Before Mya, I held each bride in my arms as if she were a wife I had chosen for myself. I imagined the final conflagration, flames roaring like an ocean gale, the tops of the palms exploding in fire, and I held them tight to shield them from the flames. Before Mya, there was no shame in what I did. Do you remember when Rabbi Jacob Cohen died? His books and the Torah scroll were placed atop his coffin, to honor the scholarly and wise man he had been. Before Mya, what I did for the brides, I did well, and Antonio is right—there is something sacred in that. If the bloodstained sheets of the brides I have honored were put on my coffin, I wouldn’t be ashamed. Before Mya, each bride was for me the earth around which the planets spin. Now there can be only one center of the universe.
We Israelites are like scientists bent over their lenses and flea glasses, continually observing ourselves. How we walk—not too fast or too slow, how we speak—not too loudly, how we dress—not too fashionable, not too colorful. The Gentiles have exiled us to the laboratory. Even when they aren’t around to order us to our instruments, we have so absorbed their commands that we take ourselves as the objects of our wary regard. We pay attention so we will not draw attention. Before Mya, I lost myself, if only for a few moments, in the arms of those brides. I stopped being the observing Jew: the voice telling me not to do this, not to do that was stilled. Now, in love fully for the first time, my mind stands a rebel sentinel above the bridal bed. Now, it is only with Mya that the mind is quiet, and our bodies speak—there is no past or future, just the present of our two bodies. This is happiness. I don’t dare lose it.
Your cousin,
Abraham
16 July 1599
Dear Joseph,
I am gnawed by guilt that I am happy, while the world around me grows darker and more dangerous. The king has ordered his men to cull the pious and principled from those who hide in yellow robes from blade and blood, and Win worries that his son in the monastery may not be safe. Soldiers grow thin on reduced rations, and women in the market have lost their laughter. Mya pays double for what rice cost two weeks ago and returns from the market with a basket full of rumors. Parents in distant villages, it is whispered, are selling their children’s flesh for a bowl of rice. I don’t believe these stories of kin devouring kin, but I do see with my own eyes the bare market stalls and bands of ragged children begging on pagoda steps. Toungoo, Arakan, or even Nandabayin—it matters little to me who is victorious, as long as there is peace and no one dear to me suffers. Give us peace so I may conclude our affairs and leave with the fruits of these long months’ labor.
Grim-faced Antonio left yesterday with troops in the thousands to protect the port of Syriam from the Arakanese. With Cosmin destroyed, if Syriam falls, we will have no avenue for food and supplies. Mya put a precious chicken before her Buddha, but I don’t begrudge her prayers. I too have asked the Holy One, blessed be He, to watch over our wayward brother. Tears came to her eyes during her evening prayers. I told her not to worry—Antonio would return safely to drink our palm-wine pot dry.
—My tears are not for him, she said.
She listens to stupid chatter and not to her heart. She fears I will leave her, as all the other foreigners have done to the women they have wed. The foreign traders hide behind the royal decree that no wives or female children may leave the kingdom. If a ship is found at its departure to have more women than at its arrival, all its goods are seized and the crew enslaved. This may be a risk too high for most to take, but I have seen money and goods placed in the right hands turn eyes blind to other laws and royal decrees. If love not lust holds a heart, a man will find a way to keep what he can’t live without. Khaing and the old women have been filling Mya’s head with tales of foreign traders who speak of love and future lives together, then tell their wives they are going up-country to trade for a week and never return, or others who embrace these innocents lost in dreams one night and in the morning leave some gold bangles behind and are gone. I can only tell her again what I have told her before. I asked her to look into my eyes as I spoke.
—I am not like the others. If all others before me have left their wives behind, that doesn’t mean I will. How could I leave with a bag full of jewels and an empty heart? I clasped both her hands between mine and held them in front of her face.—Look, there are no ropes around our wrists—we are not tied to what others have done. I took both her hands and placed them tight against my heart.—There is only one rope, and it binds my heart to yours. Do you feel it? She smiled, nodded yes, and began to cry again. I kissed my fingertips and wiped away her tears.
If I return to Venice without Mya, may I be condemned to one of the Republic’s dark cells, where not a ray of light enters, for such a heinous crime against the heart.
Your cousin,
Abraham
24 July 1599
Dear Joseph,
I slept fitfully last night and woke to write this letter at first light, which isn’t my habit. My soul is riven with doubts. I wish I could walk with you at midday along the Fondamenta Pescaria and speak out loud my fears and hear you speak and read in your face your reaction to my interrogation of myself. I wish I could seek the advice of Uncle or someone learned in the law.
In my troubled sleep, I saw Mya shivering in the damp alleys of our city, saw her shaking in the winter air, her bare arms coarse with goose bumps. I saw boys, Gentile and Israelite, point their fingers and taunt her, and women, old and young, turn their backs as she walked by. I lay there in hazy half sleep and knew myself a fool for thinking I wouldn’t clothe her in warm wool or shield her from wicked words and careless cruelty. Yet were these dark images accusing me of some deeper selfishness, of putting my desire before Mya’s happiness? Was Mara, whom these people so believe in, again trying to seduce me from the meritorious path? Would I be breaking her heart by following mine, if I uprooted her from all she has known, and planted her in alien soil to wither under chilly disregard? Would she and I travel around the world to be spurned by Israelite and Gentile alike?
When I wed Ruth of blessed memory, my doubts were quieted by the tale of the rabbi who answered a Roman lady’s haughty question of what the Holy One, blessed be He, had done since creating the Universe. “He has been arranging marriages,” he said. I thought God wouldn’t have arranged a marriage to a woman I couldn’t in time love.
How can I now believe that our love hasn’t been arranged? That no rabbi has legally blessed us doesn’t make the blessings of our union any less real—no rite bound Adam and Eve. Some few have followed their hearts out of the Ghetto and turned their backs on the faith of their fathers. That is not my path. That would never be Mya’s wish. The law and my heart must be one. How could I follow my heart and betray the law and still call myself a Jew? But how could the law demand I betray my heart? I would be lost if I had to do either. Sometimes I feel like a galley slave on a ship sinking in the midst of a flaming sea. Sprawled and gasping on a raft, I’m afraid to signal my masters, who would enslave me again, but I am afraid of waving to my master’s enemy for fear he would kill me for the brand on my hand. The law and my heart call me to different ports and neither is safe sanctuary.
Mya fills my heart, when sitting down and rising up, when I eat, and when I drink. My daily prayer is a simple one—what I need and have received in rich measure are the same. I thank God for what has been given me and no longer pray for what I need—I have received all that I need. If I were to lose her, I would lose my better self. Let the Mourners of Zion cry for the loss of Jerusalem, my tears would flood the world.
She is my refuge, and surely our people will give her refuge, after a purifying bath, after she embraces our laws and rites. What more will be asked of her—that she turn her back on her idols, never utter the Buddha’s name again? She thinks him only a tzaddik, not a god. If I were to show her the favor that love requires, would black candles be snuffed out and Assembly curses exile me from the community? I would rather help hide her Buddha in the closet or cellar than see her grow sad
without his comfort.
If I loved her less, would I serve her better? And yet I grow angry thinking that if I left her behind for noble reasons, I would be thrown in among the traders who discard their temporary wives without remorse. I have come too far in my journey to once again be lost in the crowd.
Joseph, I float on a raft in the roiling seas. I hold on for fear of drowning, while siren songs come not from devils on the shore but righteous men of faith, who call out for me to let go so that I will be saved. The mitzvoth command me to let Mya go so I can reach the solid ground my brethren surely must think I have forsaken. Win berates himself for his weakness and is always going on about his Buddha’s call for “letting go.” I have not yet shared my doubts with Win, but I can hear him say—Ab…ra…ham, let go of this woman, quench the fires of your desire and you will not suffer. If I let go, I will drown of a broken heart. If I cling to her, my brethren will cast me down into the murky depths. If I cling to her, she may drown in unknown waters.
I am bedeviled. I want to do the right thing, but so many voices claim the right.
Your cousin,
Abraham
1 August 1599
Dear Joseph,
The last days have sped by like a runaway coach rushing downhill, past dangers and death, and coming to rest on the level ground of some old truths.
The defense of Syriam goes poorly: the Arakanese fleet surrounds the city, and their army advances. Antonio returned with his left shoulder badly slashed but fortunate to have kept his life. The enemy overran one of the Peguan camps, even before they had reached Syriam. The king was so enraged by news of the disaster that he ordered the soldiers on watch beheaded for their dereliction. Antonio didn’t speak badly of those who died or escaped into the jungle in the face of the king’s cruel punishment, but he couldn’t contain his anger at the king’s suicidal stubbornness and the stupidity of the officers. It was they who ordered camp set in an indefensible spot, hemmed in by the river and the jungle, and who failed to send scouts out before nightfall.—The king will only drive more of the Mon into the jungle, Antonio railed. Safer unarmed amidst the tigers than armed at the king’s side. There is talk that Nandabayin will come to some accommodation with the king of Toungoo, but Antonio believes him too stubborn and cut off from the truth to make peace. Rumors swirl through the city that the king of Toungoo has promised good treatment if Nandabayin’s eldest son comes over to his side.
—What do we have most to fear, Antonio asked with mocking bitterness, the thin rats invading the granaries from the countryside or the plump rats scampering out the gates? It’s time for me to seek a safer trade. Soon, Abraham, there will be another “wandering Jew” making his way in the world.
Win has a soft spot in his heart for the rough-hewn Antonio. He invited all of us to his home to celebrate his safe, though wounded, return. Mya and I arrived at midday to find the household in turmoil: tears streamed down the women’s cheeks, the color had drained from Win’s face, and his hands fluttered like caged birds as he spoke. One of the slave children had found a large snake coiled in a shady corner of the house where his son had slept before leaving for the monastery. A harmless type, a decent rat catcher, as long as it knew its place and stayed outside under the house. But for the Peguans, a snake inside the house is a grave omen. They believe without doubt or question it can only mean that the family under its roof will lose all its property. Win recited, one after the other, tales of neighbors whose houses had gone up in flames, had been enslaved for failing to pay a debt, or had fallen, through drink and debauchery, into penury and had lost everything. This lazy snake had only sought a shady change of scenery and then slithered away between the bamboo slats, more frightened by all the tumult than the humans rushing about the house. But for Win, the snake’s presence was a clear sign, as night follows day, that devastating harm would befall his family, and his riches would vanish quick as an arrow from the bow. As soon as we had entered this anguished uproar, Mya was drawn into talk so rapid I couldn’t follow it without Antonio as my translator. The subject of their fevered debate was how they could counter the evil that the snake had brought, how they could draw out the omen’s venom from their future. I had never seen Win’s wife, Myint San, her whitened cheeks stained with tears, so vocal in front of her husband. She interrupted him, shook her head, and turned away with a frown when she disagreed with what he said. The siege of Syriam was a skirmish compared to the battle fought in front of Antonio and me.
They had to seek the Buddha’s protection immediately, and Myint San would hear no objection to her plans. She sent the servants to the market to buy as many fish as they could find still alive and flapping in bamboo baskets. The family and everyone in the household, except for an elderly servant too weak to make the trip, would travel to a large temple complex a good three hours by bullock cart from the city. Here two large reclining Buddhas lay by a stream, where on Buddha’s Day—the very same day of his birth, enlightenment, and death—the faithful come to free fish into the fresh water. The family would do this now and make offerings at the temple, thought to be an especially propitious place for the pleadings of women. Win’s resistance to his wife’s entreaties was practical: it was late in the day to start such a journey—the oxen would be trudging along in the heat of the afternoon, rather than the coolness of the morning, and we would be returning in fading light and darkness on roads unsafe for such a small party. Myint San had made her mind up and would not listen to reason.
Outside of his wife’s hearing, Win shook his finger to caution Antonio and I.
—Never marry a woman born on Saturday. They are quarrelsome dragons who give you no peace. Waving his hand toward Myint San, he said she should change her name to “Thaw Thaw,” which means “noisy, noisy” in his language.
Myint San forged ahead with her plans, turning to Antonio for the aid of his one good arm and to me for my two thin ones.—You will come to keep us safe? It was more command than question, and who was I to deny those who have so aided me? Mya very much wanted to go to make her own pleadings at the temple, and I had little choice but to let her come along. Antonio demanded that we get a third cart and three other men with arquebuses to accompany us. Servants scurried off with messages, and we waited more than an hour until the carts lumbered to the house. The servants loaded the baskets of fish, flopping and splashing, onto the carts, and we began our pilgrimage.
If you haven’t traveled in the carts of this country, you haven’t experienced torture—torture beyond even Dante’s imagination, torture enough to turn the holiest Israelite into an apostate. They are more coffins than conveyance—the open basket of the cart resting on the wooden axle and two large, roughly rounded slabs of wood for wheels bumping along the uneven roads. The wheels weren’t greased and made shrieking noises, like the tortured denizens of hell—you could hear our screaming carts a half mile away. We could have made better time walking if not for the women and children; and for much of the way, Antonio, Win, and I walked beside the carts. The journey was not unpleasant, despite the dust and discomfort of the cart.
The temple was in a quiet spot shaded with a crown of palms, and the river, more a narrow stream, curved behind the trees. A handful of monks strolled the grounds, and no more than a half-dozen women and children were sitting on the steps leading to the Buddhas when we arrived. They were outnumbered by troops of large brown monkeys, some who sat scratching themselves indecently and others who ran around making a nuisance of themselves in hopes we would feed them. A solitary jester, well fed, makes me smile, but these thin, scraggly creatures, grown unaccustomed to making their way in the jungle, had turned aggressive, for few pilgrims visited in these hard times. Their sad, surly antics brought no laughter, only reminders of the world beyond these quiet grounds.
We carried three baskets of fish along a path that ran through the palms to the river. Maybe four dozen or so silver fishes a bit longer than the length of my hand—the larger ones had been sold earlier in the day
—squirmed and flopped on the way to their unexpected freedom. Win passed some coins to the monks. They blessed the fishes, and the family and servants dumped them into the shallow water. A few lay still, beyond the power of prayers, and the rest skittered here and there, surprised to find themselves back in cool water, not searing flames. Perhaps the heat and the journey had tired me out, but try as I could to put myself into the hearts of Win and his family, this seemed a useless gesture, a bit of magic that wouldn’t trick even a heathen’s gods. Mya, more moved than I, tugged at my sleeve, and smiling, pointed toward two fish who seemed most revived and darted downstream together—one was longer and thinner than his partner.—There we go. I smiled too, hoping it would be so.
Prayers said and monks thanked with words and gifts, we began our return to Pegu in the dim light of dusk, serenaded by unseen birds and insects. Despite the sounds of the jungle and our noisy wheels, this part of the day is for me a gentle, serene time: the day takes a long, calming breath before exhaling into the darkness of night. But what we feared and had prepared for cut short the tranquil hour. Our shrieking wheels announced our coming. Less than a mile from the temple, five men, silent and pale as wraiths, emerged from the jungle. If it hadn’t been for the swords they waved and the quick slashing of one of the bullock’s front haunches, I would have felt pity for their spectral appearance and put a coin in a begging bowl if offered. One of the brigands grabbed the driver of the first cart and threw him to the ground, and another menaced Myint San with a short sword and froze our guards for fear he would slit her throat. I was walking with Antonio, arquebus on his shoulder, behind the last cart. When, in the confusion of the attack, I turned toward him, he had disappeared. Just as I wondered where he had fled—a shameful thought I regret—I caught in the dimness his figure crouching, camouflaged by thick vegetation at the side of the road. In that very instant the leaves exploded with flames and the brigand at Myint San’s side screamed and fell to the ground, his chest torn red with blood. One of our guards jumped from the first cart, and grabbing his gun by the muzzle, swung the heavy wooden butt of his weapon and knocked unconscious the brigand who had attacked the first driver. The other three fled into the jungle. How Antonio managed with his wounded shoulder I can’t say. In our moment of danger he reacted without thinking of himself or his injury. Myint San and Mya were weeping, and the servants loudly echoed their tears. I held Mya and comforted her more with silence than words until she stopped shaking. The wound to the bullock was fortunately more bloody than severe, and the drivers staunched the bleeding with wet clay and leaves. The brigand lay pale and moaning, his life flowing from him. Even I, who had not seen until then what a musket ball could do, knew his death was near. Antonio and Win hurried the servants to tend the wounded animal and herded the women back into the carts. We wanted to start up again, before we would be enveloped in full darkness. Antonio told the drivers to drive ahead and the women not to turn around. I went back to where Antonio stood over the fallen man.
The Jewel Trader of Pegu Page 13