of their sacred seventh day. This morning the rabbi did not neglect his task as timekeeper, and after sucking the juicy flesh of the last olive he placed the stone with the five others and smiled cordially at the young slave, who was so exhausted that he could scarcely stagger to the first wife, who had just climbed up, her heavy body draped in a red embroidered robe, onto the old bridge, where she stood as splendidly as though she were the caliph himself. He did not know if she wanted some of the honey drink that he concocted for her each morning, or if she wished first to discover whether all had passed well there in the stern of the ship. He stood motionless for a moment, his weary young body torn asunder by conflicting forces. But Abu Lutfi’s stern voice, as he came to rouse the sleeping crew, spurred the slave’s legs on toward the regal woman, around whom the mist that was thickening as the daylight grew brighter wafted like incense. Already he could discern an unfamiliar hint of anxiety clouding her round, bright face, which was lit as always by a pleasant smile, and his soul longed to soothe her care, but he did not know what to say or how to say it, and so he closed his eyes and began to sigh deeply, once and then once more, as though he were trying to transmit to her all the second wife’s sighs of satisfaction and cries of pleasure.
A Journey to the End of the Millennium Page 4