by W. E. Gutman
The Perpetuals’ attempt to regulate their affairs through revelation and tradition has led to an odd social contract that discourages freedom of thought and bans concepts that in any way contradict their self-view, which they fiercely defend. In such a system men are not united by free association; they are led by a “higher authority” consisting of self-anointed shepherds and arbitrary credos to which they must profess unconditional allegiance. Such society cannot survive unless it faces the world outside its own with a mask of unyielding if refined belligerence, feeling threatened to its very core by rational thought, whose voice it doggedly tries to silence.
FOUR
I stepped out of the family compound this morning, in need of fresh air and eager to reconnoiter this latest anchorage to which I had so hastily retreated.
Fabian’s incessant weeping, touching at first, louder and more dramatic when assured of an audience, had by now become unbearable. I can put up with tears only for so long. Heartfelt at first, empathy turns to impatience, annoyance and resentment.
At the far end of the hallway, Meema and Shmiel were at it again, with Schmiel hiding behind a wall of silence and apathy and Meema icing over in catatonic rigidity in her rocking chair, her lips pinched, her eyes ablaze and darting with fury at anyone who crossed her path.
My grandfather was oiling the barrel of his revolver and buffing the muzzle with a chammy.
On the verandah, Lazar spoke to the kitten he had adopted as if to his own son.
“You can grow up to outshine old Fékété. It’s up to you. Eat heartily. Follow your instincts. And one day, when you’ve caught your share of mice, you too can retire and nap to your heart’s content.”
Abraham, statuesque, transcendent, almost godlike in his gold-fringed prayer shawl and white lionesque mane, quoted from Samuel:
“But if ye will not obey the voice of the Lord, but rebel against the commandment of the Lord, then shall the hand of the Lord be against you, as it was against your fathers.”
Néné Jan, in rare form, a cigarette holder screwed between his teeth, recited a poem by Hungary’s poet laureate, Sándor Petöfi, as Tante Yetta napped on the damask settee, her alabaster hands resting on her lace-garlanded bodice.
How many drops hath the ocean sea?
Can you count the stars?
On human heads how many hairs can there be?
Or sins within human hearts?
Néné Buby, Fanny’s husband -- I was still a child when he emigrated -- played canasta with my mother. A jovial, burly man sporting a Chaplinesque mustache, he suffered from a mild form of Tourette’s that triggered intermittent facial twitches followed by pig-like grunts. Hard as I tried, I’d never been able to suppress a burst of hilarity which the gallant Néné Buby forgave with equal doses of stoicism and benevolence.
Kibitzing, Aunt Lucy, a fake chignon adorning her nearly bald head, tapped the floor with her cane. Having reached the venerable age of ninety-four, she suffers from chronic flatulence and the sound of the cane striking the parquet floor, she believes, covers the machine-gun-like barrage of farts she emits every few minutes like clockwork. I remember when she merely used to clear her throat, or move her chair, a stratagem that my father never failed to lampoon.
“O.K. Lucy, the sound effects are quite convincing. But what are we to do about the fragrance?” Aunt Lucy always pretended not to hear my father’s wisecracks and kept on clearing her throat.
Across the drawing room, Lucy’s baby sister, my maternal grandmother, now, 90 and nearly blind, read Amok, by Stefan Zweig, one of her favorite authors, with the aid of a large magnifying glass. A woman of great beauty, charm and wit, my grandmother had always been an avid reader. She enjoyed history and great literature -- Toynbee, Gibbon, Josephus, Flaubert, Balzac, Hugo, Du Maurier, Vicki Baum. It was a shame to see her struggle as she shifted the magnifier from one spectacled eye to the other. A confirmed Atheist, she often quoted Vicki Baum:
“To be a Jew is a destiny.”
She distilled from this epigram more than just an axiomatic truth. She lived long enough to see destiny at work.
*
“Don’t say too much. Don’t ask too many questions,” my mother counseled as she accompanied me to the door. Several pairs of eyes followed me with suspicion. “Neither be a chatterbox nor a snoop. Mind your own business,” she said, adjusting my upturned collar. Typically, such injunctions would have annoyed me, prompting me to demand an explanation and, contrarian that I am, to flout it. But coming from my mother, who had always encouraged free thought and intellectual curiosity, and helped give wings to some of my more harebrained schemes, the advice seemed as much out of character as it was out of place.
“And don’t venture too far off. Not everyone and everything in Ein Sof is worth knowing,” my mother added, her brow arching in a frown that telegraphed apprehension and pleaded for caution.
“What do you mean?”
She looked away. “Do what I ask, please.”
“Explain yourself.”
“Oh, It’s the Dybbuks,” she answered dejectedly, looking at the ground.
“The Dybbuks?”
“We call them that. Others give them different names. Stay away from Gehenna.”
“Dybbuks? Gehenna?”
She placed a forefinger against my lips.
“Shhh. Just don’t wander off too far. And be home by suppertime. I’m preparing your favorite dish.”
“Escargots in butter, garlic and dill?”
“Don’t be silly.”
*
It is in this genteel, lily-white section of Ein Sof where old-moneyed gentry and vulgar nouveaux riches coexist in mutual disdain along tree-lined lanes and neatly manicured lawns that I got a good look at this pastoral sanctuary. Red tile roofs. White picket fences. Pastel-colored communal houses. Flower and vegetable gardens teeming with fragrant blossoms and succulent legumes. An ivied gazebo at the center of a verdant public square. Tidy, freshly paved lanes radiating from the main drag to the housing complexes in a star-shaped pattern. An air of everlasting spring wafting on an island of apparent serenity. And nary a soul to be seen anywhere, save an occasional, furtive, specter-like figure scurrying about in great haste, as if in fear of being seen or fleeing the scene of some impending disaster.
In spring, summer and fall, I am told, crews of Perpetuals get together early in the morning to landscape large tracts of gently sloping meadows, the obligatory golf course and the park at the center of which rises a bronze statue of Zeno, the father of Paradox. They mow grass, trim hedges, prune trees and plant annuals. In the dark pre-dawn hours of winter, they plow mountains of snow, sand icy driveways and alleyways. No one has actually seen them perform these patriotic travails. Most everyone assumes it’s all done by civic-minded individuals in the dead of night. Others know better.
Getting lost in a place I hardly knew was not on the agenda that morning. Out of prudence more than inclination, I followed one of Ein Sof’s secondary arteries, a long, straight roadway paved with cobblestones, flanked on each side by willows whose branches met midpoint above it to form a shady dome of green and extending, as far as I could tell, to the horizon line.
I kept walking, passing row after row of multiple-occupancy dwellings each set on a cul-de-sac on either side of the main road, some flying oversized flags, others proclaiming their religious affiliation with statuary and sacred icons, others yet professing their loyalty to God and country by warning intruders that their homes were fortified with all manner of automatic ordnance.
Rising in the distance, faint at first, clearer as I continued toward it, a massive billboard straddled the roadway. It read:
YOUR ARE LEAVING EIN SOF
AND ENTERING GEHENNA
PROCEED AT YOUR OWN PERIL
The road ended abruptly in a rubble of shattered rock and splintered cobbles a foot or so past the sign. Beyond it a yawning incline ended in a sheer drop. Extending from the base of a deep abyss, a steamy chasm stretched b
elow as far as the eye could see.
FIVE
Gehenna’s unimaginable Stygian depths spilled open before me like a lanced boil. Spanning an arroyo through which flows, like pus, a malodorous rivulet of greenish-colored swill, an old bridge heavy with traffic and swarming with street vendors, separates a would-be purgatory from the pestilential netherworld below.
Reaching the base of the bridge was no easy task. I followed a dizzying spiral of steep ascents and lateral downward convolutions, first through a darkened arcade reeking of urine where a teenage couple copulated against a wall, then down a fetid stairwell where rats, oblivious to it all, fed from a pile of fast-food containers, and, finally, around ditches and embankments covered knee-high with rotting refuse.
Escher came to mind. Then Kafka. Then Hieronymus Bosch. And when I alit under the arch, perspiring and out of breath, I knew I had set foot on some spectral domain where outcasts and wastrels, the spurned and the unloved congregate like ghosts doomed to roam the void.
*
On the long and narrow ledge that hugs the foot of the bridge lives a family of seven, perhaps more. Rawboned, spidery, disheveled, prematurely old, a woman folds and refolds, sorts and rearranges a precious few possessions with a tedium induced by boredom or despair or madness. There’s a pile of soiled rags for bedding, plastic bags to shield against the rain, a metal box to keep the tinder dry, a pot, scorched, misshapen and overrun with vermin, a disemboweled foam-rubber cushion to lean against on starry nights, a frayed straw hat, a sooty, half-burned candle, a rumpled picture of a blond, blue-eyed, pink-faced Christ smiling quizzically at the world. Tugging at a fleshless, sagging teat, an infant squirms and whimpers with frustration.
The woman bares a toothless grin. Sitting on his heels, a man -- her husband? -- is busy pounding back into shape an unyielding slab of iron with a wooden mallet. The metal will not give but he keeps on striking it time after time with an obstinacy that bears little fruit. There is no emotion on the man’s waxen face, not a trace of impatience or anticipation or astonishment at the futility of his Sisyphean ordeal. Staring into space, visibly exhausted but unwilling to quit, he persists, lost in a hypnotic syncopation that marks the passage of time.
Below, perched on an earthen mound overgrown with weeds, two toddlers, both flaunting distended bellies and herniated navels, rummage for worms. Barefoot, naked, soiled, green slime oozing from their nostrils, oblivious to the horror that surrounds them, they shriek with delight with every worm they pry from the muck. A few feet away, a young girl squats and relieves herself. A youngster, perhaps her brother, barely older and small for his age, sleeps nearby, one arm folded over his eyes to block out the light, the other extended and limp. Clasped in his hand is a small can of cobbler’s glue. He risks not waking up. Oblivion is a one-way trip. Sniffing glue is a dead-end occupation. Literally.
“Hey, you!” I call out. Startled, the boy stirs from a dark, dreamless slumber. His eyes don’t open fully but he reflexively tightens a childlike grip around the small can of glue. Turning on his side, compressing an emaciated body into a fetal position, then stretching, he makes contact with reality. I place a reassuring hand on his shoulder.
The boy staggers to a sitting position, rubs eyes thick with stupefaction and insensibility, and grants me a lifeless, clammy handshake. An odious smell of uncleanness fills the air, soon neutralized by the pungent odor of glue on his breath.
“Where am I? Who are you,” I ask. The boy uncaps the can of toluene-based rubber cement, passes the opening over his nose and mouth, and inhales deeply, avidly. I look at him, detecting subtle signs of aphasia. Averting my eyes, the boy answers in mono-syllables, seeking to save face in ambiguity and equivocation. But such ruse could well denote the presence of a host of other latent syndromes, all resulting from the corrosive effects of inhalants on the cerebral cortex.
“Where am I? Who are you,” I repeat. Attempting a smile, the boy scratches a lice-infested head, and draws another long snort of glue.
“Where are you?” The boy chuckles dejectedly “You’re in my world of darkness, in the accursed valley, Ein Sof’s garbage dump. Who am I,” he echoes, his inflection tinted with grim solemnity and bitterness, his voice raspy and sepulchral. Sniffing glue devours sinuses and lungs. It causes horrible hallucinations. Irreversible brain damage and kidney failure are never far behind. Such fate seldom deters those who, like this boy, seem to fear life more than death.
The woman on the ledge unleashes a barrage of invectives at the boy. I have trouble understanding the words but her tone and gestures convey impatience, disgust. The boy dismisses her with a wave of the hand.
“Screw you, you’re not my mother,” he mutters, with more than a trace of envy and sadness. We shake hands again, this time in a complex ritual involving palm-smacking and finger-twisting. He takes leave, a longing smile on his lips, and ambles toward the water’s edge where other kids are busy sniffing glue as the river’s putrid current travels its lazy course.
“Who am I?” he yells out, this time in the interrogative. “You tell me, mister.” He laughs a raucous laugh, more like a bark. “Yes, mister, you tell me. We have many names. Try Azazel, Dybbuk, Ghoul, Zombie. To many we are known simply as the others, the ones consigned to do your dirty work. Pick the name you like, we’ll respond.”
The woman plugs away at her senseless chores, one arm still cradling the infant at her breast. Unrelenting, headstrong or mad, her husband continues to strike wood against metal. I see no change in its configuration. Invincible, it taunts the would-be smith. But guided by some exquisite obsession, he persists.
Overhead, vultures glide in wide sweeping circles, surveying life, espying death, smelling it down below in the bottomless, sulfurous pits where the corpses of murdered street children are dumped. Many of the birds are now perched on roofs and tree limbs. Emboldened by some irresistible effluvia, a few make landfall. Waddling from side to side, wary and cunning, they will fight for the vilest scrap of offal in their path. The leathery flutter of their wings sends chills down my spine.
SIX
“You must be kidding,” I exploded as my father informed me that custom calls for the latest arrival to assume the leadership of the clan.
“No. I’m afraid you’ll soon be asked to do your part,” my father said wryly.
“That’s crazy. I’ve only been here, what, not even a wink. What does an anarchist like me know about management, supervision, control? I’ve never had the slightest desire to lead, to guide, to enforce, no more than I’ve ever suffered being led, governed or controlled.”
“The post is largely titular, ceremonial.”
“I detest titles and the powers they confer. I can’t stand ceremony.”
“I know, but your powers would be limited to your own freedom of conscience. Majority consensus would still prevail in all matters of authority and protocol.”
“What you’re saying is that I’d be free to think but denied freedom of expression.”
“Something like that.”
“I’m not interested. I’ve never followed anything or anyone and I’m unfit to lead. Surely the clan can appoint a more suitable candidate. Trust me, I won’t be upset.”
“No. Tradition is clear. You’re our newest émigré. You must submit, with poise if not conviction. But look at it this way: Sooner or later, another expatriate will join us and you’ll be replaced.”
“But that could take eons.”
“It’s in the nature of eternity to suspend itself ever so briefly and to defer to happenstance. Someone could land on Ein Sof as early as tomorrow.”
“Or the next day or the day after that or in a month or a year or in ten,” I protested.
“Don’t worry. Providence is not that generous.”
*
The invitation to head the clan came from Yossi, my father’s younger brother, an otherwise kind man and astute businessman who had owned and operated a children’s shoe store back in Yesod. His son Amos, my hand
some cousin, a talented cinematographer who had migrated to Ein Sof after losing a heroic battle against AIDS, had held the post, reluctantly, for almost a year.
“You’ll honor us greatly by taking on this provisional assignment,” said Yossi, speaking before a gathering of the clan in the large communal meeting room.
There they were, Lazar and his apprentice kitten, his wife Helen stirring the contents of a big copper pot with undiminished vigor, Yanosh deftly peeling his precious grapes, the towering Abraham engrossed in Scriptures, Fabian crying his eyes out, the peevish Meema and Schmiel, looking bored and cross, my maternal grandfather, fixated on the blemish marring his pistol, Néné Buby, grimacing and grunting with unremitting regularity, Lucy, farting and striking the floor with her cane, Amos, his angelic eyes lost in space where he could glimpse the gossamer likeness of his long-lost lover, and Néné Jan puffing away on his Turkish ovals and ready, should he get the chance, to declaim a few choice verses to a rapt Tante Yetta.
My parents, models of discretion, stood several paces behind the throng, cautious not to let their unease show through the perfunctory pleasure they felt compelled to display at that moment. I knew that look. I’d seen it in their eyes on countless occasions as I embarked on adventures that filled them with pride and disquiet.
“I’m flattered, Yossi, flattered and touched by the sentiment behind your appeal,” I said with sham gallantry. “I know how much this means to you all but I’m not your man. Find a more experienced proxy, someone more suited to the task, someone with the leadership qualities and zeal I lack.”