Don Juan breathed heavily and tightened his fist around the cup.
“Shall I continue?” I asked.
“Yes.”
I realized that what I was about to say would strike him as a dagger, Why did I not turn the conversation into another channel? It was still possible. Why did I desire to hurt this man? Was it simply to notice his reaction, to convince myself that my surmise was correct,—or was it perhaps a secret resentment against the enemy of my race…?
“You do not love woman,” I insisted, like a prophet of evil. “Your amorous conquests rise from the endeavor to convince both yourself and the world that you are capable of loving her, that there is neither a spiritual nor physical deficiency in you…”
“Whom do I love, if not woman…?” he asked, standing up and glaring at me.
“You have asked me for the truth, señor,” I said quietly.
“I beg your pardon.” He reseated himself. “I do not know why I should be exasperated. You simply repeat what I told you myself, that I have not loved any woman.”
I smiled. “Nothing exasperates us so much, señor, as the truth, particularly if we try to conceal it from ourselves…”
We remained silent for some time. Don Juan made small circles with his cup. The parrots screeched: “Bienvenido” from time to time drowning the exquisite music of the other birds.
“Señor, whom do I love, if not woman?” he asked.
“Perhaps no one now, but at one time—long ago—had you obeyed your nature, you would have preferred– —”
“What?”
“Narcissus-like, you were enamoured of yourself, or the image of yourself—in another man…!”
He burst into a hearty laugh but stopped short. “A man! Señor, what a jest! I am the most manly man of Spain, not an effeminate fop. Look at my arms! Touch the muscle! It is iron, señor!”
“Your eternal insistence upon your masculinity proves that you are not sure of yourself…”
“It is man’s prerogative to be proud of his manhood…”
“When one is certain of it, it is unnecessary for him to emphasize its existence.”
“Señor,” he shouted, “you presume too much…”
“I merely obeyed your desire for my opinion…”
“That is right. Forgive me. I am an ungracious host.”
I bowed.
“But what proof have you, señor, for your fantastic assertion?”
“Why are you so upset about Don Fernando, señor? Is he the first man you have killed in a duel…?”
“He is so young…”
“Is he the youngest you have ever fought…?”
“No.”
“Well, then…”
“He was my friend…”
“And he resembles his sister as two drops of water resemble each other.”
“How do you know, señor?”
“Everybody in Córdoba knows it.”
“Supposing that were true,—what bearing has it upon your preposterous statement?”
“You would rather kill the sister than the boy…?”
“Even if that were true, what then…?”
“Don Juan, if you dared to look into your soul, you would see there…that you made love to the sister to escape from the brother… You love the man, not the woman.”
“Señor!” he shouted, and struck the table a powerful blow.
Kotikokura awakened with a start. Don Juan was about to strike the table again when Kotikokura jumped forward and grasped his arm.
“How dare you!” Don Juan shouted. I made no sign. Kotikokura released his arm.
“Don Juan,” I said, “if a guest’s opinion so upsets his host, it is best for the guest to withdraw.”
He became almost sentimental. “Forgive me, señor. Wine and the harrowing experiences of the day paralyze my understanding, and crush the instinctive hospitality of a Spanish gentleman. I beg you not to go.” He stretched out his hand which I shook.
He clapped his hands. A servant entered.
“Jaime, go fetch Mahmud the Moor and his band. Tell him to bring a few dancers, men and women. Tonight we dine in the garden and make merry in honor of our guests.”
The servant left.
Don Juan laughed, slapping his thighs. “Señor, you are magnificent! What you said was almost convincing. Your sense of humor is as keen as a blade. Your love of paradox is delightful. I am very fortunate to have met you.” Turning to Kotikokura, “And you, señor—your fist is more powerful than steel. You nearly broke my arm. I congratulate you. One more cup, gentlemen, to our most catholic King and to—Woman!”
We drank. Don Juan recounted gallant anecdotes and amorous escapades. He laughed uproariously, but his eyes were melancholy and distracted.
The field of honor was a secluded spot on the outskirts of Córdoba. We drove in silence. Don Juan’s face was drawn. The two long wrinkles on either cheek dug deep channels. The white spot upon his forehead appeared and disappeared at intervals. He kept his eyes closed. I knew that his fatigue was not due to the previous night’s revelry—a very simple affair—but to my words which had been sharper and had struck deeper than the sword thrusts he was wont to administer to his adversaries.
I regretted having spoken. A mere mortal cannot endure the truth, uncoated with the sweets of illusion. It was too late to undo the harm. I had a premonition that Don Juan’s last day had come.
Don Fernando and his seconds were waiting for us. The young man pretended a nonchalance out of harmony with the trembling of his body which he attributed to the morning chill. Don Juan scrutinized him, neither as an enemy nor as a friend, but as if endeavoring to discover whether what I had told him was true or false. He breathed deeply. Both the strange, affectionate attitude and the fury he had exhibited at their previous meeting, had disappeared. The lassitude of complete disillusionment possessed the great lover.
By the manner in which Don Juan handled his weapon, it was immediately evident that he was a master swordsman. Don Fernando was obviously a novice. Nervous, irritable, he exhibited the awkwardness characteristic of women in any purely masculine sport. Indeed, one might have taken him for a young girl in disguise, with his white skin, his delicate neck, whose Adam’s apple was merely a dot that shivered nervously, his chest deeply indented in the center and bulging on either side, his arms rounded and hairless…
Upon three occasions in quick succession, Don Juan’s sword touched his opponent’s chest. Three times Fernando was at his mercy. One pressure, and the battle would have been ended. Don Fernando waved his sword wildly, striking always either the ground or the steel of his enemy.
Don Juan smiled faintly. He made small inconsequent movements, uncovering his chest. Was it a deliberate gesture, fatigue of life? Did he realize that he could no longer endure existence…?
Fernando waved his weapon wildly, erratically. Suddenly, unexpectedly, it touched Don Juan. With the desperation of the tyro who sees himself vanquished, the boy forced it until half of it disappeared in the body of Don Juan. Then, surprised and awed by what had happened, he unclasped his hand from the hilt and stared, his mouth open.
Don Juan, closing his eyes in agony, tottered and fell. His mouth, flushed with blood, was contracted into a diabolic grin. His eyes rolled backward and glared at us with their whites, like newly polished porcelain.
The physician proclaimed him dead, killed in a lawful duel by Don Fernando in the presence of witnesses. But I knew that I was his murderer.
LIII: I RETURN TO THE FOLD—AN ENCOUNTER IN THE GHETTO—THE RABBI’S DAUGHTER
THE gate that led Kotikokura and me to the Ghetto was of Moorish origin,—a fine piece of workmanship now almost in total ruins. From one pillar, the black mortar dripped slowly to the ground like blood from a fatal wound. The other shook under the weight of my hand. The top was garlanded by many birds’ nests from which now and then a tiny inhabitant tried his unfledged wings.
On the side of the gate, which faced Córdoba proper, we
re carved and pointed threats against the Jews. On the opposite side in Hebrew letters, anathemas against the Christians, prayers, and prophecies of destruction.
Small ugly huts, surrounded by yards crowded with débris, goats, cows, and now and then a horse whose ribs pressed against his skin like the taut strings of a grotesque harp. Bearded men, their hands hidden within the sleeves of their long kaftans, their backs bent as if carrying an invisible load. Women with black shawls as if in perpetual mourning. Dilapidated shops upon the threshold of which the owners sat and gossiped with neighbors. Rickety carts dragged wearily through the mud by long-horned oxen or donkeys. Children—countless children—dirty, naked, noisy, ringlets over their cheeks or long braids upon their backs knotted with bits of string.
A thick stench—the stench of ancient and hopeless penury. I stopped a young man and asked him to direct us to the home of Rabbi Sholom.
“I am going to the synagogue which is opposite our Rabbi’s dwelling. If you will allow me, I shall show you the way.”
I thanked him and bade him walk at my side.
The young man sighed from time to time. It sounded like the sighing of the Jews of Jerusalem, the sighing of hopelessness and futility. ‘Will this always be the symbol of my race?’ I thought.
“Is it true,” the young man asked, “that Don Juan was killed in a duel?”
“Yes.”
“Thank God.”
“Why?”
“Rumor said that he planned to steal the daughter of our Rabbi, and kill everyone who defended her.”
“Don’t you exaggerate, señor?” I asked. “Are not your people somewhat too sensitive?”
“Sensitive?” He laughed ironically. “Is not a man whose skin has been flayed necessarily sensitive?” He threw his head back. His face uncovered from the blond curls, disclosed a head emaciated and delicate.
I forgot that I was Cartaphilus, centuries old, walking in the ghetto of Córdoba. It seemed to me that I was Isaac, a youth of Jerusalem, walking with a companion of my age, talking about the Jews and their conquerors—the Romans.
Little merchants with baskets on their arms or upon their backs called out their wares from time to time. Here and there, groups of men discussed clamorously either their business or some difficult passage of the Talmud.
A woman, a pot in her hand, ran past us. Another woman stopped her.
“Where are you running, Sarah?”
“My clumsy husband has spilt some milk into the soup. I am going over to the Rabbi’s to ask him if we may eat it, and if I can continue to use the pot for meat after this.”
“Our men too,” sighed the youth, “squabble and fight about trifles without consequence. My people have degenerated into ants seeking invisible crumbs while the feast is forgotten.”
“But they are not allowed to go to the feast– —”
“True, true,” he sighed. “They are not allowed to go to the feast.” Suddenly, however, he waved his thin, almost transparent hands. “Let them make a feast of their own! Let them show the merry-makers on the other side of the gate that they– —” He stopped short. “It is ridiculous, señor, it cannot be done.” He coughed, and sighed profoundly. “It cannot be done.”
“Is it so difficult to get beyond the gate?”
He looked at me. “Difficult? It all depends. To some to deny their faith is very easy, to others death is preferable.”
“Is denial of faith the only way?”
He nodded.
“A Jew remains a Jew, even if he accepts Christianity. Does the body,” I asked, “change because the dress is different?”
He twisted one of his curls. “Who knows? Perhaps, after all, that stupid woman running with her pot to the Rabbi is right. Meticulous observance of trifles enables the race to persist.”
We reached Rabbi Sholom’s house. The woman with the pot of soup, now covered with a heavy coat of grease, emerged, her eyes dazzling with joy.
“What a man our Rabbi is! An angel, I tell you! What a man!”
The young man was about to bid me farewell.
“Your conversation has interested me a great deal, señor,” I said to him. “It may be that I shall remain in the Ghetto…”
“Remain in the Ghetto?” he asked astonished.
I nodded. “I should like to have the pleasure of speaking to you again. May I know with whom I have the honor– —?”
He looked at me, unable to overcome his surprise and perhaps also, suspicion.
“My name, señor, is Joseph Ben Israel—a student.”
“My name is—Isaac.”
I extended my hand which he seemed reluctant to take for a moment. Then suddenly, he pressed it in his and rushed away.
Rabbi Sholom was sitting in a large armchair, underneath which the straw had gathered into a small heap. Two wooden benches on either side of him, and in a corner piled on a large table old books and manuscripts.
The Rabbi, a man of about fifty, dressed in white linen and felt shoes, rose and approached us.
“Welcome, señores.”
“Rabbi, we are strangers—travelers. We arrived only a few days ago in Córdoba.”
“Does Córdoba please you?”
“A beautiful city, indeed.”
“I have not visited it for many years.”
“Is that possible?”
“The younger generation dislikes our people. It is not prudent to irritate one’s masters.”
His voice betokened neither irony nor anger, merely resignation—resignation mingled with confidence. His eyes were deeply set and clear as a child’s.
“Is it not possible that the younger generation will realize that it is better to love than to hate their neighbors?”
Rabbi Sholom combed his beard with his fingers and shook his head. “This hatred is too young. It is still a little clumsy. It will increase and overthrow the last dikes. Only then may we hope for a reaction, for a better understanding.”
Who was this man who could view unflinchingly misery and hatred? His features reminded me of no one, but his voice seemed familiar. Whose was it? I sought within my mind, as one seeks in a long dark attic, lighted only at intervals by the cracks in the walls.
A yellow curtain, faded and torn in a few places, was drawn aside slowly, and a young woman entered. Her hair, whose black glistened like a raven’s wing, was woven into two long braids that hung down her back.
“I am busy now, my daughter,” the Rabbi said in Hebrew. “I shall call you when I have finished.”
She looked at me, blushed, and walked out. She was evidently the girl that had attracted the eye of Don Juan. It was for her he died,—for had it not been for his desire to possess her, I should not have spoken of the things that unnerved him. Don Juan died for a Jewess!
“Is it permissible, señor,” the Rabbi asked, “to inquire from what country you come?”
“I come from many countries, including the Holy Land.”
Rabbi Sholom opened wide his eyes. “The Holy Land?”
“Yes, Rabbi. Many times did I pass by the Temple—at least, the site of it.”
He sighed. “The Temple.”
“As an aged mother awaits patiently until the long hours of the night the arrival of a straying son, so the soil of Jerusalem awaits the return of Israel.”
“You speak kindly of us and our misery, señor. We have so long been taught to fear the Gentile that– —” he smiled sadly.
“Rabbi,” I said in Hebrew, “it is not a Gentile who is speaking to you—but a Jew.”
He stood up, stared at me and breathed heavily.
“A Jew who has wandered into the enemy’s camp, but who has never in his heart accepted the enemy’s gods.”
“Adonai be praised! But is it really true what you are saying, my son?”
I raised my arm. “I am Isaac Ben Jehuda who has wandered from land to land, without renouncing in his heart the faith of his fathers.”
He approached and embraced me. “Sholom Alechim.�
�
“Alechim Sholom,” I answered.
“And your companion, Isaac?”
“He is neither a Jew nor a Christian, but an adherent of Ishmael.”
“A cousin…”
“A cousin and a friend.”
He extended his hand which Kotikokura raised to his lips.
“Rabbi,” I said, “I am weary of travel. I am weary of being a stranger. I yearn to return to the fold. Will you accept me?”
“Israel is like an aged father waiting into the late hours of the night for the arrival of his wandering son,” he said smiling.
“Rabbi, the wandering son has come with an impoverished heart, but not with an empty purse. May he be permitted to show his joy by helping his brothers crushed by the cruelty of the enemy?”
“Isaac, my son, had you returned as poor as a beggar, the joy of your brothers would not be less. But if you can help us in our misery, it is God Himself in His unbounded wisdom who chose the right hour.” He clapped his hands. The sexton entered.
“Rejoice, Abraham, the lost sheep has returned to the fold! Make it known to all that Rabbi Sholom is as happy as when his daughter was born unto him! Let all men and women come to his synagogue where they shall receive wine and cake in honor of their brother! Blow the shofar in praise of the Lord.”
Abraham ran out.
Rabbi Sholom drew aside the curtain and called out: “Esther, Esther, my daughter.” The girl came in, frightened a little. “What is it, father?” He kissed her forehead. “Do not fear, my dear. The Lord has led the steps of a lost son back to our house.”
She looked at me, lowered her lids, and blushed.
LIV: THE BOOK OF ESTHER—THE VENGEANCE OF DON JUAN—KOTIKOKURA THE GOLEM—THE PLAGUE—THE SUICIDE OF JOSEPH—I ABJURE ISRAEL
THE feast lasted several days. I ordered unlimited food and drink and distributed gifts to all. Tables were spread in the yards and streets. Musicians with improvised instruments—pots, pans, iron and wooden sticks, flutes, one-string harps, made a ceaseless noise to which men and women, old and young, danced, their feet raised to their chins, or waved wildly in the air, clapping their hands the while. Only the morning and evening services interrupted the merry-making. The prayers were mumbled, the words half pronounced or omitted. Years of hunger and dreariness were smothered and stamped under foot.
My First Two Thousand Years; the Autobiography of the Wandering Jew Page 28