Kotikokura grinned.
“God’s will be done!”
My words astounded me. I realized how close blasphemy was to prayer.
The sky darkened with heavy clouds, and the wind beat against our masts like iron whips. “Kotikokura, have we blasphemed the gods, or overestimated our importance?”
He looked worried. I patted his head.
“Come, be cheerful, Kotikokura. The storm will pass.”
“Ca-ta-pha! Ca-ta-pha!” His eyes filled with tears.
“We have no time for sentiment, my friend. We must be alert.”
He did what I ordered him to do, but he continued to be very sad. Was he afraid? Did he, as on previous occasions, feel a premonition of evil?”
The storm became more and more violent. The waves dashed against our boats, as if intent upon crushing it. We were approaching rocks. If the storm did not abate, or the wind change direction, the boat would be dashed to bits.
“Kotikokura, we must be ready for anything. Tie about you this belt, within which are hidden many precious stones. I shall do likewise with this belt. If we are shipwrecked, and survive, our jewels will buy us a cheerful welcome.”
The storm continued its mad career. All my efforts to save the boat were fruitless.
“In a few moments, Kotikokura, we shall have to battle against the waves. If this is to be the end, let it be.”
Kotikokura wept. “Ca-ta-pha! Ca-ta-pha!”
I embraced him. Then we leaped into the angry sea to escape the wreckage of our ship. We struggled with the ocean, bruising alike our dignity and our skin.
“Don’t give up, Kotikokura!” I shouted from time to time.
“Ca-ta-pha!” he replied.
“Keep your head up, Kotikokura.”
“Ca-ta-pha.”
At times, very near each other, at times barely within hearing distance, we battled against the waves that showed no mercy.
“Kotikokura,” I whispered. “Kotikokura.”
Was it merely my own imagination, or did I hear him answer: “Ca-ta-pha. Ca-ta-pha.”
“Ko-ti-ko– —”
The waters were quiet and still like a bed of feathers.
“Kot– —”
XXXIX: SOFT HANDS—“WHERE IS KOTIKOKURA?”—ULRICA ONCE MORE—A HUSBAND WADES TO SHORE—“FAREWELL”
A SOFT hand caressed my forehead.
I looked up. I saw a young woman, with long braids the color of flax, and light blue eyes.
“Ulrica!” I whispered.
“I am Ulrica. How did you know my name?”
“Ulrica!” I whispered again, and closed my eyes. I tried to understand where I was, and how I happened to have gotten there. Slowly, painfully, I reconstructed my boat, the storm, the shipwreck. And who was this woman? Ulrica? Who was Ulrica? Oh, yes…my beloved…long, long ago…on the Rhine…my vineyards… But what was she doing here? Where was I? Was it really Ulrica? And Kotikokura…where was he? What had happened to him? I opened my eyes. The young woman was sitting near my bed, holding a cup out of which rose a thin vapor, delicately scented.
“Drink.”
I drank, breathed deeply, and stood up.
“Are you really Ulrica?”
“I am.”
“Where is Kotikokura?”
“Who is Kotikokura?”
“My friend…my brother.”
She patted my hand, and said very softly: “Everything will be all right, you will see. Don’t exert yourself too much.”
“Don’t be afraid, Ulrica. I am already well. Kotikokura is not a creature of my imagination. He is a real person. I understand everything now. I was shipwrecked, was I not?”
“Yes.”
“Well, Kotikokura was with me. We swam for a long while, and suddenly as I was about to lose consciousness, I felt someone or something lift me out of the water. I was saved! But life will be worth very little if my dear friend was drowned.”
“Perhaps he was saved also. When you get well enough to walk about, we shall look for him.”
I kissed her hand. “Why are you so good to me, Ulrica?”
“Should we not be good to those who suffer? Our Lord Jesus Christ commands us to love our neighbors.”
I was in a Christian home, and in a Christian country.
“Blessed be His name,” I piously added.
“I am so happy that you are a Christian, and not a Mohammedan,” Ulrica exclaimed. Her language was a mixture of the Barbarian language of the first Ulrica and Latin.
“And what is your name?” she asked.
“Cartaphilus.”
I inquired everywhere for Kotikokura. No one seemed to have seen another sailor who was saved on the day of the great storm. If I remained alive, could he drown? Were we not of the same blood? Was not my fate his? Was he perhaps at the bottom of the ocean, in constant agony, yet unable to die? Was he a prisoner of the monsters of the sea? If Kotikokura was not drowned, he was somewhere among men, and I was happy to think that I had given him enough precious stones to make him wealthy for centuries.
Ulrica and I were sitting on the verandah looking at the sea.
“Ulrica, who are you indeed?”
She looked at me, astonished.
“I am Ulrica.”
“Of course. But who is Ulrica?”
She looked at me again.
“No, no,—don’t be worried. I am very well. I must have given you much trouble.”
“No, Cartaphilus.”
“You are kinder to me than a mother.”
“Is not woman always the mother?”
“I have traveled all over the world, Ulrica, and have read the books of many nations, while you have been here your entire life watching the sea and helping people in distress. And yet, we have reached the same conclusion. Is it not strange?”
“Why should it be strange, Cartaphilus? What can one see in other lands…but the earth, the water, the sky…and men and women?”
“How true.”
“And is not God everywhere…and do not all people worship Jesus?”
“All people, Ulrica?”
“All except the Moors. But our King will convert them or kill them.”
“Who is our king, Ulrica?”
“Charles—the great Charles.”
“How do you know these things?”
“My husband, who was a sailor like yourself and had traveled everywhere, told me how Charles, after conquering all of Europe, was conquered himself by Jesus.”
“Your husband is dead, Ulrica?”
She nodded.
We remained silent for a while. The sea splashed the rock lazily, as if playing with it.
“The sea hides a man for years sometimes, and suddenly washes him back to his home. Your husband may return.”
She shook her head.
‘Just like the other—Ulrica,’ I thought. ‘Is this her reincarnation? Is she Asi-ma and Lydia too?’
“Did you love your husband much, Ulrica?”
She sighed, and claiming that she had to take care of the cooking, begged me to excuse her.
Did she love me?
“Ulrica, I shall tell you a story.”
“You tell such wonderful stories, Cartaphilus. They do not seem to be stories at all…but truth.”
I related my love for Asi-ma, and then for the other Ulrica. She wept. I caressed her hands.
“Ulrica died because of love…”
She nodded. “Always.”
Ulrica’s love and tenderness consoled me a little for the loss of Kotikokura. Meanwhile, I gathered information about the political and religious conditions of the country, and planned my new attack. I broached the matter of travel to Ulrica, but like the other Ulrica, she obstinately refused to leave her place of birth. I was becoming restless. ‘What does it matter, Cartaphilus?’ I asked myself again and again, ‘if you spend a quarter of a century in this spot, with Ulrica? Be compassionate, have mercy, be a man, not a god!’
The desire to leave beat
against my brain as an impatient stallion paws the ground. Vaguely the thought of abandoning Ulrica shaped itself in my brain. One evening, as I was telling Ulrica a story, playing with her hair which she had unfolded upon my knees—someone knocked at the door. Ulrica asked who it was.
“Open, Ulrica,—it is I, your husband!”
She staggered to the door, like a person who has received a heavy blow on the head.
A man, tall, gaunt and unshaven, appeared on the threshold.
“Ulrica!” he exclaimed, but stopped short on seeing me.
“Who is that man?” he shouted.
Ulrica did not answer. She groped her way to the wall, and hid her face against it.
“So that’s it! Your husband fights the king’s wars while you are another man’s bedfellow.” “She thought you were dead, sir.” “What of that? A whore’s a whore—” “You misjudge, sir. She is faithful—” “Faithful?” He laughed, and turned Ulrica about, pulling her by the hair.
“Can you swear by Holy Writ that you are faithful to me?”
She remained silent, her head bent upon her chest.
He raised his fist. “Shameless bitch!” he shouted. “I’ll kill you!”
“Don’t touch her!” I remarked quietly.
“What? You! You! How dare you step between husband and wife? Yes…that is true…first I must kill you! Then I shall square my account with her.”
It was a novel situation. Should Cartaphilus, lord of a thousand women, suffer injury for the sake of one?
“Calm yourself, sir. I can explain my presence—”
“Cur!” he shouted, and drawing a knife from his belt, raised it, ready to strike me. Ulrica screamed, and trying to divert the blow, received it full in the chest. Without uttering one sound, she fell in a heap.
He bent over her, caressed her face a little, closed her eyes, arranged her hair. He motioned to me to help him. He held her head, and I her feet. His back turned toward me, he led the way to the rocks. We climbed the highest of them. We swung the body and threw it as far out as we could into the sea. A small jet of water splashed our feet.
I planted myself firmly on the rock, expecting a furious combat. Instead, however, he turned about quickly, descended the rock, and walked off. It was too dark to see the direction he took.
“Ulrica!” I called. “Ulrica!”
No answer! Only the echo of my voice striking the rock and mingling with the waves.
I seated myself on the rock, and meditated on my life. What was it, save a panorama of dreams and of graves? What could it ever be but more dreams and more graves?
It became chilly. I shivered, and rose with a start. I walked toward the house where Ulrica had nursed me to life, that she might forfeit her own. I looked in. It was empty and quiet, as if nothing had happened.
“Nothing matters, Cartaphilus,” someone seemed to whisper in my ear. “Everything flows.”
“Ulrica,” I muttered, “farewell.”
XL: CHARLEMAGNE HAS A PAIN IN HIS LEG—INCESTUOUS LOVE—I PREPARE TROUBLE
AACHEN fluttered with pride. Charlemagne had recently returned, crowned Emperor of the West by the grace of God, and possessor of the key to the grave of St. Peter. To show his gratitude to the Pope, he issued an order to behead all subjects who refused to accept baptism. He founded several schools of theology and paid large salaries to teachers of Greek, Latin and Hebrew.
Charles had chosen Aachen because of its warm springs. In spite of his Herculean figure, he suffered from rheumatism. But the springs did not prove as miraculous as he had expected, and a new physician, I knew, would be welcome. Dressed as a monk, but wearing around my neck a large cross studded with precious stones to indicate opulence, I begged admission to the Great Monarch, claiming to be a doctor of medicine as well as a master of theology, conversant with all languages. The messenger, an officer of the Guard, whose large hand I filled with gold, bade me wait at the gate. A little later he reappeared.
“His Majesty will receive you at once.”
I was ushered into a large hall, in the center of which at a long table, Charlemagne and a dozen men, officers and bishops, had evidently just finished eating, and were munching nuts now, and drinking wine.
I knelt. The Emperor bade me rise. His voice was sharp and thin, curiously out of harmony with his enormous body and his short, heavy neck.
“Who are you?”
“My name is Isacus, Your Majesty. I was born in Rome, a descendent of the early martyrs who were burnt and tortured for their love of Jesus. Several of my ancestors are buried in the catacombs. Early—in childhood, almost—I heard the Lord command me to travel to all parts of the world, and preach His Holy Word. I have been in every country of Europe, Asia and Africa. I studied the mysteries of drugs in India, and of the stars in Arabia, and everywhere I preached the truth of the Lord Jesus Christ.”
“In Arabia, Isacus, I have a great friend, Haroun-el-Raschid, Caliph of Bagdad. Although an infidel, he is a man of courage and heart. Have you met him?”
“He sends greetings to the Great Emperor of the West, and this large ruby, whose scarlet symbolizes brotherly love.”
The Emperor showed the jewel to his guests, while eulogizing the Caliph.
“Tell me, Isacus, is it true that you speak all languages?
“It is, sire.”
“My friends who are masters of various languages, will speak to you, and see if it is really possible for one man to possess as much knowledge as you claim.”
The Emperor’s companions addressed me in several languages. I answered each in the tongue he selected. The sounds we uttered made the Emperor laugh uproariously.
Suddenly the Emperor’s face twitched. His enormous hand gripped his leg. The rest stopped midway in their laughter and drinking, and looked at one another, distressed.
“You are a doctor, Isacus?”
“Yes, sire.”
“Can you relieve my atrocious pain?”
“Your Majesty, I have brought with me strange and secret drugs from Samarkand, the country of marvels. With the help of our Lord Jesus I shall relieve your pain.”
“Try your drugs, Isacus.”
I massaged the Emperor’s leg, whispering passages from the Vedas and invoking Jesus and Mary.
Gradually, Charlemagne’s face relaxed, and he breathed freely.
I was offered a cup of wine, and we drank the Emperor’s health.
“Will the cure be permanent, Isacus?”
“I dare not hope it, sire.”
“How long must the treatment continue?”
“It is not possible to say, Your Majesty, but at least a year or two.”
“You shall remain with us, Isacus.”
His Majesty’s rheumatism necessitated frequent massages. He showered me with gifts and praises, and had I been ambitious, he would have included high honors.
“You are a fool, Isacus, not to desire a bishop’s mitre.”
“I aspire to no higher honors than to serve my sovereign.”
“You have served me well. My leg is much better. Though the pain has not disappeared entirely, I have not had any violent attack since good fortune sent you to the gate of my palace.”
“Lord Jesus be praised!”
The Emperor struck me lightly on the back, and bade me accompany him into the garden.
“What is your opinion, Isacus,—should the Emperor be the head of the Church or should he relegate his spiritual authority to the Pope?”
“It is very difficult to rule a great empire, Your Majesty.”
“It is.”
“Should the Emperor be concerned as well with the souls of men?”
“Perhaps not. But who should be supreme,—the Pope or the Emperor?”
“Is it not self-evident, great King? The sword is mightier than the cassock.”
“You are the only man of the Church who holds this opinion.”
“I am not ambitious, Your Majesty.”
A young woman whose hair glitt
ered in the sun like gold that’s poured from one vessel into another, was walking slowly, bending now and then over a flower. The Emperor whispered: “Is it a sin to love one’s own sister, Isacus?”
“It is not a sin, but a duty, sire.”
“I mean—as a man loves a woman.”
“In Egypt it was considered sacrilege for a royal brother not to marry his sister. Thus the dynasty was kept undefiled.”
“Very interesting,” the Emperor remarked, his eyes following hungrily the slim figure, whose blue silk gown fluttered a little in the breeze, like an enormous leaf.
“The daughters of Adam and Eve, our first parents, were the wives of Cain and Abel, their brothers,” I added.
“You are learned indeed, Isacus. I had never thought of this before. I always wondered how they had populated the world. But,” he added after a while, “would the Pope approve of this—now?”
“The Pope? The Emperor can make and unmake popes. Laws, Your Majesty, are for the people, dispensations for Kings. If the Pope does not admit this, he must learn the lesson…”
“I shall teach him his place! “ Charlemagne shouted, his voice breaking like a thin needle.
This was what I sought—to instil in Charlemagne a desire to dominate the Church, without being part of it. Thus sooner or later the two powers would clash and destroy each other. The proverb about a house divided against itself still held true.
My position at the Court was all the more important and influential because of its indeterminate character. I was merely a monk, officially,—but in reality, I was His Majesty’s physician and chief adviser in scholastic and political matters: also frequently in religious controversies. It became very soon apparent that I was impervious to bribes of all kinds. My enemies sent maidens, delicate and voluptuous, to gain my confidence. When the feminine messengers failed, the subtle priests entrusted their mission to ingratiating and complaisant young men. When those seductions proved equally ineffective it was whispered about that I was a eunuch.
[The Wandering Jew 1] - My First Two Thousand Years the Autobiography of the Wandering Jew Page 20