Judah the Pious (16 page)

“But enough of this boasting,” concluded Jeremiah Vinograd, when his sack was half-empty, and an incongruous assortment of objects littered the earth, “what first set me on this track was my desire to show you one item from the worthy collection of Dr. Boris Silentius. And this is it!” he announced, again reaching into the bag, “the entire pelvic girdle from that lovely skeleton which the doctor unearthed near the Danzig coast. Surely you must have noticed its absence from his arrangement?”

Judah ben Simon shut his eyes to avoid looking at the heavy, butterfly-shaped bone. “I am no longer interested in Dr. Boris Silentius’s pathetic, twisted mind!” he cried angrily. “The sight of that skeleton made me suffer once—what good did you hope to accomplish by reminding me of it?”

Suddenly, Jeremiah Vinograd jumped to his feet, and, glowering in fury, thrust his face down towards that of the young man. “Where are your manners?” he shouted. “Only a boy your age could be so cocksure, so boorish, so lacking in all graciousness. Not only did you neglect to thank me for showing you my treasures, but now you dare address me in a tone which a gentleman would never use, not even to reprimand a thieving servant. Let me remind you: I am the one and only Jeremiah Vinograd, scientist and mountebank, artist and magician, master of illusion and reality. Which is to say: I have been practicing my craft for fifty-five years, Judah ben Simon, and I know more about every aspect of life than you have learned from all your gazing at the trees.

“Indeed, if you had
any
of the makings of a genuine scientist, you would have thought to examine these bones for hidden clues about the eminent student of Linnaeus. And, in time, you might have discovered a fascinating story, a tale which might have proved important in guiding your thoughts and your future—the history of my first encounter with Dr. Boris Silentius.”

Realizing that the herbalist’s accusations were not unfounded, Judah ben Simon bowed his head in shame. “You are right,” he admitted. “I apologize for my rudeness, and would very much appreciate hearing about your relationship with the doctor. Perhaps there is something we might learn from our common experience.”

“Something
you
might learn,” the mountebank corrected him, and, instantly recovering from his rage, smiled and sat back down on the ground. “Ten, eleven, maybe twelve years ago,” he began, his voice assuming a reflective and nostalgic tone, “I had the misfortune to spend several months in the prison at Padua. It was an unspeakably insanitary place, which I would never have graced with my presence but for a certain misunderstanding about the nature of my trade.

“Fortunately, a true soldier of fortune like myself can quickly adjust to the most dismal surroundings; but, just as I was beginning to feel at home in my cell, my privacy was rudely invaded by a skinny, frenetic chatterbox of an old man—you know the individual to whom I am referring.

“It soon became apparent that my fellow prisoner, who identified himself as the great Dr. Boris Silentius, was to be the butt of our jailer’s crudest jokes and insults. For his crime was a peculiar and unsettling one: he had been found guilty of robbing graves, of rooting up cemeteries from the northern Alps to the southern Apennines.

“In the course of his ceaseless conversation, my cellmate defended himself to me, arguing that his so-called sin was merely another misunderstood aspect of his experimental research. All he had been doing, he claimed, was studying the structure and significance of human bones, comparing them with those of animals, and investigating the relation between these skeletons and the spirits of their dead owners.

“But who could believe him?” Jeremiah Vinograd demanded of his listener. “With his madman’s eyes, his smooth skin, and his long, trembling fingers, the old fellow certainly looked the part of the midnight ghoul. And none of his scientific prattle ever explained the reason why his researches were apparently restricted to the frames of beautiful women who had died at an early age.

“Yet gradually, as our friendship deepened, I had to admit that Boris Silentius was certainly no simpleton when it came to the subject of nature; he could talk for hours about orchids, tigers, elephants, and jungle begonias. Indeed, I had never seen a plant or animal in all my travels which the doctor could not describe in the most intimate detail. And, if this alone had not convinced me, there was also the fact that Silentius could blather away in Latin, naming species, classes and kingdoms as if they were lullabies learned at his mother’s knee.

“At any rate, I finally came to believe that my poor cellmate was actually what he claimed: an accomplished naturalist and a onetime disciple of Carl Gustavus Linnaeus. Besides, I reasoned at the time, I myself had been imprisoned on false charges, by men who could not distinguish between a master herbalist and a petty swindler. Had fate not intervened, I might well have accepted the doctor’s invitation to join him at his family home in Danzig, to which he planned to return after his release. But, be that as it may, the moral of my story should still be clear to you, young man: it is not always easy to tell the true scientists from the graverobbers, the criminals, and the madmen.”

“But did you not realize that Boris Silentius was a lunatic?” cried Judah ben Simon. “Surely you must have known that you were sending me to learn science from a crazy man? How could his circular chatter, his impossible stories and his bones not have struck you as unmistakable symptoms of insanity?”

“Perhaps I suspected that the doctor was a bit eccentric,” replied Jeremiah Vinograd, clicking his tongue sympathetically. “But I would never,
never
have ventured to pronounce him insane. My long life has taught me to be extremely cautious in making such definite and final judgments. I have learned that, aside from a man’s heart, nothing can deceive and make a fool of him like his own two eyes.

“Let me show you an example,” continued the mountebank, taking yet another object from his bag and handing it to Judah ben Simon. “How would you identify this fine specimen?”

The young man examined the limp, withered petals, noticing their purplish-red color and their heavy, perfumed scent. “It is a wilted rose,” he said, embarrassed at having to declare the obvious.

“Right!” nodded Jeremiah Vinograd, taking back the flower. “Now, on the basis of all the wilted roses you have observed with your own two eyes, tell me: how long do you think it will be before these poor petals begin to drop from the stem?”

“The plant is nearly dead,” pronounced Judah confidently. “It will surely begin to decompose within a few hours.”

“Wrong!” cried the mountebank. “Watch and see.” The old man passed his palm over the flower, carefully tracing its outline from the base of its stem to the tips of its petals. Then, suddenly, the rose burst into full bloom, assuming the bright, healthy color, round shape, and sweet fragrance of a blossom newly opened on the bush.

“But that is impossible,” Judah ben Simon stammered in amazement. “Only a moment ago, that flower was withered and shrunken.”

“Do not be upset,” murmured the herbalist, with a whimsical smile, “just because your empirical knowledge has failed you. Any man of good judgment would have reached the same conclusions as you did.

“And there we have it!” Jeremiah Vinograd concluded triumphantly. “If an intelligent, experienced naturalist cannot even determine the prognosis of an ailing rose, who among us has the authority or the perception to define the limits of sanity? Perhaps I am the crazy one, perhaps you are; perhaps your most respected neighbors should really be chained to the asylum wall and allowed to satisfy their frustrated desires to scream out loud and howl at the moon.”

“In other words,” suggested the young man, more confused than ever, “you are telling me that you doubt your own sanity?”

“Maybe,” snapped the mountebank, offended once again by his listener’s bluntness. “But, crazy or not, I am still sufficiently in touch with reality to be able to discern that you have just had another disagreement with your wife.”

Words of angry denial sprang to Judah’s lips, but, when he looked into the charlatan’s face, he knew that there was nothing he could say. “It is true,” he admitted, as tears of misery welled up at the corners of his eyes, “I can no longer continue living with her. Now, I must leave this town, but there is nowhere for me to go, and nothing for me to do. How will I support myself?” he asked desperately. “How can I keep myself from starvation?”

Jeremiah Vinograd rested his chin in one hand, and, shutting his eyes, thought for a long time. At last, he spoke. “Despite your boorishness,” he said, “you are obviously a goodhearted boy, and so I will give you some sound advice. Why not take up my trade? Become a mountebank, and travel the country dispensing remedies and cures. A life fit for a king, I assure you. How many other men can still say that after fifty-five years at the same job?”

“Thank you for your opinion,” shrugged the young man disconsolately. “But, after all that has happened, I somehow cannot see myself becoming an itinerant magician and a quack.”

“Who is a magician?” demanded the mountebank, his entire body twitching with indignation. “Who is a quack? Not I, certainly. I am a scientist, a student of nature, an experimenter and scholar, just like yourself. Of course, the necessities of my occupation have dictated that I also become something of a performer—and an excellent one, at that. But, if you can only master that part of the business, the work is absolutely perfect for you. You can see the world, and, at the same time, continue with your research by merely shifting your attention from botany and zoology to the equally important science of medicine.”

“But I have no head for finance,” argued Judah ben Simon.

“If you become rich enough,” argued the herbalist, “you will not need a head for finance.”

“No,” murmured Judah, “the whole thing is not so simple.”

“It is as simple as this,” declared Jeremiah Vinograd. “Your heart’s noblest ideal put to its most practical use. Pure science employed to cure the sick and entertain the healthy. Fame, glory, and economic remuneration.

“You must realize,” continued the old man, “that I would never be urging you this way if I did not so adore my job—a fact which, in itself, should be sufficient recommendation. But, more than that, the thought of your ideal suitability for this work pleases me as a well-matched couple warms the heart of a matchmaker. Indeed, I am so taken with the idea that I will make you an unprecedented offer:

“The morning has hardly begun. Stay here in this field with me for the rest of the day. I will teach you all the necessary rudiments of the art of bench-mounting, performing and debating, or vending herbs and dispensing ancient remedies. And I will even reveal my time-tested method of reviving a wilted rose.”

“You do make the work seem attractive,” admitted Judah ben Simon, whose curiosity was sorely tempted by the prospect of seeing Jeremiah Vinograd explain his trick. “And, if you taught me the trade, I would lose nothing by giving it a try, and discovering its virtues and drawbacks for myself. But,” he went on, his eyes narrowing suddenly in suspicion, “what do you charge for all this knowledge?”

“My price is a reasonable one,” the mountebank answered coolly. “A simple tuition fee, which need not be paid unless you decide to take the work: for one year, and one year only, set aside one-eleventh of your earnings. Deliver it to me, on this very spot, in exactly twelve months’ time.”

“That is hardly too much to pay for a lifetime’s livelihood,” said the young man.

“Of course!” boomed Jeremiah Vinograd, laughing jovially. “So, now, are we agreed?”

“Yes,” replied Judah, after a brief moment of doubt, during which he felt as if all the dreams of his boyhood were slipping away. “However,” he added, as he gradually began to identify the pain gnawing at his heart, “there are personal reasons why I cannot return so near this village next year.”

“That is merely a technicality,” smiled the herbalist. “We will meet along this same highway, precisely one hundred miles to the south.”

“And so it happened,” continued the Rabbi Eliezer, “that Jeremiah Vinograd came to teach Judah ben Simon the mountebank’s trade. The lesson began at six in the morning, with three hours of instruction in the general theory of healing and herbal medicine.

Speaking so rapidly that Judah could not allow his attention to lapse for an instant, the old man explained the principles of the Mysterium Magnum, the Protoplastus, the Iliaster, and the Arcanum. He discussed the issue of Affinities, debunking the modern idea that “like may be treated with like,” and upholding the old notion that “contrary cures contrary.” “There is no weapon against a moist disease,” he swore passionately, “like a dry medicine.” He went on to contrast the relative virtues of Galenical and Paracelsian cures, to enumerate the laws of diagnosis, and to outline the broad categories of cases which invariably call for stimulants, purgatives, emetics, diuretics, and aphrodisiacs.

Jeremiah Vinograd did not stop talking until the village church, tolling matins, drowned out the sound of his voice. Then, he opened his sack, extracted two worm-eaten apples, and offered Judah ben Simon breakfast. But, when the young man allowed the brownish parings to fall into the mud, his instructor flew into a rage, screaming that fruit peels should always be saved, dried, powdered, and used as a cure for fever blisters. “Yet how could I have expected you to know,” he sighed at last, “when I have not yet spoken on the subject of prescription.” And, with these words, the mountebank resumed his lesson.

“I will run through this quickly,” he said, “and you must listen well. For, in this short time, I can only list the most important and basic remedies; as for the fine points of medicine, you must discover them on your own. With these few, simple cures, you will certainly be able to handle the majority of cases which come your way. Should you encounter an entirely unfamiliar ailment, you will still know enough potions to try out, and will have a sufficiently impressive pharmaceutical vocabulary to keep yourself from appearing the fool. And, I can assure you, the ability to avoid seeming ridiculous is the true mark of the successful mountebank.