The Elixir of Immortality

by Gabi Gleichmann

  Most of all, Chaim was impressed by Ibn Hassan’s wonderful professional skill and the unimaginable depths of his knowledge. Chaim decided that he would devote himself wholeheartedly to his education, studying day and night, and vowed to master every conceivable aspect of the healing profession, for he wanted to show his teacher—as well as himself—that he could be worthy of the famous court physician’s instruction and trust. He felt like the most fortunate human being on earth.

  Ibn Hassan gave the new pupil everything he sought and held nothing back. He was a father to the boy, to the point that he was willing to make certain sacrifices to assist his protégé.

  Even though Chaim was still no more than a young apprentice, Ibn Hassan made sure to mention to the sultan in passing how talented and hardworking his Jewish pupil was. The physician’s words carried immense weight at court; his every utterance was received as if the Prophet himself had pronounced a truth. For this reason, even though the powerful sultan was constantly engaged in great matters of state, from time to time late at night he would call Chaim to his library to ask whether he was getting along well in Granada and if he was still observing his Jewish customs.

  A few memorable utterances—probably picked up from Ibn Hassan, remarks that perhaps would have passed unnoticed if made by someone else—substantiated Chaim’s standing at court as a promising young man.

  A year or two after this Chaim saved the life of the sultan’s favorite general, who during a skirmish with the Ashqilula clan had been struck by an arrow that pierced his left eye and burrowed deep into his brain. Ibn Hassan judged that Chaim had succeeded in his ordeal by fire and promoted him to the post of his assistant.

  He said, “From now on you are my right hand, and you will learn many things of great usefulness for your future. One day you will travel back to your home in Lisbon, become a great teacher, and have your own pupils. At that time you will teach them the most important lesson of all those I have sought to drum into your head: As a healer, one must at all times, without regard for the circumstances, offer his selfless assistance to any who need it.”

  IT WAS LOVE at first sight. Never had Chaim seen a more beautiful creature than this young woman. Her name was Rebecca, and she was the daughter of Rabbi Abraham Orabuena of Córdoba.

  The rabbi had been invited to the Alhambra for a year to discuss matters of religion and philosophy with the wise and hospitable sultan Muhammed II, for that learned Jew was deeply versed in subjects that went far beyond the ken of ordinary human knowledge. Rebecca had accompanied her father to assist him with housekeeping and practical matters.

  Early one morning Chaim was summoned to treat a powerful general so plagued by swollen arteries that he could not get out of bed. He was hurrying across the little plaza when Rebecca, newly awakened, stepped onto her balcony with a sheet wrapped about her diminutive body. Her raven-colored hair fell loosely about her shoulders. Chaim stopped dead, thunderstruck. He stared at the young woman, and it seemed to him that her face, the most enchanting face he had ever seen, was more dazzling than the morning sun. Rebecca blushed and lowered her gaze, as was proper. At that, Chaim hurried on his way, wondering if that beautiful creature had been a hallucination.

  As the days went by, Chaim could think of nothing but that young woman. He made discreet inquiries and discovered her name and family background, but he did not dare approach Rebecca. He regarded her from afar, for he feared the glow of her dark eyes and the sweet perfume of her hair, that hair as dark as a deep winter night, would set his heart racing so intensely that he would simply collapse.

  IBN HASSAN KNEW instantly that his protégé had fallen in love. He assumed at first that some loose, worldly woman had wrapped Chaim around her little finger. He warned the young man, explaining that love’s passion always sees the object of its desire as beautiful, so those in love are incapable of judging wisely; often one perceives the beloved as extraordinary, closer to perfection than to real life. Chaim assured him that the woman in question was honorable and their encounter had been dictated by fate. He described the rush of feeling he experienced in her presence and the impossible distance he felt between himself and Rebecca. Ibn Hassan could see that this passion was by no means a passing fancy. He told Chaim that his own experience had taught him that one commits an injustice both against God and against oneself if one holds deep feelings of affection toward a woman but dares not approach her. He admonished his disciple in the name of Allah to call upon Rebecca’s father and inform him of his desire to contract matrimony with his daughter according to the laws of Moses.

  When Ibn Hassan saw that the young physician was still hesitant to declare his passion, he cited the writings of the Book of Destiny, which he was in the habit of reading from time to time by torchlight: Chaim would contract marriage with a woman of honorable Jewish lineage and would produce a son of uncommon spirituality.

  WITH A FURIOUSLY BEATING heart and more fragrant oil in his hair than he had ever used in his life, Chaim knocked on the rabbi’s door. He brought with him all sorts of gifts, hoping to make a good impression. In a voice of great respect he explained his honorable intentions concerning the rabbi’s daughter. Rebecca listened to the conversation from her hiding place behind a hanging tapestry and found it difficult to keep still.

  Rabbi Orabuena refused Chaim’s request for her hand for reasons of religion, for he thought that the suitor was of Moorish ancestry. In an elaborately courteous response Chaim explained that he was a Jew, the son of the personal physician to King Dionysius, and he was fully ready to comply with any request the rabbi might make of him. When he perceived the skepticism still manifested in the rabbi’s eyes, Chaim redoubled his efforts. To present himself in a better light, he suggested that as in the days of the Old Testament, he should labor seven years without pay for the rabbi in exchange for Rebecca’s hand. Orabuena gave Chaim a long, searching look and showed him to the door.

  THE LOVE-STRUCK SUITOR came back evening after evening, always at the same hour, week after week, but the rabbi turned him away with implacable determination. Chaim gradually became desperate. His heart was on fire and his body was racked with longing. For days on end he could think of nothing but Rebecca, she who had aroused him with her innocent features, her great dark eyes filled with wonder, her clear and glowing skin, and the sweetly rounded breasts outlined modestly under her black dress. He didn’t know what to do to accomplish his dream that Rebecca and all the secrets of her body might belong to him.

  ONE EVENING only a few minutes after Chaim’s knock, Rebecca cast herself to the floor before her father and bathed his feet with her tears. She confessed that she had fallen in love with the young man and wished to give him her heart. After first excusing himself for speaking so frankly, the rabbi explained to her that he could never trust Chaim, because the discrepancy between his looks and his words gave an impression of unacceptable duplicity. He could not allow his daughter to be joined in matrimony with an untruthful man, for that would inevitably lead to disastrous consequences. Rebecca, who had never had the least doubt about the character of the elegant Jewish physician, said that the issue was not whom her father could trust but rather whom she loved. The rabbi muttered a rapid prayer in Hebrew, his torso rocking back and forth, before he gave his consent. The smile that lit up Rebecca’s whole face expressed her eternal gratitude. She kissed her father’s cheek.

  ———

  RABBI ORABUENA performed the marriage ceremony. The sultan and Ibn Hassan were among the guests. No one represented Chaim’s family, for he had shut the door on his past and had not taken the trouble to inform his family either of the wedding or of his decision never to return to Lisbon, that drowsy little city that could never compare with Granada.

  Chaim placed his hands around Rebecca’s, as if sharing a prayer, and held them as he leaned forward and kissed her on the lips. She dared not return his kiss in front of the wedding guests, but she shut her eyes and sighed happily instead.

  THE DISTAN
T ANCESTOR we called “the Cabalist” came into the world exactly at midnight on Friday the first of January in Granada. According to family legend he was born to a mother whose clan had furnished Córdoba with rabbis for three hundred years and to a physician father from a famous line of Jewish healers in Lisbon. The dwelling where this happy event occurred was situated within the Alhambra, the flowering palace that was the seat of the Nasrid dynasty for more than two hundred and fifty years, up until 1492.

  Experienced Moorish midwives helped bring a semblance of order to the chaos of that night. Bloody sheets were rolled up and thrown into the open fire of the kitchen hearth along with the thick sticky tissues of the afterbirth. A basin was filled with water; a serving girl dipped a hand in it to check the temperature. The newborn screamed at the top of his lungs as they washed him. He had dark eyes and a full head of black hair.

  Chaim de Espinosa, the father, unobtrusively entered the room. When they held the child up to him he could see that it had an enormous nose, just like that of his father.

  “Thank you, great God, that my firstborn is a son,” exclaimed Chaim, obviously greatly relieved. “Thank you, almighty God, that I have escaped the curse that lay so long upon my father.”

  He fell to his knees before his wife, Rebecca, gently took her hand, and thanked her for giving him a boy. Exhausted, she turned her listless, ashen face away from him. He then got up to thank the court physician Faraj Ibn Hassan for overseeing the difficult birth.

  Even though it was past midnight, Muhammad II was informed. The sultan would have had no cause to visit a newborn, especially during hours when almost everyone was asleep, if the arrival of the child had not been considered so important, nothing less than a portent from above. For the child had entered this earthly life at exactly the moment that the new century began, confirming the court astrologer’s prophecy of an impending event of great importance, an arrival likely to affect the fate of the Moorish kingdom and to presage fundamental change.

  Muhammed II also undertook the visit because he considered it important to try to bridge the gap that separated the sultan and his subjects in those times. He treated both his Moorish personal physician, Ibn Hassan, and the doctor’s personal assistant, Chaim de Espinosa, not as unworthy commoners but as friends. Muhammed II was extremely enlightened in his attitude of respect for others.

  “Chaim,” said the sultan, in his characteristically poetical manner, “your son will one day give you in great measure your portion of fatherly pride. This is a boy who will be particularly gifted in the ways of the mind. I can see the clarity of pure thought shining in his dark eyes. You must give him a name that clearly symbolizes the special wisdom that is his inheritance.”

  “Great sultan,” replied Chaim, kneeling before Muhammed II, “engendered and brought to the world in the sultan’s splendid palace, my son is already as dear to me as life itself. His name will be Moishe.”

  UNLESS I’M MISTAKEN, I was twelve years old when during one of his learned lectures about obscure mysteries my great-uncle explained to us the symbolism of the name that the physician Chaim de Espinosa gave to his newborn son, who became the ancestor we called “the Cabalist.”

  It was summertime. My great-uncle had shared our lunch of potato soup with dumplings. Sasha and I hated it and would have preferred to sneak away and vomit it up. But we were always obliged to consume everything set before us. In those days food was still scarce and precious.

  Grandmother went out on the stairs to share the latest gossip with the all-knowing woman concierge. They spoke so loudly that the whole house could hear them.

  We lingered in the kitchen. I remember how my great-uncle wiped the perspiration from his brow and with an irritated expression waved away the flies buzzing sluggishly around his head. As usual, he was talking about our ancestors and their fascinating destinies. His words made a strong impression upon me.

  ———

  BY MAKING unusual things seem ordinary and ordinary things appear unusual, by embellishing the ugly and making the fleeting moment eternal, my great-uncle taught us at an early age that there is hope even in the worst situations; life is always worth living, if only because it is so painfully brief. He created a parallel universe for us, one charged with suffering and mystery, to shield us against perverse reality and the endless possibilities of defeat.

  Our childhood, Sasha’s and mine, had a window on the past. We sat there often. We had no need for the present, for the days of the past were an enchanted place, so very much more real, and they were never-ending. We recognized ourselves in my great-uncle’s stories. People had existed before us; it was as simple as that. There was a pattern woven deeply into our genes, and an invisible power impelled us to find the key to it. We perceived that same pattern in the lives of our ancestors. And now I have finally begun to see traces of it within myself.

  “FRANCI,” GRANDMOTHER SAID when she returned to the kitchen, “stop bothering the boys again with all that nonsense. They’ll never be able to get to sleep tonight. Go out and play, you pair of good-for-nothings!”

  “But Sara,” my great-uncle protested mildly, “what does it matter if the boys enjoy themselves a little?”

  “It bothers me plenty,” Grandmother snapped. “Intelligent boys should dedicate themselves to rational matters and not listen to tall tales and talk about spiritualism. It’s a sin and a shame, what you’re doing. Don’t you understand that sitting and listening to all your old fantasies is making them queer in the head? I warned you before. First it was comets and Moses with his prophecies, then ghosts that reveal the truth, and now it’s mystical lore. But there’s a limit. Where is all this going to end?”

  Then she spoke a few sentences to him in German, which we didn’t understand but that were clearly meant to be anything but flattering to Fernando. He began to look intimidated, and his Adam’s apple bobbed nervously. Neither of us dared to say anything.

  WE CHILDREN took great delight in deceiving Grandmother, for nothing was more wonderful than the times when our great-uncle opened up to us the secret rooms of the past. Sasha and I pretended to go outside to play, but instead we huddled in secret with Fernando in our bedroom. He asked us in a hushed voice if we had heard about Moishe de Espinosa, author of Sefer ha-Zohar (Book of Splendor, a classic text of the Cabala). Sasha shook his head; I said that I had. Partly because I was afraid that my great-uncle, ten thousand times more intelligent than I was and a man with insights into deep truths beyond my understanding, might think I was a dummy. Partly—and especially—because already as a child I found it easy to forgive myself for telling little white lies.

  “Boys, I’m certain that you have no idea of the meaning of his first name.” We greeted my great-uncle’s remark with thoughtful looks and uncertain silence. He took a sheet of paper and a pen from the desk drawer, inscribed a few lines, and began his explanation.

  “Today ‘Moishe’ signifies nothing to most people but the first name of a Jewish male child. But the mystic powers that reside in that name manifest themselves to those initiated into the secret world of the Cabala. That name is formed by the Hebrew characters mem, shin, and he. Each letter has a phonetic meaning but also serves as a symbol. Mem stands for water, shin for fire, and he for breath. ‘Moishe’ therefore means ‘he who by breathing’ (that is, by living his life) ‘unites water and fire’ (in other words, the male and female energies) ‘within us.’ Your ancestor Moishe, the Cabalist, achieved the unity of these unique qualities within himself.”

  MY GRANDMOTHER once again interrupted, this time by sticking her head through the doorway. Her expression became grim when she discovered that we hadn’t gone out after all.

  “I won’t put up with this any longer! Franci, are you deaf all of a sudden? How many times have I told you not to stuff these boys’ heads full of nonsense and stories that you dreamed up? God’s truth, you are a completely incapable old man. It’s obvious that you’ve not had a woman for more than thirty years.”

&nbs
p; Grandmother abruptly withdrew. My great-uncle’s face was pale. He sat there with his head hanging and his gaze fixed on the floor. I found the sudden silence disquieting.

  But then something unexpected occurred. Grandfather appeared in the doorway. As a rule, he was never at home during the day. He spent the hours until the evening meal at a tavern with the ironic name of the Brooding Rooster, where he always had oxtail stew for lunch, the cheapest thing on the menu, and played cards with his friends. All of them were virtually toothless old men of reduced circumstances, but they were great lovers of pilsner beer. Even though Grandfather neither smoked nor drank, he was a daily client of that tavern, stinking as it did of beer and urine. People had to peer through the thick clouds of tobacco smoke hanging in the air, and most of them came with nothing to do than pass the time. The place would send cold chills up your spine even if you were no fanatical devotee of pure living. But the Brooding Rooster was the very center of my grandfather’s existence. The days when the tavern doors remained shut—the first of May, the anniversary of the Russian Revolution, and Christmas Day—he endured almost as a punishment.

  I don’t really remember any other time that Grandfather engaged in conversation with my great-uncle. But now he said with an almost cheerful tone, “Fernando, you don’t know how much I envy you. I’ve lived for more than forty years with that opinionated deaf old woman who never listens to what anyone else has to say. It’s a trial to me, to say the least. I envy you. You’re a man who’s free and happy.”