A Favorite Son

by Uvi Poznansky

  A Favorite Son

  Uvi Poznansky

  A Favorite Son ©2013

  Uvi Poznansky

  All rights Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

  Published by Uviart

  P.O. Box 3233 Santa Monica CA 90408

  Blog: uviart.blogspot.com

  Website: uviart.com

  Email: uvi@uviart.com

  First Edition 2013

  Printed in the United States of America

  Book design, cover design, cover image by

  Uvi Poznansky

  ISBN: 978-0-9849932-5-3

  ASIN: B00AUZ3LGU

  Contents

  Lentil Stew

  The Goatskin Sleeve

  A Favorite Son

  The Curse of the Striped Shirt

  About the Cover

  About this Book

  About the Author

  A Note to the Reader

  Bonus Excerpts

  Excerpt: A Peek at Bathsheba

  Excerpt: Apart from Love

  Excerpt: Twisted

  Books by Uviart

  My Own Voice

  The White Piano

  The Music of Us

  Apart from Love

  The David Chronicles

  Rise to Power

  A Peek at Bathsheba

  The Edge of Revolt

  A Favorite Son

  Twisted

  Home

  Children’s Books by Uviart

  Jess and Wiggle

  Now I Am Paper

  Chapter 1

  Lentil Stew

  At birth—thanks to my twin brother Esav who, on his way out, pushed me back into the womb—I missed the chance, unfortunately, of becoming the First Born son. My mother told me that I missed it by no more than a split second. I often wonder why she shared this detail with me.

  Perhaps she wanted to draw me closer, or else she could not foresee—how could she, really—the ways in which it would affect me.

  The disclosure filled my heart with hate, bitter hate for my brother, and stirred a good measure of resentment in me, because of being seen by everyone around me as inferior to him. A split second was all it took to rob me of my future. It set before me a risky path—a path to failure, to oblivion—and turned me, from birth, into a loser.

  I spent the rest of my life souring over it.

  And not just souring, mind you: I was constantly calculating, searching for ways to take it back, take his birthright away from him. Despite our closeness, or maybe because of it, I felt a burning desire to surpass my brother. So, even before I knew what a birthright was, and how much power, honor, wealth it could bestow upon you, I had a pressing need to claim it.

  The First Born son! It came to mean everything for me: The upper hand in life! The inheritance in full: Herds, camels, women, gold coins! And above all—taking over my father’s position and, in time, becoming the leader, the rightful head of the family. I had to win it all—or else be left with nothing.

  If not the First Born son, I might as well be a bastard. And so, in my quest for legitimacy, I knew I had to betray my brother. I had to fool my father. What I failed to predict was the formation of a hole in my life. How could I expect loneliness.

  I underestimated its weight. To my astonishment, it grows heavier and more burdensome now, with every passing year.

  It all started, innocently enough, with a meal. A real meal, I mean, made with a fresh kill over a roaring fire, under the open sky—not one that is made with stored, half-cooked cuts of meat and reheated, somehow, in a stuffy restaurant kitchen, the likes of which can be found down over there, along the inhabited, coastal regions of Canaan, near the city of Ashdod. Luckily none of those establishments can be found here, at the frontier of this desert, which is where our camp is set.

  Don’t let them fool you. Anyone can barbecue a steak—but really, cooking a stew is another matter altogether. The pot must be simmering for several hours. And so, from time to time you must drizzle in some water, which in this wasteland is nearly impossible to come by. Most wells around here are bone-dry, or else fiercely guarded, and rarely shared by other tribes.

  Next you must find a well-trained chef. So let me assure you, son: There is no soul in the entire world, or at least in these parts, in Canaan, with a better nose than mine. Yankle’s nose—no one comes close!

  When I sprinkle my secret blend of spices—here, take a sniff, can you smell it? When I chop these mouthwatering sun-dried tomatoes, add a few cloves of garlic for good measure, and let it all sizzle with lentils and meat—it becomes so scrumptious, so lip-smacking, finger-licking, melt-in-your-mouth good!

  There is a certain ratio of flavors, a balance that creates a feast for the tongue and a delight for the mind. And having mastered that balance, with a pinch of imported cumin from the north of Persia, a dash of saffron from the south of Egypt, I can tell you one thing: when the pot comes to a full bubbling point, and the aroma of the stew rises up in the air—it would make you dribble! Drive you to madness! For a single bite, you would sell your brother, if only you had one!

  I hear no arguments from you. Of course, your mouth is full! Here, here’s a napkin. There, there, wipe your chin.

  You would sell me your land, or your camels, or your birthright as the First Born—even if you had no idea what in the world that could mean, which, oddly enough, is exactly what my brother did.

  Long ago I used to look up to him. He used to chase birds and I used to chase him. We could finish each other’s sentences. We were so close! Close enough for him to sense exactly what I thought, which was this: if I just pushed myself a little harder, or else if I pushed him aside, I could, perhaps, outpace him by a nose—which, for me, would be a measure of victory.

  I remember how I used to follow him around, never too far behind him, a flesh of his flesh—until the time came when he grew away from me, grew into something that was quite out of my reach: A hunter. His leg muscles became stronger than mine, and so he could leap higher from one rock to another. To my dismay I found myself falling behind, which made me so resentful, so envious of him, that hairy schmuck!

  He is as dumb as he is big. At times I suspect he blames me for all his misfortunes, or maybe he blames my stew. But to be honest—which sometimes I am—I think he slipped into his own drool. He should blame no one else but himself, nothing else but his own greed.

  Did I tell you it all started with a meal? I will never forget that fateful evening. It is so vivid in my mind as if it has just happened.

  ❋

  I have just added some dry branches to sustain the fire, so that the pot would go on simmering nicely. Then I turn around and go back inside, planning to do nothing more than sit idly in my tent and dream. There is nothing to watch, out there, but the tired sight of sunset, a stretch of sky dimming over the parched, barren land. Sand, sand and sand, as far as the eye can see. And then—listen!—out of the blue, I hear a heavy thump of footsteps.

  The thump gets louder. It is growing more deafening by the second, and before you know it, a dark outline falls upon the canvas of my tent.

  I can tell it is my brother, by the way the silhouette of his body is fused with his arrows. Without bothering to untie the flaps of my tent, and without waiting for an invitation, in he comes, bringing with him a cloud of dust and a pungent smell of sweat. For some reason, he looks at me with a hard, wolfish glint.

  “Welcome,” I say, jumping to my feet and, on the spot, taking a step back.

  “Aha,” says he, breathing heavily.

&n
bsp; “Aha? How do you mean, Aha?” I say, trying to gauge, in the space of that second, the hunger in his eyes.

  “Aha you,” he counters. “Man must hunt, all alone. No help from little brother. Understand? That Aha.”

  “Well, mom says I’m too young.”

  “Aha. You my age.”

  “Even so. I’m a split second younger, aren’t I? She wouldn’t let me go hunting.”

  “Mom says. Mom says. You in her tent, always.”

  “Are you jealous?” I tease him. “I can’t believe it!”

  To which he roars, “You do nothing, you! You cook, you hide. Coward! Aha, coward you!”

  He takes one step forward, I take two back. The arrows slung over his shoulder clink against each other. It is a steely, menacing sound. With one blow of his hand, he smacks down the canvas, and on the double the entire tent is flattened into a lopsided mess, collapsing upon itself, its pegs flying clear out, bouncing over and over, over the soft sand.

  He gets in my face. We are standing nose to nose. The moment I have dreaded all my life is suddenly upon me, and there is no way to withdraw. I have to face him, which forces me to examine him closely. To my surprise, I notice how terribly exhausted he is. His face is pale, his breath tormented, his tongue dry—all of which gives me hope: I may yet come out of this alive.

  How can I possibly foresee, at that moment, that what happens next would surpass even my wildest dreams?

  Just before he shoulders me aside, I get hold, somehow, of one of his arrows. “Really,” I say, whipping him to a standstill with the arrow. “I can sure learn a thing or two from my big brother, now can I? You’re the Hunter. You’re the Man!”

  “I am,” says he, but in a flash the wind goes out of him.

  I can see, plain as can be, that an amazing transformation is coming upon him: one minute—he towers over me, a beast with bushy eyebrows and an inflated chest, dense with hair; the next—he’s flat at my feet, like a fleecy rug of fur. Faint with hunger, dizzy with thirst, here is my brother: A giant kneeling before me over what remains of my tent. In spite of myself I feel for him, which is an unusual feeling for me to have. It stays with me for the duration of a full minute.

  “You must be tired,” I say, with a tinge of acid in my voice. “Tough day at work? Nothing to show for, after eight hours of hunt?”

  He gives a heartbreaking sigh. “Ah ha...”

  “You don’t look so good.”

  “Huh?”

  I lean over, try to hug him, revive him, or at least hear his words—but to no avail: His lips are cracked, his whisper—incoherent. Yet, I know what he needs: A gulp of water.

  We have not been camping close to a well for nearly three days now—but I happen to know where water can be found, because in her tent, under her bed, my mother keeps a full jug, for no one else but me. And so, I bring it to him, catching myself in an unexpectedly generous mood. He takes a long gulp. Then he has to catch his breath.

  “Yankle?” he says.

  “Yes, Esav?”

  “What is this smell? So good...”

  “It’s my new recipe! I call it a stew.”

  “Give me. Give me now!”

  “Well, no,” I say. “There are limits to my generosity.”

  “You be sorry,” says he.

  “Well, what’s in it for me?”

  “Huh?”

  “Do I really have to explain? What will you give me in return?”

  “Give you?” he flares up. “A big smack.”

  “Oh well.” I laugh in his face. “Forget it, then.”

  He falls to some deep thoughts, by the end of which he throws his hands up in the air. “I give you something,” he offers. “Anything.”

  I smile. “You know what I want.”

  Then he hesitates. “No. Not that.”

  Well, by now you know me: I can find a way, some way to convince him. So I go over to my big pot and, as theatrically as I can, raise the iron lid.

  Out comes a puff of steam, escaping high into the air and carrying with it the most tempting, most delectable scent. Then, using my brother’s arrow as a skewer, I pierce through the juiciest, most succulent piece of meat, and bring it right under his nose.

  “Smell it,” I say.

  His snout is drawn to the skewer like metal to magnet—but then, wait a minute!—he turns his head to me. “Is Kosher?” says he.

  I am so surprised that I drop the lid. “Kosher?” I say. “Who cares?”

  “Dad says —”

  “Dad? What does he know?”

  “He study them scriptures —”

  “Scriptures!” I cry. “What scriptures? Who the hell needs scriptures?”

  He shrugs in confusion, and I find myself having to explain:

  “Someday, some wisecracker suffering from a heatstroke in the middle of the Sinai desert will decide to write some directions in some God-awful scriptures, directions that record for posterity, in excruciating detail, a whole list of particulars about how to prepare food with a sense of morality, whatever the hell that is, namely, how to cook Kosher. I assure you, morality is nothing useful—not for you and me.”

  “Oh,” says my brother.

  “At any rate, right now there are no scriptures, and it’s going to take forever—a few years, maybe decades, even centuries to write them, which will give you plenty of time to learn to read, see?”

  “See,” he echoes.

  “In the meantime, look here.” I point out with the skewer. “It’s the flavor of the month! Red hot and dripping with fat...”

  He starts to dribble. I have never seen his nostrils flare open to such a degree.

  “Well,” say I. “Don’t sniff at me just because you’re older. You are hungry. So am I.”

  By now, his eyes are bulging with greed. Clearly, he needs all his wits to escape temptation. Regrettably, all his wits do not amount to much.

  “Come on!” I say. “You know exactly what I want.”

  His surrender is close at hand. I can almost touch it. At long last, we are on the verge of striking a deal.

  “Sell me your birthright,” I say, as loudly as I can. “We are twins, after all. First son, second son—same difference, right? It’s a split second either way. What does it matter? Sell me the damn thing and you get to eat. That stew is waiting! I made it for you, Esav, just for you...”

  I say it at the top of my voice, so that everyone can hear me. For this deal to hold, I figure I need witnesses. I must ensure that my father, who lives in the right wing of the camp, and my mother, who lives in the left one, can both hear me.

  The head-servant, the maids, the shepherds, even the children must all be listening in on us, even if at the moment they’re cowering behind their shelters.

  “All right,” says my brother. His voice sinks into a whisper. “All right already.”

  “What?” I say. “I can’t hear you!”

  “Give me! Give the damn stew! Aha! The whole pot!” And then he adds, “The hell with you! You and your stupid birthright!”

  I smile to myself, feeling as clever as can be. Now that is what I wanted to hear. Me and my stupid birthright. My, my. Mine!

  He eats and eats and eats until his eyes glaze over, until the pot is empty, and its bottom scraped clean. At which time he kicks it with a vengeance. Then he staggers to his feet, turns his back and shrinks away into the night.

  Later I can hear him weeping like a child in the lap of my father. I can imagine my dad, smiling upon his big boy—like he never smiled upon me—and rocking him gently to sleep, with a promise to buy him something, some nice thing in place of that which has been forever lost to him.

  A split second at birth.

  I admit, mine is a strange family. You might call it dysfunctional. How it became the cornerstone of multiple religions is quite beyond me. If all those believers out there are as obnoxious as I am, they should take those scriptures with a grain of salt.

  And another thing: How my name became the corn
erstone of that notorious chain of restaurants, which we here call, with great fondness, the Yankle-in-the-Box establishment, is a complete mystery to me. I guess it happened in honor of my stew. Here in the wilderness, every edible nugget—regardless of where it came from—is considered a delicacy.

  ❋

  I knew it the very next morning, and I still know it now: My brother hates me. He has removed me from his mind, stricken away any thought, any memory about me. I am dead to him. The scary part is, that being dead will not stand in the way of him killing me, if ever he lays eyes on me again.

  It is an odd feeling. Have you ever faced it? Being dead to someone you envy, someone you miss, too. Someone who knows you intimately and, even worse, has the chutzpa to occupy your thoughts day in, day out. It grinds down on your nerves, doesn’t it?

  Trust me, being dead to your brother is not all that it is cracked up to be, but it does set you free—oh, don’t act so surprised! It frees you from any lingering sense of obligation. Brother, you say to yourself. What does it mean, Brother? Nothing more than a pang, a dull pang in your heart.

  You have betrayed him. Accept his hate.

  You need not talk to him ever again. For the rest of your life, you are free! A stranger—that is what you are. A stranger, visited from time to time by dreams: Dreams about the mother you will never see again, and the father you left behind, on his deathbed. Dreams of waiting, waiting so eagerly for the next day, to meet your brother at the end of an endless exile. Dreams of grappling with him all night long, until the crack of dawn. Until your ankles give way. Until you lose your footing on the ground.

  Then, rising up to take you is the darkness of the earth, which is where you wake up at sunrise to find yourself alone.

  Chapter 2

  The Goatskin Sleeve

  My mother, you ask? She was—how shall I say it?—different. No woman among us in the camp, or out there in the grazing fields, was as captivating as her.

  It was not just her beauty, nor was it the regal manner in which she carried herself, as if her tent served only as a temporary, makeshift shelter, a place to stay until the completion of a some new, modern wing in an imaginary palace. If there was something that set her apart from all other women, it was her garments.