The Elixir of Immortality

by Gabi Gleichmann

  “Excuse me for asking, Father,” said Muhammed, who was impatient and already beginning to appear agitated, “but what’s the meaning of all this? Is it some sort of test?”

  “I wish to see your true faces revealed,” the sultan calmly replied, with the serene air of a man well aware of his own extensive experience. “The plates you put before me will reveal deep secrets of your souls. Within these meals the future is hidden. We belong to God and to him we will return. Inshallah. I command you to depart and immediately to set about these tasks.”

  MUHAMMED WAS NOT the sort of person capable of fussing with extensive, complicated preparations. He found the notion of devoting his time to matters of as little interest as arranging a banquet both meaningless and unnecessary. He thought the requirement to draw up two menus was especially preposterous. He saw the task as a clear sign that advancing age was diminishing his father’s mental powers. This conclusion strengthened his conviction that he soon would have to take his rightful place on the sultan’s throne.

  When Muhammed’s mother asked him if he needed help in satisfying the sultan’s wishes, he made an irritated gesture and answered dismissively. “Planning two meals is a trivial undertaking. I know what I like and what I don’t like. I don’t need your help, Mother. Only a fool dowses his own lamp in order to light it again with a borrowed flame.”

  Hunting pheasants in the forests of the foothills of the Sierra Nevada was Muhammed’s favorite pastime. On the first evening he served a splendid pheasant surrounded by the most elegant and delicious vegetables. A cook had prepared the dinner.

  ———

  THE DAY had been unusually hectic, and the sultan had not found time for any food or drink other than his morning cup of lime-blossom tea. He was looking forward with great anticipation to the evening at Muhammed’s banquet table. At the sight of the dishes placed before him, he fell completely silent. He took a bite of pheasant, mostly out of curiosity to test the truth of Muhammed’s assertion that it tasted like honey. He made no comment about the meal. After only a few minutes he excused himself, rose from the table, and vanished from the room.

  Muhammed remained seated, sighed in resignation, shook his head, and drummed his fingers on the table. “So these are the thanks I get for all the work I invested in this damned meal,” he concluded.

  THE LIBRARY was the sultan’s sacred space, a place marked by tranquillity, a peculiar scent, and a carefully crafted splendor that not even the throne room of Granada could rival. Along the shelves that covered its walls were carefully arranged in alphabetical order five thousand handwritten manuscripts bound in calfskin with his initials stamped in gold upon their spines. Here could be found all the knowledge of the Muslim world.

  The sultan took a manuscript down from the shelf and went out onto the balcony. He stood there motionless for a long time, looking out toward the horizon. The night was warm and a moon as golden as an orange was rising over the mountain crests.

  THE NEXT EVENING Muhammed offered him a grilled beefsteak and stewed turnips. The sultan shook his head, pushed the plate away to signal his distaste, rose from the table, and again went to his library without commenting on the meal or expressing thanks. Obviously Muhammed was not expecting his father to show any enthusiasm for the second menu, but he was disappointed nevertheless. He had a clear impression of the sultan’s unfavorable disposition toward him, even though his father had not uttered anything offensive, dismissive, or condemnatory.

  On the second evening, just as on the first, his father did not ask him why he had chosen that specific menu. The reason was simple. The sultan could see full well that Muhammed had ordered up the two meals on the spur of the moment and with a wave of the hand, devoting no thought to them. The sultan had learned in his long life that only a very few people were granted powers of intellect and exceptional creativity, and Muhammed was not among them. For that reason he could expect little of that son.

  NASIR, THE YOUNGEST SON, twenty-one years of age, also found his father’s request a trifle bizarre—not because he found the task onerous but mostly because he had never before in his life prepared any food and drink. He therefore had no idea at all what to put on the table or how to go about providing a table full of delights. But he beamed with pleasure, for it was clear to him that his father always knew best. It was not a son’s responsibility to question any desire or opinion that his father might choose to express.

  Nasir secluded himself in his room for three days, studying various books and pondering. Then he summoned his mother and asked for her help.

  “Let me confess something strange to you,” she told him. “Since I am a Christian, I am not very well acquainted with the faith of your father. But recently, not often, in fact only three or four times, certain verses of the Koran have presented themselves to me for no apparent reason. Perhaps these are exactly the words you need to hear:

  Fortunate are the righteous

  Who are humble in their prayers

  And who turn away from idle speech.”

  “ ‘Idle speech,’ ” Nasir repeated thoughtfully after her. An idea struck him.

  ON THE FIRST EVENING the youngest son put out thin slices of cooked tongue. The plate contained nothing else.

  Muhammed II examined the food in silence. He was baffled.

  “Do me the honor, Nasir, of explaining just what this is,” he said.

  “This is a tongue, Father, a delicacy,” the youngest son replied. “You asked to be served the best the world can provide. Therefore I took the liberty of offering you tongue. This is because in my opinion the tongue is the finest part of the body. The tongue can articulate fine words; it can give voice to truth and help us to live in harmony with the teachings of the Koran. Righteous words give men strength and courage. The tongue is a vehicle of harmony, loving-kindness, and justice. It can bring the people of Granada more closely together.”

  The sultan was impressed by Nasir’s answer. He sniffed the tongue. Its delicate scent was intoxicating. He chewed a morsel with childish delight, carefully explored the taste, and swallowed it slowly with a deep sigh of satisfaction. The sun had gone down, and the cool of the evening spread through the room. Father and son remained together at the table for hours, deep in discussion. This was their first opportunity to spend an extended time together. Toward midnight the sultan thanked Nasir for his generosity and then, with a certain emotion, embraced him.

  THE NEXT DAY, with every passing hour the sultan became more curious about Nasir’s second menu. With quick steps he went that evening to the dinner table, where he found on the platter exactly the same meal as the night before. The sultan was surprised. For a moment he thought there had been some mistake. Nasir smiled mysteriously and with an elegant gesture invited his father to the table. Before touching his food, the sultan asked for an explanation.

  “Father, you commanded my brother and me to serve the worst things we could find,” Nasir answered him. “This evening I took the liberty of serving tongue. In my opinion the tongue can be man’s worst enemy. The tongue can speak words of anger and hate, words that provoke tears and destroy human hopes. The tongue can spread lies and evil rumors. More than any other weapon, the tongue can create dissension and can harm the people of Granada.”

  Nasir’s words greatly impressed his father. Just as on the previous evening, the sultan inhaled the dizzying scent rising from the platter, then chewed the tongue with childish glee, paying close attention to the taste, and swallowed it slowly with a deep sigh.

  The sun had gone down. Evening cool spread through the room. Father and son remained at the table for a long time. They discussed poetry and passages from the Koran. Seldom had the sultan opened his heart as he did that evening. He told how the world had not been created once for all time, and he said that in the course of his life he had experienced many things he never could have imagined in his youth. He added that a relatively large number of those things that in youth he had expected to be the culmination of his exi
stence had quickly vanished from his memory. Then he affirmed, not without a certain melancholy, that one knows only very little of what dwells within the heart. Nasir listened attentively to his father, who did not fail to notice that the youngest son’s natural modesty had concealed his considerable erudition.

  TOWARD MIDNIGHT the sultan rocked back and forth in his library, talking to himself.

  “Nasir has never fallen prey to the foolishness of youth. He is calm, earnest, somewhat reticent but not cold—quite the opposite, he’s often very warm. His temperament is different from that of Muhammed. Muhammed seems to despise everyone and everything. Even as a child he hated Faraj. He is driven by unbridled passions, and he’s always ready to do battle, willful and with the temper of a madman. Nasir is never like that; he’s calm and respectful, accepting people for what they are. In addition, he’s modest and takes no pleasure in the badges of rank.”

  The sultan came to a decision: “Discretion and wisdom dwell with Nasir. He is the right man to manage the affairs of Granada one day.”

  Muhammed II decided not to proclaim his decision immediately. He concluded that the wisest course would be to keep things unchanged. Nothing should be published until the time was right. He was deeply satisfied with the outcome of the process. He went to bed and fell asleep immediately.

  ———

  A COUPLE OF MONTHS later, on a starry night, while lying in bed next to Nedjmaa, Muhammed complained bitterly about his father. “Don’t I fulfill my duties every day and defend the interests of Granada? Don’t I take the best possible care of my father? And his response is to tell me as often as he can—indirectly—that I’m a crude, simple soul and I’ll be a scourge to everyone around me when I rule Granada one day. He lectures me on the atrocious administration of the distant caliphate of Baghdad. He obviously hopes I’ll compare myself with all those terrible rulers he speaks so disparagingly of and I’ll understand that I’m just like them. But I won’t; I have no intention of doing so, no matter how often my wily old father tries to force me.”

  Nedjmaa gave him a challenging look. “You must show that you are a powerful man, a man of action, that you will overcome all obstacles your father puts in your way. Show them that nothing can keep you from your goal.”

  “What do you expect of me? It makes me shiver when I see what you’re after. Nedjmaa, what exactly is it that you are trying to get me to do? The whole thing is completely insane. You know very well that I cannot murder my own father.”

  “How many have eaten of that same fruit before you?”

  “Who am I to rebel against my father, my superior, consecrated by Allah the all-powerful? The very idea is insane!”

  “You think too much. Just act. There is no coming back. A man who killed his brother must never turn back. Your father the sultan embodies senility and decay. He belongs to a world doomed to perish. Granada is in crisis and needs a powerful, determined, harsh master. The people are not longing for ideas and gentle behavior but instead for a man of rigor, someone to chastise them and purify them. I can see everything clearly before me right now.”

  “Your nonsense drives me mad, Nedjmaa. I’m worried and afraid. Perhaps it’s the last remaining touch of weakness in me. I can’t possibly chop off my father’s head.”

  “Free yourself from those useless quibblings of your conscience! You won’t put an end to your father’s days. You’ll have the Jew do it. Let Chaim de Espinosa be your tool, your willing right hand. Promise him that he will become your personal physician. He will poison the sultan for you.”

  “And if he refuses? You know how much he loves my father.”

  “You’ll just have to make it clear to him we’ll all face catastrophe if a senile sultan continues to rule Granada. Don’t let the Jew rest for a minute, press him hard, tell him that he’s either with you or against you. Remind him that he who is not your friend is your enemy, and his damned gratitude toward the sultan is no excuse in this. It’s a question of choosing sides right now, making a decision, declaring his allegiance! Threaten his family if he’s reluctant. That’s where he is vulnerable. They say that he loves his little son more than anything else on earth, and his wife is expecting another child.”

  Muhammed sank into silence, apparently exhausted. Nedjmaa rose from the bed and fetched bread and water. After a moment of hesitation he accepted it. He broke the bread, ate and drank.

  HISTORY OF THE ARABS by the Lebanese author Philip Khuri Hitti is considered a classic. My great-uncle was the one who told us about it. Here, without any particular questioning of the sources but with unprecedented richness of detail, the author provides an account of the events recorded by the Arabic chroniclers.

  Hitti writes:

  Sultan Muhammed II ibn Nasrid died on April 8, 1302. After his midday meal he received a pastry delivered to him by a servant from the house of his son Muhammed. He was pleased by the gift and consumed it with good appetite. During afternoon prayers as he knelt in the mosque he experienced a sudden sharp pain in his abdomen. The pain intensified and he rapidly choked to death. He was interred that same evening in the gardens of the Alhambra, after which his son was proclaimed Sultan Muhammed III.

  When Chaim heard the news of the sultan’s death, emotion and shame tormented him. He became despondent.

  “No one can help me,” he muttered. “Putrefaction dwells within me. I despise myself. I have betrayed my benefactor. I am an evil person and I deserve to die.”

  His wife, Rebecca, saw the panic in Chaim’s eyes and heard him lamenting. She wanted to know what had happened. Chaim babbled rapidly and incoherently, almost swallowing his tongue in his haste to explain. Rebecca eventually grasped the fact that the sultan was dead and her own husband had prepared the poison that killed him. She was seized with a furious dismay.

  “How could you do such a horrible thing? How could you get involved with Muhammed? How could you let yourself be persuaded by him—when the sultan was certainly your generous benefactor and protector and treated you as a friend? Do you have any idea of what you’ve done?”

  “I was betrayed by my own gullible nature,” Chaim replied. “That’s how I wound up in this appalling situation! Believe me, my dearest one, Muhammed promised that he would make me his personal physician.”

  “Even if he rewards you with the post of court physician, you’ll never be able to live with yourself. Nothing will ever allow you to forget, and you’ll never be free of your evil deed. Besides, if you’re capable of willingly betraying the sultan who took such good care of you, without even thinking twice, then Muhammed knows that you’re absolutely unreliable. He knows you’d be ready to do the same to him.”

  “I shudder at the thought of what Muhammed forced me to do. But he threatened to submit me to unbearable torture if I refused to cooperate.”

  “Your fear of suffering has caused an even greater catastrophe. Don’t you understand what your treachery has led to?”

  AT NIGHT Chaim lay sleepless in tormented anticipation of what might happen next. Hour after hour, in a cold sweat and with a pounding heart, he heard voices whispering to him out of the floor and the walls. Haunting cries pierced him with their torrent of mockery, abuse, and dark threats. Was he imagining things? No, he told himself, these grim, implacable voices are demons who want to see me perish.

  His agonizing wait ended at dawn. Chaim felt a certain relief when four soldiers burst into the bedroom, ordered him to get dressed, and without another word carried him off to the dungeon of the palace. He looked around and shuddered at the certainty of what was coming. He quietly gabbled a Jewish prayer, understanding that this was the inevitable price of his treachery. He offered no resistance as the soldiers forced him down onto a bench and held him there. A powerfully built torturer opened his mouth and cut out his tongue with a red-hot blade. The pain was unbearable but brief. Chaim fainted almost immediately.

  When he came back to consciousness his vision was blurred and he could see nothing but the light of torch
es flickering against the walls. He lay on his back, half naked in a pool of dried blood that had stained the bench. His arms and legs were tightly bound with stout cord. He slowly came to his senses and discovered little by little that he was dripping with blood. He was surrounded by men who stared at him with contempt. At his side stood Muhammed and his mother, the sultan’s widow. Their eyes burned with hate.

  Although Chaim was groggy and in terrible pain, he still had enough fortitude to try to explain. But he was racked suddenly by an attack of coughing that convulsed his whole body. He vomited blood. Those in the dungeon stiffened even further. The executioner stepped forward and held his head until his coughing ceased. Chaim took a deep breath, his eyes full of tears. His lips twitched. All eyes were fixed upon his mouth. However much he tried, he could not utter a word. The true misery of his condition burst upon him with the knowledge that his effort to speak was vain and meaningless. He would never manage to reveal the truth about Muhammed.

  In the background the hunting hounds were howling. A bad omen, Chaim thought.

  “There is only one fitting punishment when a man sinks to such degradation that he betrays and murders his benefactor and master. That is death,” Muhammed declared. “Although you are the foulest creature in Granada, I will take pity upon you, for I am a sultan with a good heart. Therefore I spare you from a slow, protracted death.”

  With a quick flash of his dagger he slit open Chaim’s belly. He plunged his hands into the body, located the heart and cut it out, then threw the still-beating organ to the dogs.

  THE STORY of Chaim’s treachery frightened me more than any other experience in my childhood. When I thought of him, I was struck with grief, I suffered asthma attacks, and I couldn’t sleep; in the dark of the night I was tormented by terrifying thoughts. It was not unusual for me to sob until the sun began to rise. Sorrow and the torment of imagination gripped me tightly for days on end. No one could comfort me or console me. I could not bear the thought that the traitor’s blood was circulating in my own arteries.