I asked him many things. He merely grinned or grumbled. Nevertheless, my desire to possess Salome did not abate. She must pay for her pleasure! I was a Jew, and required payment. My generosity had been merely a gesture.
“Salome shall be mine! We go there again this evening, Kotikokura. Am I not God Ca-ta-pha?”
Kotikokura knelt. “Ca-ta-pha! Ca-ta-pha!”
The gate stood wide opened and unwatched. No sword, no eunuch. Two owls, perching upon it, hooted at our approach, and rocked it by merely flapping their wings. What the previous night had been a gorgeous garden was now a wilderness of giant weeds, which scratched our hands and faces, as we tried to make a pathway to the house. I looked in vain for the peacocks, and Kotikokura watched the palm trees, whose withered leaves were covered with a heavy white dust, to discover the monkeys. Only large bats brushed threateningly against our faces.
The steps leading to the palace, shook under our feet, and the door, hanging from one hinge, swung against us like a broken branch. We lit a torch. Rats, enormous worms and lizards, scurried into the large holes of floors and walls, or remained in the corners in menacing attitudes. Our faces became entangled in the cobwebs, which hung from the ceilings where diamonds had been glittering like lamps.
The couch Salome had sat upon crumbled at my touch; the canopy was devoured by sharp-fanged moths and other insects; the skeleton of a small animal, yellow and frail, like the tendrils of a large, fantastic leaf, cracked under Kotikokura’s step.
“Kotikokura, are we dreaming?”
He scratched his head vigorously.
“Were we not here last night? Was not this a palace, luxurious, gay?” His eyes galloped from corner to corner. The rest of the furniture was an indescribable hill of débris, except one huge bed which seemed intact. We approached it. Pathetically, like a living thing, in a vast cemetery, shone upon it Li-Bi-Do the exquisite tiny god of jade I had given Salome.
“It was not a dream, Kotikokura!”
He bent his head.
I struck the bed a heavy blow. It crumbled into a shapeless mass.
The foul air stifled me. My throat tightened. “Let us go out.” As we reached the spot where the fountain had been, I noticed a large stone basin, made white by the moon. “Was this basin here when we entered this evening, Kotikokura? Did you see it?”
He scratched his head.
“Are things changing under our very eyes, Kotikokura? Are we enchanted?”
The basin was deep. I looked into it. A large tortoise, whose back glittered like a great yellow and black jewel, lay within it motionless save for a tiny, sharp head which moved rapidly like the tongue of a bell.
“A tortoise, Kotikokura! Is this Salome? Was the Chinese philologist right? Was it this animal with whom you spent the night?”
Kotikokura grinned.
“We shall take it with us. Its name shall be Salome, in honor of the magnificent Princess.”
I inquired about Salome of many people. No one had ever heard of her. The castle had been in ruins for generations. It was a place haunted by evil spirits and queer beasts, but as I insisted that I had seen and spoken to a beautiful Princess there, whose retinue was enormous and magnificent, that peacocks spread their gorgeous fans at our approach, and monkeys hung on the branches of palm trees, the people smiled or laughed, and as I turned my face, pointed to their foreheads significantly.
One old woman, thin as a skeleton, with eyes as dazzling as the beads of a stuffed animal, hissed: “Salome? A witch, who died three hundred years ago.”
I would have considered the whole matter a dream, a nightmare, had I not found the little obscene divinity upon the bed. “And the letter!” I exclaimed suddenly. “You brought me a letter from her, did you not, Kotikokura?”
He nodded. As I reached for the missive, a thin stream of ashes fell to the ground, and I remained empty-handed.
For a very long time, I could think of nothing save Salome. I was quite certain that I had actually met her and that, much better versed in magic than I, she had been able to transform ruins and death into life and magnificence for a night. But why had she treated me so disdainfully, preferring an ape’s caresses to mine? Was I he whom she must shun?
Perhaps—and this pleased me and comforted me more than any other idea—she feared that if she yielded herself to me, her personality, weaker than mine, would be submerged and conquered.
Perhaps possession would slay desire.
No! Seeking was better than finding…
I laughed aloud. Kotikokura, frightened, crouched behind me.
XXXI: THE ELOQUENT HAMMER—KOTIKOKURA DISCOVERS TEARS—MOHAMMED OR JESUS?—I REACH THE OUT-SKIRTS OF MECCA
“HE is the Prophet!” shouted the horseshoer, dropping the animal’s leg, which he held in his lap.
“He is not the Prophet!” shouted back the owner of the horse, placing his foot into the stirrup.
“He is the Prophet!”
“He is not!”
A crowd gathered. The two men shouted back and forth their absolute convictions, adding insults, dealing with their physical appearance, their professions, their morals, their intelligence, and the probity of their ancestors.
Infuriated, the horseshoer struck his opponent a powerful blow. The man fell, his face covered with blood. The horseshoer raised his hammer over the victim’s head. “Do you believe he is the Prophet?”
The man grumbled, “I believe.”
Turning to the rest, his hammer still in the air: “Is there any man here who does not believe that he is the Prophet?”
No one answered.
“Is he the Prophet?” he asked Kotikokura, who was grinning.
Kotikokura nodded.
He glared at me. “Is he the Prophet?”
“Certainly he is. How could it be otherwise, when I see so much zeal! Is not zeal the sign of truth? Could a lie inspire such passion?”
The horseshoer replaced the hammer upon the anvil.
“Stranger,” the blacksmith said, “you deserve a place with the true believers in Paradise, where soft couches, delicious fruit, and beautiful virgins await us. So says the Prophet.”
“Whatever the Prophet says is truth.”
“The unbelievers refuse such delights, but we shall find ways to persuade them. Where kind words fail the hammer shall speak.”
“The eloquence of the hammer is indisputable.”
Kotikokura walked behind me, his body bent, his arms dangling. Since the affair with Salome, I had neglected him, and he was unhappy.
“Forgive me, Kotikokura,” I said.
He kissed my hands. His eyes filled with tears,—for the first time it seemed to me.
“If Mohammed is truly the Prophet, Kotikokura,—who knows…perhaps…we shall be parted forever.”
“Ca-ta-pha! Ca-ta-pha!”
I took his arm. “Kotikokura, you have been a great consolation to me.” Kotikokura threw his head backward and walked upon his heels, his face radiant.
Rumors of the new Prophet had reached me from many quarters. These rumors strangely disturbed me. Could it be Jesus returned to earth? Was it the second coming of the Messiah which John and Mary ceaselessly prophesied?
“Tarry until I come” he had said. If the second part of his command should prove as true as the first my pilgrimage was at an end. I was not prepared for such an issue. Every year had added new zest to my life. I did not want to relinquish it now. Nevertheless, some force beyond my own volition drew me inexorably to Mecca.
Soft couches, delicious fruits and beautiful virgins?
It could hardly be that the Paradise of Jesus was so earthly. It was possible, even probable, that the horseshoer had misinterpreted his words. Even Paul and Peter and his immediate disciples had misunderstood him; why not this simple fellow, whose arguments were the fist and the hammer?
I tried to visualize Jesus, to hear his voice. I could recall nothing save his luminous eyes, which I preferred not to remember. We reached the outskirts of
Mecca and it began to rain,—a heavy perpendicular rain. We struck up our tents.
Kotikokura was snoring. The tortoise stretched out its thin head at intervals and munched the large leaf of cabbage in front of it. The rain beat upon the canvas.
Should I turn back? Could I avoid my destiny? Was I master of myself? Why should I fear? Was it not ridiculous to think that Jesus had returned? And yet…was it more impossible than the miracle of my own existence?
I remembered suddenly Nero. I could see him arrange the folds of his toga. He was dust. I remembered John and Magdalen, Lydia, Damis, Asi-ma, Ulrica, Flower-of-the-Evening. All were dust. Should I become dust as well? I shuddered. No! I must live on! I had permitted life to pass me by as a dream. From now on I would grasp at realities! I would begin to live!
The night was interminable. I yearned to pray. Who was my God? I could not choose from the long array that passed before me—old gods, new gods, even myself riding upon the camel, on whose head, like a crest, the parrot perched, screeching: “Carr-tarr-pharr… Carr-tarr-pharr…!”
Toward morning the rain stopped. The sun shone like the eye of some mischievous young divinity. Kotikokura continued to sleep. I descended, patted the animals, and offered them food. Kotikokura woke up with a start, and jumped off the cart.
“Come, my friend, we must face our destiny, whatever it may be. Life…death…who knows the difference?”
Kotikokura yawned, stretched, breathed deeply.
“Being accustomed to the earth, Kotikokura, one hates to leave it. There is something delicious in merely existing.”
Kotikokura rubbed the long noses of the bullocks.
“The earth is beautiful. The earth is like the lap of one’s mother. Who can leave her, Kotikokura, without weeping?”
Kotikokura knelt and took my hands. “Ca-ta-pha, Ca-ta-pha! Live…always.”
“But after all, should we disdain death, Kotikokura? May she not be as beautiful as life? May not her kiss be as delicate as the kiss of a virgin?”
“Live always… Ca-ta-pha. Live always.”
“Better than either death or life is the calm acceptance of fate.”
“Live always, Ca-ta-pha.”
XXXII: I FACE MY DESTINY—MY FRIEND ABU-BEKR—THE ANGEL GABRIEL DICTATES A BOOK—MOHAMMED STROKES HIS BEARD—“DARUL HARB”
MECCA was a cauldron of argumentation and mysterious stabbings. The camps had not yet been clearly formed, and it was dangerous to say “I believe” or “I doubt.” Believers and doubters alike had their faces set, and their hands upon the handles of the semicircular knives which protruded out of their wide belts.
“Neither nod nor shake your head, Kotikokura. We are strangers from far-off countries passing through Arabia. We have not heard of Mohammed, the new Prophet, but are certain that truth will conquer.”
Kotikokura grinned.
“Truth always conquers, Kotikokura, for that which conquers is truth.”
But if my lips were tightly sealed, my ears were opened wide and attuned to the whisperings, as well as to the tumult of the storm.
‘Was Jesus, Mohammed? Was Mohammed, Jesus?’ I must face my destiny. The uncertainty was intolerable. But where was Mohammed? Neither the believers nor his enemies could tell with precision. The former promised that he would soon appear, a dazzling prince at the head of a great army, leading them to victory; the latter laughed ironically, and called him a coward, hiding behind the skirts of his women, afraid to face them.
Meanwhile, the name of Abu-Bekr crawled into the argumentations, subtly, quietly, with something of an ominous significance. No one knew how powerful or how weak Mohammed’s father-in-law might be: no one could tell when or how he had acquired his wealth, nor what had prompted him years ago to give his daughter into marriage to a mere stripling, almost destitute. And now that his daughter was dead, and Mohammed remarried for the third time,—what were the relations between the two? They could neither praise nor condemn Abu-Bekr. He eluded them like water that one tries in vain to keep in one’s fist.
I sought out Abu-Bekr. I won his confidence by quoting ancient prophecies announcing the coming of the Messiah. I offered him my wealth for his camels. The old man was moved. We became blood brothers. Abu-Bekr consented to lead me to the hiding-place of Mohammed.
“Follow me, Cartaphilus.”
Abu-Bekr led the way through a subterranean passage which meandered in various directions. At every turn, a watchman demanded the password. Abu-Bekr answered each one differently, and each one replied: “Allah is God, and Mohammed is His Prophet.”
We climbed several steps and found ourselves in a large room, which led into other rooms by openings on the right and left. Afterwards, I discovered that the roof of the house was completely covered by a vine, which hid its existence, and that there was no other entrance save the circuitous catacomb.
“Allah is God and Mohammed is His Prophet,” Abu Bekr called out. A slave appeared and bowed three times. “Tell the Prophet I must speak to him.” A few minutes later, the slave reappeared. “The Prophet—may his name prosper forever—has converse with the Archangel Gabriel.”
He bent three times to the floor, and we did likewise. “The Prophet will see you as soon as the Archangel returns to the Throne of God.”
We entered the room to our right. A middle-aged man was reclining on a couch. A pretty girl, one of his wives or concubines, was anointing his head and washing his beard with perfume.
“Mohammed, my son, and Prophet of Allah, I have brought a stranger with me,—Cartaphilus, a great merchant of India.” I used the Latin form of my name by preference.
Mohammed motioned to the girl, who walked out immediately. I felt a curious dizziness. Was it merely my own excitement, or the presence of him whose return would mean my destruction, as long ago it had meant my life?
Mohammed raised his eyes. They were very black and dazzling. But they were not the eyes of the Nazarene!
“Welcome, Cartaphilus.”
His voice was deep and vibrant. But it was not the voice of Jesus! My faintness disappeared. He bade us sit down, and ordered sweets for us.
“Has the Angel of Allah visited you today, my son?”
“He has.”
“Is it permissible for our ears, Prophet of Allah, to hear the angelic message?”
Mohammed looked at me critically.
“Our sacred books,” I said, “foretell the advent of the true Prophet…who was born in the desert…they were dictated by God himself.”
“I know. So were the words that Moses carved on the tablets of stone. Jesus, too, heard God.”
“Moses,” I remarked, “was a great lawgiver. Jesus was a young prophet who had heard merely the beginning of the prophecy and mistook its purpose.”
Mohammed caressed his beard. His hand was large and fleshy. It was not the hand of Jesus.
Abu-Bekr smiled, closing his eyes slowly. “How should it be otherwise, my son, if a man dies so young? Do not all our books speak of the wisdom of old age, and the errors of youth?”
“Every great event is foreshadowed by a lesser one. Jesus is the moon, Mohammed the sun,” I added.
‘If he is Jesus,’ I thought, ‘it matters not if I belittle him. If he is not Jesus…he shall be the sword with which I destroy the Nazarene! Attila was merely a warrior. The sword rusts in its scabbard or breaks with usage. Mohammed is a man of words…words dictated by an angel, directly descended from Heaven! Words rust not.’
“Jesus spoke beautifully,” Mohammed remarked.
“Beautifully? Who heard him, Prophet of Allah?” I asked. “His disciples were long dead before the words were put upon parchment.”
“Besides,” interrupted Abu-Bekr, “what does it mean? The poets speak beautifully. Are they, for that reason, the true prophets of Allah? Shall a man speak beautifully, or truly?”
“Truth shuns beauty, knowing that she ensnares like a woman,” Mohammed replied.
Would Jesus have spoken thus? Mohammed spoke a
s a man of worldly experience, and with something of the bitterness which is the heritage of all who have known the joy and the profound disillusion of sex. No. These were not the words of Jesus!
“Woman is the mother and mistress of man. She must be faithful and obedient to him,” Mohammed added.
“How true, Prophet of Allah! But what has Jesus said of woman? Did he not accept a gift of the courtesan and forgive the woman taken in adultery?”
Mohammed clenched his fist. “Against those of your women who commit adultery, call four witnesses among yourselves, and if these bear witness, then keep the woman in the house till death release her, so God has ordered.”
“The words of the Prophet are full of wisdom.”
“And God has also commanded this to the wives of the Prophet: O wives of the Prophet, whosoever of you shall commit a manifest wickedness, the punishment thereof shall be double!”
“Jesus forgave Mary instead of punishing her. Was he a true prophet?” I asked.
His eyes blazed, his heavy lips pouted.
No, he was not Jesus, or if Jesus, so changed that he remembered neither himself nor me.
“Prophet of Allah,” I said, “is it true that Europe is nearly all Christian?”
“It is, Cartaphilus.”
“The boundaries between Europe and Asia are no longer very formidable. I have heard that even the great wall that encircles the Celestial Empire yields to the hoofs of horses and camels.”
“They who wait to be attacked are already half conquered,” added Abu-Bekr.
“If Christianity has conquered Europe and converted the descendants of Attila– —”
“May his name be cursed!” exclaimed Abu-Bekr.
“Then,” I continued, “is Arabia safe?”
Mohammed listened intently, smoothening his black beard. His large chest rose and sank quickly.
My First Two Thousand Years; the Autobiography of the Wandering Jew Page 15