A Journey to the End of the Millennium

by A. B. Yehoshua

  While her narrow, fin-shaped eyes sought to meet those bloodshot eyes that had hovered before her in her nightmares, she began without delay to speak. Since she had no interpreter to assist her, she mixed into her rapid Ishmaelite speech a few words that had been pronounced repetitiously in the New Year’s prayers, so that for a moment she imagined that the man who leaned toward her compassionately would also understand in the dawn light that was scratching at the yellowish windows the nature and spirit of the counterduality that she claimed not only for herself but for women in general. For while a man demanded duality of body, a woman demanded duality of soul, even in the form of the tiny soul that was encased in her womb.

  But could a fearful, confused man, even if he were assisted by the best of interpreters, understand at dawn the new explanation of the obscure testimony of the previous evening? In his terror that some early-rising worshippers whom three successive days of intensive prayers had left unsated would enter the synagogue and find their prayer leader closeted in uncompromising and utter intimacy with another man’s wife, albeit one of a pair, Joseph son of Kalonymos did not even begin to try to understand what the second wife was attempting to say to him in her Ishmaelite tongue, but hastened first of all to raise the form that was kneeling before him cautiously but firmly to its feet and expel it from the sacred place that was forbidden to it.

  But the second wife resisted, and with arms still tanned a deep brown from the long sunny days at sea, she clung to his pulpit with all her strength, until the judge, realizing that his arbitration had not been completed, was forced to his embarrassment to unclench her hands by force. Seeing that she still persisted in kneeling and holding on to his knees, he bent over, trembling and blushing, and attempted vainly to free himself. Then, feeling how tightly the southern woman was holding him, he knew that he must take her out of his prayer house, and very firmly he began to walk outside, dragging the young woman into the back yard of an old stable. Only there, under an overcast sky, in the pungent manure, did he manage to free himself at last from the grasp of her hands and from her struggling legs, which were now scratched from the synagogue’s rough wooden floor. In stammered Hebrew he asked forgiveness from God and also from her, not for dragging her but for daring to touch her at all. Since terms of pardon and forgiveness were so familiar from the prayers for the New Year that had just passed, the second wife guessed the meaning of this man who was speaking to her so distractedly. He was demanding forgiveness only, with no regret or understanding, as he left her alone in the morning mist laden with cold drops of fresh rain.

  Exhausted and abandoned, her hands and knees grazed by the roughness of the black wooden floor, the second wife began to make her way back between the small wooden houses, whose crookedness gave them a dizzy air. Although the black cloak protected her from the lashing rain, it could not allay the indignation of the little fetus that had been dragged along with her, and was not prepared to accept pardon from anyone, so for a moment she felt that it was demanding to be spewed forth instantly. Assailed by weakness, she turned aside between the piles that supported one of the houses, and there, in the shadow of the long grass and bushes that grew from the lush, marshy soil, beside a stream whose cold water gurgled among discarded household utensils, she began to vomit up everything that was within her—determined, however, not to lose the new little soul that had been conceived by the dutiful desire of a man making his way at night between the bow and the hold of an ancient guardship.

  That man, who did not yet know what he had or had not brought forth, was still sunk in deep sleep, which dimmed, even if it could not wholly cancel, the interdict that lay upon him. The first wife, who had woken and taken stock of the other’s disappearance, hesitated to wake the husband whose face was buried in the fresh dry straw of the pallet. Although more than twenty years had passed since their first night together and she had often watched while he slept, she had never felt so tender toward him, seeing him for the first time bury his face in the bedding to hide it as he slept. She stared through the open doorway, cocking an ear to catch the returning footsteps of the second wife, so that on her return she could waken their husband to a single trouble rather than two.

  But the footsteps of the second wife did not come, and the first wife began to understand that she must be stopped before she reached a point from which there was no return. Yet still she pitied Ben Attar, and granted him a few more moments of blessed ignorance before reaching out and carefully removing the blades of straw that clung to his beard and hair. For a moment the waking North African’s eyes were as bloodshot as those of the arbiter who had pronounced judgment against him. But it seemed that he remembered well where he was, and why he was here. As he rose from his bed, his sharp eyes noticed the second wife’s absence. She has gone, the first wife said very quietly. I have waited for her, but she has not come back.

  The merchant of Tangier, who remembered only too well the rapid loss of one young woman, knew that they must hasten to stop her before she reached the riverbank. Since today was the Fast of Gedaliah, he did not need to consider whether the black bread brought by the gentile landlady was fit for eating, but inclined his head politely and thrust it away, and donning a local black cloak over his bright robes he hurried in search of the missing woman. He did not have to go far before he met Jews hurrying to prayer, who had not expected to come across the banned visitor so early in the morning. Despite the distress and embarrassment that urged them to avoid him, they could not disregard the real panic that marked his countenance as he appealed in broken Hebrew and with frantic gestures for help.

  Since they feared to enter into a conversation that would shatter the newly pronounced ban, the Jews retreated in confusion, but instead of fleeing they hastened to summon Rabbi Elbaz, so that with his Andalusian virtue and learning he might cushion the Rhenish ban and explain what was troubling the peace of the southern Jew, for whom they had come to feel a strong affection. When the Jews of Worms learned of the disappearance of the second wife, panic spread through the community, and a demand arose that the morning prayers might be shortened so they could gather a large company to search for her and restore her to her husband, even if she was the cause of the ban and the interdict. News of her disappearance soon reached the synagogue and crept up to the reading desk, causing Joseph son of Kalonymos to cut short his chanting and boldly confess to his comrades what had happened beside the holy ark a short time before.

  The Jews drew some comfort from his words, which seemed to rule out abduction, a thought that pierced every Jewish heart with double dread, leaving only the fear that she might have become lost or fled. So little time had elapsed since the woman’s dawn meeting with the judge that there was some hope that she had not managed to go too far. But before the search began, some punctilious Jews still demurred, wishing to assure themselves that the ban pronounced the previous night had referred to the husband alone and not to his wives; otherwise they might run the risk of seeking a forbidden object, and it would be better to invite the participation of gentiles, even the Ishmaelite guests, who had not yet risen for their own morning prayers. For added security, they too were summoned. First the two burly wagoners, Abd el-Shafi and his mate, were brought from their respective billets, and then they fetched the young pagan, who at once and without hesitation set off in pursuit of the missing woman, whose scent he had absorbed deep within himself during the long journey. Before much time had passed he found the secluded spot where she had collapsed, in a dark space choked with long grass and discarded household objects, framed by the piles that supported one of the houses.

  She was brought forth at once, very weak but safe and sound, apart from some bleeding scratches on her hands and legs. Even though the Fast of Gedaliah had commenced, the Jews tried to make her drink something as they dressed her wounds, and the women of Worms desired to take her into the house beneath whose piles she had hidden herself, to help and strengthen her before sending her on her way. But Ben Attar allowed nobody to to
uch his second wife, and since the interdict forbade anyone to speak to him, it was impossible to persuade him otherwise. Sternly and proudly, he stood and ordered his Ishmaelites to ready the wagons and harness up the horses. For an instant it seemed as though it were he who had placed the local Jews under a ban and not the other way around, for he seemed to avoid meeting the gaze of those around him, even the blue eyes of Master Levitas, whose habitual thin smile was wiped off his face the moment he was summoned.

  But where were Abulafia and his new wife? Had they been forbidden to come, or were they trying to spare themselves the pain of the final parting from the grim-faced, discomfited uncle, who was resolved to set out at once on the return journey?

  The speed and skill with which the little procession was prepared for the road were amazing to behold. Two or three commands from the southern Jew were enough to bring the three Ishmaelites to a fever pitch of activity and to send Rabbi Elbaz off in search of his son. As for the Jews of Worms, who were already tired from the beginning of the fast and confused by the strange morning’s events, they stood around the two large wagons, sorry to be deprived of such wonderfully colorful and exciting guests, and even though in their heart of hearts they longed to keep them in their midst for the ten days of penitence and for the joyful festivals to follow, they knew only too well that the arbiter’s judgment, however hastily arrived at, was final and brooked no appeal, and so it was best, perhaps, for the banned man and his company to go on their way, to soften the pain of parting.

  Before Ben Attar set forth on his journey and their sorrow was forgotten, the Jews of Worms hastened to load the wagons with food and drink, blankets and warm apparel, candles and dishes, little silver candlesticks and wine for ritual purposes. Although the ban forbade them to speak to the women or touch them, they brought dozens of small gifts for them, and they also brought sacks of feed for the horses, who were already sniffing the air of the journey ahead. But where was Abulafia? Ben Attar’s heart quivered with pain. Where was his dear partner hiding himself? And where was the blue-eyed woman, who had turned her repudiation into final rupture? Did they know that at this moment, in the mist rising from the river and drifting into the Black Forest, their kinsfolk were leaving them forever, vanishing into the west on the first stage of their long journey to the south?

  Master Levitas saw it as his duty to hasten and inform his sister of the sudden departure of Ben Attar and his company, and he also stirred himself to obtain special dispensation from a revered scholar, Rabbi Kalonymos son of Kalonymos, for Abulafia to meet his uncle briefly so as to take his leave of him. But Abulafia declined the generous offer. Not only did he refuse to leave his chamber, he lay in his wife’s former matrimonial bed and would not even join Mistress Esther-Minna, whose throat suddenly choked with tears as she watched from the little window while Ben Attar pleaded with the good folk of Worms not to load any more gifts on his two wagons, which were slowly sinking into the yielding Rhenish clay.

  Even if Abulafia was yearning to fall into his beloved uncle’s arms and beg the pardon of the partner who was returning empty-handed to the azure shore of their native land, the soul of this curly-haired man, who had not yet donned his phylacteries nor said the morning prayers, bridled at the thought of a further meeting with his second aunt, the secret basis of whose being he had finally discovered yesterday in his uncle’s passionate and unexpected confession. Even if she replaced the veil on her face and covered herself in layer upon layer of cloaks, she could not conceal from him any longer the form that was hidden within her, the form of that miserable, admired, beloved sinner, naked and drowned, who in vengefully destroying herself had punished him and banished him to a faraway land. Therefore, with all his might he must shut himself up in this former bridal bed which creaked beneath him, for he knew only too well that if he went to take his last leave of his uncle, he would not be able to restrain himself, tender and sorrowful as he was, from tearing the second wife away from Ben Attar, ripping out the form that was hidden inside her, and throwing it, if not into the salt sea of their birthplace, at least into his new wife’s freshwater river.

  Thus Abulafia knew that he had better wait until the rumble of his uncle’s wagons faded away in the distance. The same rumble disturbed the chief wagoner, Abd el-Shafi, who felt the wheels straining. When they pulled up in the square in front of the belfry in Speyer, a town where no Jews dwelt, they decided to lighten the load and offered a goodly part of the gifts that the community had generously heaped upon them for sale to the local inhabitants, who pressed around them curiously. Although the distance separating Worms from Speyer was not more than fifty miles, the gifts, converted into merchandise, aroused such great interest that Ben Attar was amazed at his ability, with no common language and with no knowledge of the local customs, to sell the Worms Jews’ old clothes, jars of honey, dull copper candlesticks, and bottles of ritual wine, accepting in exchange, on Abd el-Shafi’s advice, an elderly but sturdy mule. On this the black youth was at once seated, so that he could ride out ahead of them and sniff out the right road, which they had taken two weeks earlier in the opposite direction.

  For they were alone now, in a strange and alien expanse, without Mistress Esther-Minna’s command of the Teutonic and Frankish tongues and Abulafia’s experience of the roads. All they had at their disposal were Rabbi Elbaz’s limping Latin, the young slave’s finely tuned desert nose, and the two expert mariners’ knowledge of the winds and the motion of the stars. The Day of Atonement, which flickered ahead of them like a menacing black beacon, spurred them on to greater speed and effort, so that they would cross the border between Lotharingia and Francia in time to seek refuge in the Jewish congregation of Rheims, who they hoped would not yet have heard news of the ban.

  Indeed, there seemed no reason why the master of the little convoy should not realize his modest ambition, for the wagons were more lightly loaded now that they lacked the two passengers who had caused the ban, and now that the gifts had been bartered for the whiskered mule, which walked proudly ahead of the wagons, bearing the lithe form of the master tracker, who was happily sniffing out the right route. Nevertheless, Ben Attar had the feeling that a mysterious heaviness had laid hold of the wheels as they advanced between fields and hills toward the silvery furrow of the Saar Valley. In fact, it was hard to explain what was slowing them. At first they suspected the autumn breezes, which occasionally soaked them in gentle drizzle; yet the spirits of the wagoners seemed to be revived by each soaking, as they cracked their whips at the drenched horses.

  It was only when they made their third night halt, near the small village named Saarbrücken, not far from the octagonal burial church that Mistress Abulafia had excitedly recognized as marking the approach to her native land, that Ben Attar understood that the hidden source of their loss of impetus was to be sought not in the mud that impeded their wheels or in any slackness in their manner of driving but in a spiritual cause. At first he wondered if it were not due to gloom brought on by the ban and interdict, which, plausible though they were, were nevertheless particularly irksome because they had been pronounced so abruptly and by such a simple man. But gradually he realized that the thing that was holding them back was not hovering around the wagons but was hidden deep inside them, in the continued silence of the second wife, who sat slumped at the side of the wagon, wrapped in two black cloaks, stubbornly refusing evening after evening to taste the food that the first wife prepared. Indeed, at first sight the cause of her ill humor seemed plain enough—two deep gashes that crisscrossed her slender legs, marked by pearls of dried blood. But was it really only physical pain that prevented her from joining the others for the evening meal, or was it also resentment and anger at all that had taken place?

  Even though she was still careful not to reveal her secret testimony on the eventful night of the arbitration, she worried that the truth had become known to her husband, either from Elbaz or from his son, the little interpreter, who very tenderly brought her a steaming bowl
of meat stew from the campfire. Therefore the look the second wife bestowed upon the little go-between was blank and withdrawn, and she added to the two cloaks that she had brought from Worms the first wife’s black cloak, which lay beside her. She kept her mouth firmly closed, not only against eating any of the food that the first wife cooked for her but also against letting out any cry of despair at what she had said behind the curtain on that terrible night, and at the words she had tried to add next morning in the same place before the same man, who should have listened to her instead of hurting her.

  To whom could she now say what would never be understood? Perhaps only to the oceanic fetus, which was cloaked in the envelope of her womb and demanded additional warmth from its mother, who was shivering inside and trying with all her might to hoard what warmth she could, for its sake and for her own. Again, as at every hour of this journey, there came before her inner eye the wondering face of one who would cease to be her only son in a few more months, the dear child she had left behind with her parents in Tangier, who although he might not yet have forgotten his mother had certainly forgotten his father, who was now raising the flap of the wagon to inquire after his second wife and see whether she had tasted her food. When Ben Attar saw the bowl lying shamefully where it had been put, his spirit was greatly disturbed, and all the resentment and blame he nursed toward her on account of the counterduality that she had dared to ask for herself—which he mistakenly understood as physical rather than spiritual—burst forth at her refusal to strengthen herself with the stew that had been set before her.

  Now she was alarmed, for she had the feeling that he was about to feed her himself, against her will, something he had never done before. She began to sob, but very quietly, so as not to be heard by the company gathered around the campfire, particularly the first wife, who was asking Abd el-Shafi to tell her about the movement of the stars in the sky. But the Elbaz child heard the muffled crying inside the covered wagon and his heart curdled within him, and before his father the rabbi could stop him, he had lifted the flap and seen the owner of the ship, the leader of the expedition, raising his second wife and feeding her with the stew made for her by the first wife, who had suddenly fallen silent.