Mr. Mani

by A. B. Yehoshua

  —Amen, Father.

  —And all the way to Transjordan too. Why not? With northern and southern trunk lines, God willing...

  —If the Jews make it their business to help Him a little ... In any case, Linka, who had been immobilized throughout the ride, began imploring me all of a sudden to tell our Mani that we would not impose on him but would find lodgings elsewhere; she evidently was unprepared to face the fact that he had a home and a family. I refused. There were nothing but fields all around—Jerusalem seemed at that moment to be no more than a parable—the night was coming on fast—and if we had missed the first dinner of the holiday, there was still the second one, to which I had been invited in Basel. “Absolutely not,” I said—and before Linka could think of an answer, the porters arrived and loaded our baggage on two flat wagons with swinging oil lamps. And so off we drove through the fields into the evening, giving the city a wide berth to avoid irritating any worshipers who might be wending their way home from synagogue. We climbed a high hill on which stood a German orphanage named for a man called Schneller; lurched across a field along a goat track; and arrived at a large, isolated, two-story stone house.

  —Of course, Father. All this was outside the walls of the old city. There are several small but attractive neighborhoods there, among them one of Jews from Bukhara that is not far from Mani’s house. There is even some greenery—upon my word, had I not known we had left Switzerland, I would have thought we were back there again...

  —No, not only Jews, Father. The Arabs are venturing out of the old city too. The place is simply not big enough for everyone...

  —Yes, it stood all by itself, in a solitude serendipitous at so holy a time, at the juncture between the two days of the holiday. It enabled the porters to unload in a hurry in an inner, flagstone-paved yard far from sacrilege-espying eyes—far from any eyes at all except those of an old Mohammedan peasant, who was crouched by a cistern with a cigarette cupped in his hand. Our Mani was beaming with excitement. “Come,” he whispered to us without climbing the stairs to the second story where his family was awaiting him, because he yearned to see his clinic—and we stealthily followed him into a large room full of white partitions that separated some beds, most of which were empty, although from several of them pregnant women regarded us with curiosity. We nodded hello to them; noted with surprise some large, white, well-scrubbed chamber pots all standing in a neat row; and saw a hefty matron approach us from the room’s far end, a blond woman dressed in white. Upon seeing that it was her doctor home from abroad, she let out a cry of joy and curtsied low to us—she could not shake our hands, you see, because her own were smeared with blood. Although I did not understand the Judaeo-Spanish that Mani spoke to her, I could tell that he was introducing me as a medical specialist who had come from afar to see his experimental clinic and its equipment. Repeatedly I heard him mention our estate as if it were a famous medical center—it was a name he could never get right and that Linka had long despaired of correcting his pronunciation of.

  —Each time it was something else. If he did not say Jelleny-Czad, he said Jelleny-Szak. In any event, before we knew it, the blond matron—who came to Jerusalem several years ago on a pilgrimage and proceeded to lose her faith there—was conducting us to the delivery room. At first I was astonished to see such a huge hall in a house that size—but soon enough I realized that I was looking at an illusion, for the walls were covered with mirrors cut and swiveled to face each other, while more mirrors surrounded the beds, so that the room—which was lit only by candles—resembled some resplendent grotto. As I stood wondering how we had ever fallen into the clutches of this most mysterious man, who had enticed us from so far away, the midwife brought us a basin of water to wash the dust from our hands and dressed us in hospital smocks. Wherever we looked we saw reflections—ghostly apparitions—images within images...

  —Linka was invited to join us. Although she was glowing with wonderment and quite delighted that I had not taken her to some inn, she kept looking anxiously at a woman in childbirth who lay covered by a sheet, a swarthy female who called to mind a lithe wildcat. Her abdomen was soft. Her long, bare legs protruded from the sheet...

  —You see, she was remarkably relaxed, Father, and at once I asked myself, what was the cause of her atonicity? I smelled no hypnogenetic agent; her face was alert; yet she lay there utterly tranquil, following us with her coal-black eyes, which seemed unperturbed at the sight of visitors. I could see at once that she had perfect faith in the Swedish midwife, who presided without losing her composure for a moment. Mani did nothing but smile at her quickly through his little beard and signal the midwife with a nod of his head to proceed with the delivery: And yet—are you listening, Father?—he managed to give the impression that had he not come back from Europe in the nick of time, everything would have come to a halt...

  —Yes. I can still picture every detail of that screamless birth, which took place on the night of our arrival in a Jerusalem that we had not even seen yet. For the moment we could only scent the city through an open window that let in a most wonderful breeze, on which was wafted a precise compound of cool, dry air and an almost imperceptibly sweet, herbiferous essence—a most carefully concocted extract whereof consists, I submit, the true grandeur of the place. Linka clutched my hand, all but digging her fingernails into it. She was actually shaking. For the first time in her life she was seeing a womb in action—in all those mirrors surrounding her she had more than a glimpse of what would one day be her own fate. The amazing Swede, having felt the next contraction coming even before the woman in labor, whose concentration was broken by our appearance, now leaned low over the bed and forced apart the long, brown legs, lowering her own body between them and thrusting her head toward the womb as if to lap up the blood that was dripping from it. She did not, however, do so; rather, she began to pant with short breaths like a faithful dog that has just run a course; whereupon the woman, slightly lifting her head to look in the mirror in front of her, which reflected the mirror behind her, began to pant too; and kept it up until the Swede stopped, at which exact second she stopped also The Swede threw her a big, happy smile, which turned at once into a suffering grimace; she brought her clenched hands up to her shoulders as if fending off an evil spirit; and at once the woman arched herself like a bow and mimicked her, grimacing and expelling what was in her. The cervix opened a bit more; a thin trickle of blood ran off into the white sheet; you could not have said whose ordeal was greater, the midwife’s or the woman in childbirth’s, for before the woman could groan the midwife had done it before her, panting again like a thirsty yellow dog that was joined at once by its faithful black mate. And mind you, Papa dear, this was doubled and redoubled all around us—behind us, before us, overhead, and underneath—yes, even the tears that glittered in the eyes of Linka, who was enraptured by the mystery of birth, were increased exponentially—if only you and Mama had been there to see how ravishing she looked in her white smock, by the flicker of the candles! She was never more beautiful—she never will be. She held my hand and leaned on Mani, who put an arm around each of us. “There, do you see?” he whispered to us in Hebrew. “It is without pain. Without pain.” We nodded. At that moment we both could have sworn that that Swedish Brunhild took all the pain upon herself...

  —So far he had done nothing—nothing, that is, but glance in the mirrors, in which multiple births were taking place, one more curious than the next—and in which you now could see a curly lock of coal-black hair that belonged to a little man-cub—a somber, wizened little thing that had chosen to be born at the very tail end of this old century—that had not wanted to wait for the next one, the unknown twentieth. It slid quickly out of the vagina, which made me think of a mouth that could not stop yawning, silently cheered on by us all. Mani went to a corner; deftly seized a curved, dripping knife from a boiling pot with his forceps; gripped the newborn infant with one hand; held it up; slapped its back to get it to cry; and then—with the most amazing dext
erity—cut the umbilical cord, stanched the bleeding, bandaged the wound with a large pad, and plunked the infant sweepingly down into the arms of Linka, who stood there in a daze. You would have thought her the mother and him the father—and I, dearest Papa, felt a shudder go through me, for he had, as it were, by that act, taken her captive...

  —No, they were Mohammedans, Father. A tiny, yellowish little Muslim, one of those premature babies you don’t expect to last a week—yet by some miracle it hung on, and on Yom Kippur it was still alive, measuring me with a friendly glance of its little, coal-black eyes...

  —No, why? He has Jewesses too. Did you think they are childless there? The very next day a Jewess gave birth to twins—a boy and a girl—and screamed so hard that even the Swede could not calm her.

  —But why? You have nothing to worry about. We Jews have our fair share of babies in the Land of Israel too...

  —It is an open clinic. That was his way, Father. A multiethnic, syncretistic, ecumenical clinic, which it has to be to survive...

  —A human laboratory, ha ha...

  —That is one way of looking at it. As for our Linka—

  —Now, now, that is putting it a bit strongly. As for our Linka—just imagine her standing there in a penitential-looking white gown, reverently holding the little baby, which meanwhile had stopped crying, and rocking him ecstatically—it just had been born and here she was already trying to put it to sleep! Mani was bent over the afterbirth, rummaging about in it as if searching for another infant, while the mother lay quietly, apparently feeling no need for words. For my own part, I was still groggy from the journey and delighted to be on solid ground, away from tossing waves, clattering trains, and lurching carriages. Our voyage was over; we were in Jerusalem, which could be breathed, if not seen, from the dark window! Dr. Mani called me over to have a look at the afterbirth and explained something in a Hebrew that was no more equal to the task than my own. I nodded somnambulistically, staring at that portly, energetic man who must indeed have been a pied piper to bring us to such a place. The line leading from Jelleny-Szad to Jerusalem was mysterious—inspiring—perhaps impossible—but oddly delicious all the same...

  —Perfectly delicious.

  —So I felt.

  —Delicious.

  —Pardon me...

  —His children? How strange that you should ask about them, because suddenly there they were: they had stolen unnoticed into the unguarded delivery room, because news had reached them in the synagogue of their father’s return and they had run all the way home. For a moment it seemed that the room was full of children. And yet there were but two of them, a brother and sister, multiplied many times over by the phantasmagorical mirrors. The girl was about ten, a squat, graceless child with two short, sad-looking braids and lazy, cowlike eyes; her brother was slightly older, every bit a little Mani, although not at all like his father—a thin, somber boy in a black suit and little fez with the face of an old man. He studied us strangers carefully, impatient to be alone with his father, who was deftly stitching up the patient while joking with Linka, in whose arms the baby was already fast asleep. The midwife made a move to drive the children out; only the girl, however, let herself be driven; at once the boy slipped back in like a little snake, a hurt, querulous look on his face. Soon his mother appeared too. It was easy to see whom the children had gotten their cheerlessness from and why the doctor was given to travel and having guests in his house. She was a docile woman with a chronic eye condition who spoke only Spanish—and at once I was alert to the danger, because this was not a strong family that could override an outside love but quite the opposite, one that could only inflame it. No matter how suspiciously the boy stood guard, he was too young to be an obstacle, while I—I was powerless—I was still sleepwalking from the journey and balmy with the air of Jerusalem, which I sipped like fine wine—let alone scared to death of sailing back over the waves. Yes, there was a danger, Papa dear, of being engulfed in that city, which—rather than cure us once and for all of our romantic notions—threatened to suck us down into it until you and Mama would be forced to come after us—to sell the mill, lease the forests, find someone for the house, and let go all the help...

  —You do?

  —Papa, you are wonderful! You honestly would sell everything? You are a man of ideals—a true Zionist—and a most innocent soul...

  —Because you are, Papa. Half shrewd businessman and half dreamer. Here, let me give you a kiss...

  —No, please! I have not given you a real kiss since coming home...

  —Wait—I’m sorry—I did not mean to be rough...

  —I will not break your glasses ... here ... one minute, old man...

  —But I did not mean to hurt you. All of a sudden you began to pull away...

  —I’m sorry, I truly am. It’s all right...

  —It was not insanely. It was lovingly!

  —I am sorry...

  —You are right, I have changed ... What time is it?

  —No—wait—do not leave me—look, the birth is already over. The bloody pads have been collected and the Swedish midwife has weighed the baby, handed it to its mother, and ushered in the father to see the new soul he has brought into the world—which, if it takes good care of itself, may live to see the tail end of the next century ... This Arab was a man of few words. He looked at his wife, patted her cheek, went back out to untie his donkey, and rode off in the night to his village to get more wives with child.

  —Four, I am told.

  —No more than four.

  —That is the maximum.

  —The devil knows. I suppose they fine him—or confiscate the fifth—how should I know? A man who has not even one wife is not the right person to ask.

  —No, he lived upstairs. And unlike the clinic, which was quite elaborate and spotlessly clean, the apartment was small and dingy, with an air of poverty about it. The place was poorly lit and full of shadows, and had a central dining room surrounded by little bedrooms piled high with odds and ends and linens. In it was a dinner getting cold because of the prolonged birth—indeed, I could tell by the number of settings on the table that Mani was unexpected too, to say nothing of his guests. By now I regretted not having listened to Linka and gone off to some inn. “I was wrong,” I confessed in a whisper, “terribly wrong—why don’t we leave right this minute?” But she hushed me at once, still burning with excitement over the birth that had possessed her whole being. “We mustn’t embarrass him,” she said. “He’s a sensitive man.” And so we stayed, hesitantly but hungrily led to the table to partake of a meal that was never intended for us. At the table’s far end a personage was waiting to meet us. She was Mani’s mother, a stately but almost blind woman dressed in black like the Greek peasants I had seen on Crete, who are already in mourning even before anyone has died. Mani hugged her with great fervor, kissed her hand, and introduced her to Linka and me in a Spanish mixed with Arabic. Once more I could see that I was being made out to be a specialist of worldwide repute—and once more he did not neglect to mispronounce Jelleny-Szad. The candles threw flickering shapes on the walls of the dark apartment, and once more I modestly inclined my head to acknowledge the honor accorded me in Jerusalem, taking the stately senora’s shriveled hand in my own while she lavishly welcomed me with a radiance that shone through her blindness. This made Linka so jealous that she stepped forward and seized the soft hand too, kissing it devoutly and presenting herself. Sensing the passionateness of the soul that was seeking to take her by storm, the old woman rose and laid a hand on Linka’s head to bless her. Nor, so it seemed, would she have released her had not little Mani, having removed his fez and jacket and become a small boy again, elbowed his way between them...

  —Only a mother. Dr. Mani never knew his father. He did not even possess a photograph of him. The man died before his son was born, killed in a brawl in an alleyway in the old city. It was Mani’s grandfather, his father’s father, who—having come especially from Salonika to be with the young
couple for the birth—took care of the widow in the first months. And yet instead of taking his grandson and daughter-in-law back to Greece with him, Grandfather Mani chose to leave them in Jerusalem and to return home by himself. Mani never knew him, nor anyone else in his family. He was raised entirely by his mother, a pampered and much-loved only son. These were all things I had already heard at sea, when he and Linka had sat up nights by my bed, ministering to my seasick soul while telling each other stories of their childhoods.

  —Ones I had never heard before. Maybe she got them from Mama, or from Grandmother ... or else she simply made them up...

  —For example ... for example ... no, Father, this is not the time for it. You still do not grasp that this story is not about us; it is about him—that Sephardic gynecologist—that soft, cunningly naive man who for years was possessed by a passion for self-murder that he concealed so as to scare no one away—whose consummation he put off to heighten the pleasure of choosing the pretext he would use...

  —Wait ... First comes the dinner that we crashed, which was by no means a large one but rather an assortment of side dishes—apples, cooked vegetables, pomegranates, bits of fried brain—each little more than a symbol—each a wish—a buffer against fear—a warning to enemies—a desire—a fantasy. None were capable of satisfying—all only made you hungrier. And thus we sat, hardly speaking, Linka and I, listening to the unfamiliar holiday melodies that warbled on and on while saying an occasional “amen” and swallowing symbols—and all this, of course, in five different languages, which the darkness and our own weariness seemed to combine into one.