Then he turned on his heel and disappeared. A scarcely perceptible little smirk played upon my great-uncle’s lips, and I thought I heard him mutter, “He envies my freedom. Pooh. The only free man is the one who wants nothing.”
“Liebe Kinder,” he then said. “Do not concern yourself about understanding everything with your heads. Seek with your feelings, instead, and they will show you the way. Above all, you must always remember: Whatever you do in your lives, your actions must always be at least a little bit irrational, otherwise you risk losing your humanity. But for now, it’s best that you do as your grandmother says and go out to play.”
MY GREAT-UNCLE was apparently incapable of suppressing anything that he regarded as the truth. Accordingly, even though it would infuriate our grandmother, he would regularly tell Sasha and me, always with great seriousness and an air of unquestionable authority, that people are born, live, and die so that they can be born again at some point in the future.
He also often stressed that something existed above and beyond all of this—something he called “pure unfettered harmony.” He explained to us children a number of times that the goal of the Cabala was to approach that harmony and to live in tune with it.
EACH TIME Sasha admitted that he couldn’t remember just what kind of thing the Cabala was, my great-uncle had the goodness to repeat patiently, word for word, his explanation of the essence of those teachings.
“The Cabala is a set of mystical teachings of the Jews.” He always began his exposition with that sentence. He pronounced the words slowly and with reverence. Then he repeated them so as to fix them in our memories, and continued in a hushed tone, almost in a whisper.
“The Cabala may also be described as a sort of encoded secret scripture. The goal is to hide true wisdom from those persons not yet mature enough to understand it. But the initiates and those who can decipher the code find the best-kept secrets and truths that have been set down in those teachings by the angels ever since the origin of the universe. The true Cabalist always finds what he seeks.”
Sasha and I often wondered if my great-uncle was part of the company of the initiated. We asked if he himself practiced the Cabala. But we never got an answer to any of our questions about him, for he was remarkably reticent. The notion of discussing the details of his own life was completely foreign to him.
We were always apprehensive that Grandmother might come into the room and cut my great-uncle off as he was offering us thrilling insights into the origins of the Cabala, never neglecting its supernatural or fantastical elements. We listened, enraptured, even though I now understand we did not grasp very much of it. But we were small children and sometimes I imagine that he spoke of these things less to instruct Sasha and me than to defy our grandmother.
“After the birth of the cosmos,” he explained to us, “the Creator taught a special wisdom to the angels, one that we now call the Cabala. After mankind fell into sin, the angels decided to teach the secrets of the Cabala to mankind so they could seek to renew their connections with Paradise.”
“What’s Paradise?” interrupted Sasha. He clearly didn’t have much of a gift for Jewish mysticism.
“The Cabalists believe that divine energy exists on earth,” my great-uncle continued. “But strangely enough, no one wishes to embrace that wisdom. Throughout all time, mankind has been more interested in worldly things than in divine wisdom. Because of this the angels were obliged to bide their time until the moment in history when there appeared on the scene someone who had achieved such a state of human readiness that the truth could be revealed to him. His name was Abraham. So the Creator made a covenant with Abraham and promised that his descendants would have access to the secret of the universe.”
“And what is that exactly?” asked my brother.
“The secret of the universe,” my great-uncle said once again, and added in a whisper as if to emphasize the gravity of the moment, “consists of the music of the spheres, the ur-vibration of the very origins, the Holy Name that is the key to all wisdom and energy. The name for it is ‘tetragrammaton’ and it consists of the four Hebrew letters J, H, V, and H. It’s pronounced ‘Jahveh’ or ‘Jahweh’ or ‘Jehovah.’ Go ahead and try it: Say it out loud.”
“Is that God’s name?” Sasha asked.
“No, the Cabalists call God En Sof, ‘who has no end.’ ”
“But great-uncle, once you told us that God had no beginning,” I objected.
“The Almighty has no name. It’s only we human beings who need to find a word to represent the divine. Your ancestor Moishe de Espinosa, the great Cabalist who also studied the Koran, often quoted an Arabic proverb: ‘God has ninety-nine names and only the camel knows the hundredth.’ ”
I was baffled. En Sof? The music of the spheres? An authentic power that keeps the heavenly bodies eternally in place in the great cosmic void? The whole world can be controlled by someone who manages to pronounce the four characters correctly? A camel that knows the name of God? But what did I know? I thought of the great erudition and cleverness of my great-uncle, of that great brain that contained so many mysteries. Several times I made the attempt to pronounce the holy name. That, at least, might be useful. My diction was terrible. The word rested uneasily in my mouth. It felt as if something essential was escaping my grasp.
My great-uncle laid a gentle but firm hand on my shoulder and assured me that with a little more practice, I could become the master of the universe. I felt flattered. But I actually had no desire to assume such a heavy responsibility. I preferred instead to investigate the dim recesses of history. I wanted to force my way into the secret library and discover hidden treasure. Above all, I simply wanted to listen to my great-uncle’s stories about our ancestors.
AND SO IT’S BACK to Granada in the fourteenth century. Before I delve any deeper into our family epic, I would like to provide an account of what I found in history books about Muhammed al Faqih, the second sultan of the Nasrid dynasty.
Muhammed II is described as an unusually enlightened ruler for his time, a potentate whose reputation reached far beyond the Iberian Peninsula. He was an absolute monarch who never exercised his power arbitrarily. “The day that I first use my power for selfish reasons will be the last day of my reign as sultan of Granada,” he declared in the speech he delivered when he assumed the throne. In the years that followed, he governed his kingdom with justice, never raising his voice and never falling into a passion. He was held in awe and respect. He valued those individuals who did their duty, forgave the weaknesses of his men, and strictly punished those who infringed his laws. When he went to war, he always sought to restrain his troops from depredation and cruelty, and he never put a defeated enemy to death. He was a righteous soul, an exemplary man of wisdom and legendary bravery. His devotion to justice, which won so many hearts, was the subject of folk songs even during his lifetime.
ALTHOUGH THE SULTAN did not feel old and had always had the decisiveness and strength necessary to rule, he caught himself at times thinking that a father who begins to feel burdened with age and plagued with pain, debility, and ill-health should choose the right moment to turn over his position, riches, and power to his son. One day after confusing the names of two of his closest political counselors, he began seriously to contemplate the question of which of his three sons—Faraj, Muhammed, or Nasir, who had a Christian mother—would be the best to take his place.
The custom among the Moors was that the eldest son would inherit the kingdom, and the sultan was desirous of respecting tradition. But he was of the firm opinion that the interests of the kingdom must be his first consideration, and for the general good he was prepared to break with that most ancient of traditions.
AS A CHILD the sultan’s eldest son, Faraj, had been indecisive, delicate, overprotected, and spoiled by his mother. He seldom said anything and spent hours in a world of his own. Many at the Alhambra had assumed he was lazy and retarded.
The sultan was well aware that his firstborn did not emb
ody the Nasrid virtues in matters of strength, zeal, confidence, or speaking ability. But he often consoled himself with the thought that in childhood some individuals are withdrawn and inward, and one can never predict how they may develop and behave in the future.
FARAJ TOOK a wife at a tender age, a life event that brought about a sweeping transformation in him. He became more self-confident, ready to engage the world, and even talkative. Over time he began to show an unfortunate indiscretion in his speech. His ceaseless chatter and hectic witticisms were of limited interest to most of those attending him, for he was one of those people who in fact had very little to say.
One day while the family was at supper Faraj sought to enliven the meal by discussing politics. He had just reached the age of twenty-six. The new century was young. Faraj choose his words carefully, expressing as precisely as possible a number of views he had never divulged before. He began with a scathing critique of the sultan and insisted with unwarranted arrogance that the ongoing conflict with the rival Ashqilula clan should be resolved with force. At issue was an irregular stretch of border in the south of the realm. Faraj did not simply call for an attack; he recommended insistently that in order to improve the morale of the troops, his father should allow the soldiers to plunder the Ashqilula population and rape their women.
The sultan felt it necessary to interrupt Faraj and put him in his place.
“Complicated matters of politics can lead astray those of lesser vision. A wise man, on the other hand, knows and humbly accepts that the sultan alone is empowered to make important decisions. I wish to point out to you that your behavior is a breach of our customs and court etiquette. I will not for a moment allow you—or anyone else, for that matter—to disturb this splendid banquet with needless discussions of matters you are incapable of understanding.”
Faraj had not expected such a brusque rebuff and reproach. His self-confidence collapsed and his spirits instantly fell. The blood drained from his face; he became so pale that everyone thought he was about to faint. At that moment the sultan perceived, clearer than ever before, that his firstborn was one of the great crowd of the despicable. He was an unworthy, weak, and easily exploited man, clearly unsuited to rule Granada.
———
ONE WEEK LATER Muhammed II implanted a hard moist kiss on Faraj’s forehead and sent him away to govern Málaga, banishing him to a place taken from the Ashqilula clan ten years earlier.
THE SULTAN’S SECOND SON, Muhammed, was a violent soul with an unfortunate fascination for daggers and scimitars. He pleased himself, completely disregarded custom and tradition, and scorned the law. He was impulsive, and his emotions often flared up. He loved to rule, command, and issue orders. The subjects feared him, for he was contrary, unruly, and evil; he would have people severely flogged for the least offense.
Only one person was close to Muhammed, a dark-skinned African concubine reputed to have an appetite for delights of the flesh that would have sufficed for a whole harem. She never surrendered herself to anyone but Muhammed. Her name was Nedjmaa and despite her age—she was over forty—she was considered one of the most attractive women in Granada. She was always wrapped in black satin, leaving visible only her ankles and her dark piercing eyes. The insistent rumor was that half her face had been badly slashed when as a seven-year-old she resisted a slaver who tried to rape her. It was said that as compensation for all the suffering she had undergone because of her ravaged face, fate had granted to her a perfect body.
Her father, a medicine man and rainmaker, was of the little-known nomadic Penje tribe in Africa. In their culture it was completely acceptable for mothers to conceive with their own sons and for fathers to lie with their own daughters. Nedjmaa had accepted Islam without giving up her tribal beliefs and she practiced both religions. It was said that her father had taught her the arts of black magic as well as how to urinate while standing up, and that she had eaten human flesh. Some people insisted that she could walk through flames without being burned. Others exchanged stories about magic and witchcraft, asserting that she had turned Muhammed’s head with the burning fire of her genitals. Those at the court quivered with delight at the juicy details of their supposedly torrid love life.
Muhammed paid no attention to the chatter of evil tongues. His only interest was power. He dreamed that one day he would be the master of Granada.
MUHAMMED WAS INITIALLY DISTRESSED when Faraj was exiled to Málaga, but then he became hotly indignant at his father’s failure to see him as the obvious candidate to inherit the throne. He became convinced that the appointment of Faraj as governor was intended to prepare his brother to rule Granada, a thought he found unbearable.
Muhammed secluded himself in his room, unreachable, ranting about disappointment and injustice, blaming by turns the royal counselors, his brother, and his mother. His fiercest curses were directed at his father. He swore with sword in hand and with a face distorted by rage that one day he would separate his brother’s head from his body.
“I’ll torture you to death, Faraj,” he bellowed. “Soon damp, clammy earth will cover your face, plug your nostrils, and fill up your lungs. You will return to dust as if you’d never been born. For I am the only man worthy of the throne of Granada.”
He waved his saber so wildly that he lost his balance and tumbled facedown onto the floor. Standing outside, Nedjmaa secretly had overheard his volcanic outburst.
By that evening Muhammed had regained his calm. As they lay together in bed, Nedjmaa revealed to him the cunning plan of vengeance she had developed for her lover.
“Providence knew exactly what it was doing,” Nedjmaa assured him as she rubbed his hands. “With your brother far away and out of the sultan’s eyes, you can put my plan into action. You will travel to Málaga and free Faraj from the golden cage in which he has been confined.”
MUHAMMED MADE an unannounced visit to Faraj in Málaga and stayed at his brother’s residence for a whole month. It was a vast dark house with many intricate corridors, gloomy and clammy with damp. The brothers seldom conversed, but the house servants reported that they often spent entire evenings sitting in silence and smoking kef, a sort of North African hashish.
One dark night, the tenth day of the lunar month of Muharram, they fell out with each other and began to fight. No one knows the cause of the dispute, but it was clear that Muhammed started it. Wrestling his brother facedown onto the floor, he roared with fury as if demented. He held Faraj down and crammed his face against the tiles. Faraj struggled to free himself but was no match for Muhammed. Faraj began to weep. Seeing this, Muhammed spat on his head and pulled a dagger. The struggle was brief and ended quickly. Muhammed rose, stepped back, and watched with curiosity as his brother’s life ebbed away.
Muhammed felt relieved and released. Carrying out Nedjmaa’s plan had been considerably easier than he had expected. Not a trace of weakness. Certainly, he was a man of action. “At last I am rid of my brother,” he told himself with satisfaction. He seated himself on the edge of the bed feeling drained and leaden. Lots of sleep and regular bowel movements, that’s what I need, he thought. As he drowsed off he heard the corridors fill with screams and lamentations.
MUHAMMED LEFT MÁLAGA by the light of dawn and rode back to his father’s palace. A court servant in green livery showed him into the throne room where the sultan was seated, magnificent and imposing. Without hesitation Muhammed acknowledged that he had killed his brother.
“I acted in self-defense,” he declared. “Faraj stole my concubine, a woman whose beauty was for me the deepest of all mysteries. I accused him of the deed and he lied right to my face. I told him that with my own eyes I had seen them copulating. I was infuriated; I may have shouted. Suddenly Faraj drew his dagger and tried to stab me in the abdomen. I owe thanks to my lucky stars that my quick reflexes kept me away from his blade. Believe me, Father, I swear upon my honor that I acted in self-defense.”
Muhammed had expected to be subjected to a harsh interrogation. Ins
tead, his father, overwhelmed by grief, said nothing. He fixed his gaze on his son and contemplated those ice-cold eyes, that powerful, compact body, that black mustache. He was pained to see not even a hint of sorrow in Muhammed’s eyes. But what hurt him the most was that his son, his own flesh and blood, would not honor him with the truth but instead was lying, without the least compunction. He knew that Muhammed’s alleged candor was false and his account of the tragic events in Málaga was in fact a deliberate and calculated fabrication.
The sultan said, “Mendacity is a flagrant offense to the will of heaven, to the will of God. I should like to believe that you are a righteous man and that you have given me a truthful account of the events as you see them. The reasons a man may think he has to hate and kill another man are manifold. But you and Faraj have never had any scores to settle with each other.”
“Father,” Muhammed replied, going to his knees, “I never intended to do any evil. The last thing I wished was to stain my hands with Faraj’s blood. I acted in self-defense.”
The sultan gestured to Muhammed to stand up. He said, “He who intended no evil has no reason to fear.”
FORTY DAYS AFTER this audience the sultan summoned his two sons, Muhammed and Nasir. He inspected them closely for several seconds before he spoke.
“After this time of mourning, deep silence, and reflection, I wish to determine what sorts of men you are. Each of you will invite me to two meals. The first of these should offer the best food and drink the world can provide. For the second you will serve me the worst meal you can imagine.”
The Elixir of Immortality Page 10