I made a full report, though, to avoid offending him, I omitted the intimacy of our relations. I just said we were very close.
He approved, saying, “You told me she lost her husband and only daughter, is that right? God considers Himself the protector of widows. He who comes to their aid is the messenger of God. . . .” I expected him to question me further about Eve’s life, about her character and personality, but he just scrutinized me a moment, then resumed. “And anyone who does them harm is the envoy of Satan.”
I accepted that, though I’m not sure I believe in a power that can be identified by the name of Satan. Evil is to be found in every person who allows himself to be dominated by it. But Rebbe Zusya believed in Satan, and that was enough for me. I thought, If Satan exists, it is surely someone like Samaël, or indeed Samaël himself.
“What do you know about him?” Rebbe Zusya asked.
“Not much, Rebbe. Very little. Next to nothing.”
“Where is he from? What’s his background? What is his business? What does or did his father do? You don’t know? Is he miserly? Does he speak deliberately, thinking over every word, or rapidly? Does he move his head while speaking? Does he stammer? His hands—what does he do with his hands while speaking?”
How could I reply? My recollections were too vague. “All I know, Rebbe, is that there’s something fascinating about him, but also something repellent, and I don’t say that lightly. You listen to him, you try to pay attention, and at the same time you want to get him out of your presence, out of your sight, for fear of being infected by contact with him.”
The old Rebbe nodded in concern. “There is Evil in many things. It can find a place anywhere.”
“Even in the Good?”
“Even in the Good. That is where it’s most pernicious, most dangerous. It steals in behind a mask, pretending it wishes to serve the Lord and come to the rescue of those He created. Oh, how difficult it is to unmask him, to make him reveal himself. To do it, you must have siata dishmaya, the grace of God. . . .” I was silent, straining not to miss a word the Rebbe was saying. “Sometimes Satan wears the mask of one of the Just. He speaks like him, behaves like him, recites the prayers as he does, and he does it so well that naïve and pious Jews may be duped into becoming his adepts and disciples. Then, once he dominates and leads them, he suggests they help him to hasten the coming of the Messiah. He tells them how to go about it: The Talmud declares that Redemption will come only when humanity is either entirely innocent or entirely guilty. Now, many Sages and Teachers have chosen the first option, and everyone knows they failed. So why not try the second way? And how is that done? Simply by violating the commandments of the holy Torah. Break the Sabbath, insult your father and your mother, steal, covet your neighbor’s wife, lie about your neighbor, commit adultery and incest, preach violence, kill. In short, call pure what is impure, and impure what is pure—and all supposedly for the well-being of our people and of all peoples, in the name, that is, of the ultimate Deliverance. . . . Is that the goal that this Samaël is trying to achieve?”
The Rebbe’s eyes never left me, as if he were afraid he would lose me forever if my attention were to stray even for a moment from his words and his vision. He kept rocking back and forth as he spoke.
“This Samaël you’ve told me about is dangerous because he resembles Satan himself in all he undertakes. His evil is contagious. He is corrupt, so he seeks to corrupt others. His poisoned soul is never satisfied unless it can poison others. Are you afraid for your own soul?”
“No, Rebbe, not for mine, but for Eve’s.”
The Rebbe’s gaze was severe and piercing. “You’re a widower. You’re alone, aren’t you? Why didn’t you marry her? Is it because of your first wife?”
“Perhaps, Rebbe. Colette made me suffer too much, especially after her death. She took my two daughters away from me. For years, I was afraid of making the same mistake again.”
“God is present in every union of two people.”
“Not in mine with Colette.”
“What do you know about it? Some philosophers hold that man was God’s mistake. I don’t accept that. It’s just that at times a man has to make his own mistake before he can find his way with more self-respect and humility.”
What could I say to that?
“And Esther?”
There again, I did not answer, but the Rebbe persisted. “Are you still searching for her?”
“No, Rebbe. Excuse me, that’s not right. Yes, I am searching for her, but as you would for an old melody, a forgotten word, a flavor, a moment, a feeling you once had. Esther has nothing to do with Eve.”
“Well then,” the Rebbe asked once more, “why didn’t you marry her?”
“She chose someone else.”
“Samaël?”
“Yes, Rebbe.”
The old Teacher heaved a sigh. “Let us hope she hasn’t fallen so low that she cannot be rescued.”
“I don’t know, Rebbe. When I think about her, I no longer understand anything.”
Our eyes met. His were sadder than ever.
On my way out, I met Shalom. Seeing my dejected mien, he took my arm and gave it a squeeze. “You’re having another problem with a woman? Don’t let it get you down. The Rebbe is on your side; that’s all that matters.”
All that matters? Easy to say.
AN ETERNITY LATER, I HALTED A MOMENT BEFORE the door in the hallway, whose gray walls were stained with humidity. I was shivering in spite of the heat. I was cold in the depth of my being. I knew I must turn the knob, but I could not bring myself to take that simple action. What was holding me back? In truth, I knew perfectly well what it was. Old Rebbe Zusya, who had once again urgently summoned me, was sick and perhaps dying. He would die, and his life’s work—like that of the hero of my novel, the Blessed Madman—would remain unfulfilled: He would not witness the coming of the Messiah. I was afraid to face him in his despair. Should I knock, or leave? I wondered. As always, I decided, it was too late to back out. There, in the room, one of the Just awaited me, one of the thirty-six men to whom the world owed its continued existence. He was waiting for me. Was it so he could die in peace after entrusting me with the reply to unanswerable questions, the secrets whose meaning I had been forever seeking? Perhaps the future of others besides me depended on my last meeting with this man who understood everything. The curtain was up; I was facing those others. I could not leave the stage before the end.
Still I hesitated. Was I looking for an alibi, an excuse for my fear? So that one day I could say, In the hour before the death of Rebbe Zusya of blessed memory, my hand trembled and my heart beat fast?
It was beating very hard indeed. A frightened small voice inside me said, Suppose he is already dead? You did wrong to wait so long. When one who is dying summons you, you must hurry to him and, above all, waste no time. . . .
My fingers felt damp and sticky. I was sweating. I was breathing slowly, noisily. I was hot, or was I cold? I was freezing.
I pushed the door open abruptly, as if in panic. The pale, dusty light made me still more uneasy. I glanced around the room. It looked abandoned. Stains here and there marked the walls like black geometric frescoes. On the table lay books, a prayer shawl, phylacteries. The bed was in a corner. Was Rebbe Zusya asleep? No, he was watching me. I felt impure, unworthy, as if I were covered with mud. The same small inner voice rebuked me: Is this any way to bid farewell to your Teacher? I saw my shadow on the wall to my right, an elongated caricature. It had parted from me, as if to dissociate itself from what was to happen. Shadows also need alibis.
“Come closer,” said the old Rebbe in an astonishingly strong voice.
I took a step toward his bed.
“No doubt you’re thinking my life is going to end in defeat. Isn’t that what you’re thinking?”
“I no longer know what to think, Rebbe.”
Now, at what was to be our last meeting, he repeated, “Come here.” But this time I did not move. “So wh
at are you waiting for? Come here! Are you afraid? Afraid of seeing me beaten, defeated by death?”
“Yes, I’m afraid.”
“But I’m not beaten! I’m still alive. With my last gasp, I can change the course of events. Don’t you know that yet? Haven’t I taught you anything?”
Actually, my fear was different. Vague and undefinable, it did not grow out of any premonition, nor was it connected to any particular event. It had seeped into my soul and now weighed on my life and my thoughts as if to paralyze them. I was afraid I had omitted something. A deed—but which? A word? Perhaps I should have recited a prayer. The dying man was saying a prayer. Should not his companion do as much? Did not the dying man and his witness feel the same need to bring God into their last moment together?
“Come closer,” said the Rebbe.
I was standing right at his bedside. Did he not see me? Or did he mean something else? Was I to interpret his command as purely symbolic? Perhaps mystical? “Ta khazzi”—“Come look”—is an invitation that is often found in the Zohar, the Book of Splendor. Was he preparing to give me his secret as testament?
And I, to whom would I leave mine? When I die, I thought, I will leave nothing behind, no trace of me on this earth. My daughters? If they had given birth in their turn, surely that too put me even further out of their thoughts. Why had I never told Rebbe Zusya about this? He whose vision encompassed the universe might at least have been able to tell me where they were living.
I remained silent. Was the Rebbe expecting me to question him? I felt vaguely disappointed. I was hoping for a revelation, perhaps about Esther. I had never forgotten Esther; I never would. Even when I’d loved Eve, and I’d loved her with all my heart, Esther had been strangely present in my love. Esther was beginning and promise; Eve was parting and loss. Should I speak of it to the Rebbe now? I wondered. It would be my last chance. There would surely be no more, for old Rebbe Zusya, descendant of the great Master by the same name, a pillar of the Hasidic movement, was at death’s door.
I would have liked also to have told him more about Colette and our unhappy marriage. The Rebbe liked to quote the Talmud, which says all marriages are arranged by God. Then ours, stormy and ridden by our inner demons, had surely been a blunder on God’s part. I had mentioned it in an earlier discussion, no point bringing it up now. Besides, this was no time to make the dying old Master unhappy.
“Come closer,” he said in a suddenly feverish tone.
“I’m here right by you, Rebbe.”
I could draw no closer than I was to his bedside.
“Tell me the truth: You think I summoned you because I’m going to die, isn’t that right?”
“Yes, Rebbe, that’s what I think.”
“Well, you’re mistaken. If I wanted to see you today, it was to talk about this heretic acquaintance of yours, Samaël. Are you still in touch with him?”
“No, Rebbe, I’ve completely lost track of him.”
“But you know how to reach him?”
“No, Rebbe, I don’t.”
The sick man was sweating. He closed his eyes and sighed. “Too bad. I want to see him, and I need to talk to him. It’s important. You must find him and bring him to me. Go, my son. May the Lord guide you to him. But watch out: Don’t let him involve you in any long conversation, or you may be lost. Just tell him that you have a message for him: I wish to speak with him. That’s all. Do you understand me?”
Rebbe Zusya sat up to extend his hand to me. To bid me farewell? Perhaps to bless me?
“Know this, my son: I will go on fighting. I will fight to my last breath, to the end and far beyond.”
Exhausted, his eyes closed and his head fell back on the pillow.
I backed out of the room.
AFTER HIS ENCOUNTER WITH THE REBBE, GAMALIEL spent long hours reflecting on the subject of lies. The word buzzed around in his head like a bee trapped in a bottle.
Gamaliel knew that Samaël’s lies carried deadly poison. But what about his own lies? Wasn’t his whole life a series of deceptions? He had married Colette without truly loving her. He had not invested enough energy and determination in restoring his relationship with his two daughters. He had to admit that Esther had vanished from his life because he lacked the strength and intelligence to hold on to her. As for his work—all those pages filled with symbols, those ideas, those plots, those conflicts that he invented and that others appropriated—was this not still another perversion of the truth? And in that case, what was the difference between him and Samaël? Was it conceivable that a Samaël exists in each human being, and therefore in himself, too? But then how could he destroy that Samaël in himself without dying in the act? Paritus the One-Eyed, in his earliest text, wrote that life consists of nothing but appearances, temporary interchangeable illusions; only death is real.
Gamaliel told himself that one day, God willing, he would revise Calderón’s play La vida es sueño—life is not just a dream. If a dream is a lie, then is life a lie? he wondered. But what does that make death? The truth, reality, perhaps the only one? Unless there are many realities? Mine is not necessarily Bolek’s, which, in turn, isn’t Diego’s. Rebbe Zusya himself recognized how difficult it is to distinguish what is true from what is not. So my truth could be Samaël’s lie. God alone knows how to quarantine one and liberate the other, even though the truth is fleeting, as is everything that concerns human beings. A great Hasidic Sage wrote that even the Just have different time spans during which their spiritual qualities are manifest: Some are just throughout their lives, others for only an hour. Is that how it is for truth and those in whom it reveals itself?
One day . . . but when? Gamaliel at times was painfully aware of his age. Once past sixty, the knees gave way more easily; the back was stooped. The body that had once been a source of surprise and pleasure now threatened to become his fearsome, invincible enemy, receptacle of a life that was proceeding inexorably toward its end. Philosophers say that the meaning of life is life itself, he mused. Preachers go further, saying that to be true to himself, man must transcend that self. But how can I achieve that? Doesn’t going beyond mean going against oneself? God is capable of that, but is man?
Inevitably, Gamaliel found himself thinking about death, more specifically his own. He didn’t fear death itself; its approach was what distressed him. Bearing the burden of his years. Growing old too fast. Sickness, debilitating disease, his powers ebbing. Decrepitude. Fading intelligence. The slow, implacable loss of dignity, then of memory. Words getting confused and sticking in the throat. Awkward, clumsy gestures. Always dropping things. If he could choose, he knew that he would prefer a quick, unexpected stroke of the sword from the Angel of Death. This in the ancient texts is called Mitat neshika, the kiss of God. Thus did Moses die: God kissed him on the mouth and received his last sigh.
But that was Moses, the only prophet to speak to the Lord face-to-face. No one else could claim to have changed the course of History by teaching a system of ethics that would endure as long as human awareness. What trace would he, Gamaliel, leave behind? He thought bitterly that with his daughters gone, his line would end with his death. He regretted to the point of despair that he had not married Esther or Eve. Sometimes he would imagine the son one of them could have given him. Once, he’d made the mistake of speaking of it to Eve.
“You’re beautiful, but pregnant you’d be still more beautiful. Did you know that according to Jewish tradition we must show our respect to any pregnant woman by giving her our seat? Normal courtesy, you’d say? No, Eve. I must stand for a pregnant woman because—who knows?—she may be carrying the Messiah in her belly.”
Eve had flared up. “The Messiah in my belly? Please, stop talking nonsense!”
“That’s not what I meant to say. . . .”
He’d wanted to explain that he would have loved her as the mother of his son, but Eve’s offended expression told him he would do better to hold his tongue.
Nonetheless, he often dreamed of a child to wh
om he would leave his name and his memories, since that was all he possessed. Now it was too late. At his death, all he had been would be buried with him.
Like the old woman in the hospital?
11
THIS UNKNOWN WOMAN HAUNTS ME. WHO IS SHE? How much does she know about her condition? This will be the third time I’ve come to see her. It’s late; night is falling, sooner than I’d expected. Usually, I interrupt my work or my reading to greet the twilight, so moved am I by its solemn or shining beauty. Not this evening. It is heavy, pallid, hostile.
I no longer need anyone to show me to the patient’s room. Here is the garden, with its formal paths. Hanging over it are dark gray clouds. The trees look as if they’re girding themselves to ward off an attacker.
Here is the building, the ward. A wan, almost dusty light accentuates the shadows on the walls. A glance at her bed and I start: The bed is empty. I’m about to panic. Is she . . . dead? Away for some emergency treatment? No, there she is, sitting crouched on the floor, hair undone, staring emptily into space. Who helped her out of bed? I go to her, kneel to speak to her, without knowing what to say. Does she hear me? I doubt it. She seems even further away in her thoughts than she did earlier. If only I could see what she sees, touch what she touches, feel what she feels. If only I could go with her, follow her, keep her company. I am ever more certain that she could answer many of my questions. But I don’t know which to ask, nor how to frame them—and that, too, is part of the mystery that draws me to the old Hungarian woman even as her muteness keeps me far from her. A harsh voice rouses me from my reverie. “What are you doing here?”
A nurse. I hadn’t heard her come in. She seems sure of her power and of my culpability. “Who gave you permission to enter? And to move the patient? Who gave you the right to disturb her?”