The Liberated Bride (51 page)

T
HE MOOD WAS
growing mellow. Who could fail to be charmed by such comic proof of the pragmatic, hard-nosed collaboration of Jewish avarice and Muslim vice in the greatest Arab metropolis of the first millennium? And now, striding gracefully to the center of the
stage, the Palestinian poet invited with a flourish the illustrious translatoress of Jahaliya poetry, Hannah Tedeschi, to demonstrate her talents in the name of the everlasting fraternity of two ancient languages. His request was simple. Dr. Tedeschi, he proposed, would stand by his side and render into simultaneous Hebrew some excerpts from the mystical tenth-century verse of Al-Hallaj, “the carder”—whose thirst for Allah was so great that it drove him out of his mind and made him decide that he himself was God, leaving the authorities no choice but to behead him publicly, burn his body, and scatter the ashes to dispel his delusion.

The translatoress was caught off guard. She crimsoned, simpered with fright, and tried making herself small, while glaring at the Orientalist who had got her into this. But before Rivlin could come to the defense of his ex—fellow student, presented with an impossible task by the Palestinian poet, his wife surprised him by taking the opposite tack and urging the translatoress to agree.

“But how,” Hannah protested, “can I just stand up and translate the fabulously subtle poetry of Hussein Ibn Mansur al-Hallaj? Any version I came up with could only be pitifully superficial.”

Yet her even knowing the middle name of so ancient a Sufi poet only strengthened the judge's opinion. “Give it a try,” she said. “What do you have to lose? No one will dare criticize you. Those in the audience who, like me, don't know Arabic deserve to know what a poet lost his head for.”

The flustered translatoress threw a desperate look at the sad-eyed Mr. Suissa, as if pleading with him to enlist the ghostly authority of his son on her behalf. But Rivlin, always swayed by any show of firmness on his wife's part, now switched sides and took Hannah's hand. “What do you care?” he said. “Don't worry about subtlety. It might even end up in the jubilee volume.”

It was a well-aimed shot. To a murmur of approval from the audience, which had been watching her trying to make up her mind, Hannah rose, wound her old woolen scarf around her neck, and gave her hand to the renowned exile, who gallantly led her to the center of the stage.

The lights were dimmed still more, in honor of the martyred mystic. As the Palestinian poet read the first lines, the Jewish translatoress
of Ignorance, her hair in need of dyeing and her shoes of new heels, shut her eyes and let Al-Hallaj's cryptic but refined verse percolate through her.

Sukutun thumma samtun thumma harsu
          Wa'ilmun thumma thumma wajdun thumma ramsu
Wa'tinnun thumma narun thumma nurun
          Wa'bardum thumma zillun thumma shamsu
Wa'haznun thumma shalun thumma fakrun
          Wa'nahrun thumma bahrun thumma yabsu
Wa'sukrun thumma sahwun thumma shawkun
          Wa'kurbun thumma waslun thumma unsu
Wa'kabdun thumma bastun thumma mahwun
          Wa'frakun thumma jam'un thumma tamsu.

Hannah Tedeschi opened her eyes and loosened her scarf. Taking the book of poetry from the Palestinian, who stood, smiling, with a fresh cigarette in his hand, she rested it on her open palms, looked up at him and back at it, and softly but surely improvised a Hebrew translation of the beheaded poet's ode.

Quiet and then silence and then stillness,
          And knowledge and then ecstasy and then the grave.
And clay and then fire and then light,
          And cold and then shade and then the sun.
And rocks and then plains and then wilderness,
          And a river and then a sea and then the land.
And drunkenness and then sobriety and then desire,
          And closeness and then touching and then rejoicing.
And contraction and then expansion and then erasure,
          And parting and then union and then life.

The translatoress glowed with a new radiance. To the applause of the audience, which did not need to understand the Hebrew to appreciate its music, she returned the book to the poet. He bowed ironically, exhaled a last puff of smoke, and chose another, shorter lyric:

Wa'inna lissan al-ghaybi jalla an al-nutki
Zahrta li'halki w'altabasta la'fityatin
Patahu wa'dalu w'ahtajabat an el-halki
Fa'tazaharu l'il-albab fi 'l-ghaybi taratan
Wa'tawrann an al-absar taghurbi fi 'l-sharki.

And again the book was handed with a smile to the translatoress, who threw back her head with such concentration that it almost flew off her shoulders like Al-Hallaj's. She tossed off the five lines without batting an eyelash:

The language of mystery far exceeds speech,
Revealed to some, from others concealed.
They wonder and wander and meanwhile you are gone,
Sometimes sighted by hearts in the west,
While lost to the sight of eyes in the east.

Rivlin could not contain his admiration. Turning to his wife with a triumphant grin, he congratulated her for making Hannah accept the challenge.

The Palestinian poet bowed a second time, took the book gently, leafed rapidly through it, and found another short and enigmatic poem:

Fa'izza absartani absartahu
Fa'izza absartahu absartana
Ayaha al-sa'ilu an kissitna
Law tarana lam tufarik baynena
Ruhuhu ruhi wa'ruhi ruhuhu
Min ra'a ruheyn halat badana?

This time the translatoress was so sure of herself that she didn't even look at the text. Leaving it with the poet, she answered him:

When you see me, you see him,
When you see him, you see us.
You who would know of our love
Could not tell us apart.
My soul is his, his is mine.
Who has heard of the body
In which two souls combine?

The poet's esteem for the woman mounted. With an approving glance at her, he recited from memory:

Muzijat ruhuka fi ruhi kama,
          Tumzaju al-hamratu b'al-ma' al-zulal.
Fa'izza masaka shai'un masani,
          Fa'izza anta ana fi kuk hal.

Back with a smile came the Hebrew:

Your soul stirred into mine:
          Into clear water—wine.
Who touches you, touches me.
          I am you in one we.

The poet bowed his head. The Hebrew he had learned in Israel as a boy, before he chose exile, was enough to tell him how perfect the translation was. Yet unable to resist putting the now eager translatoress to one last test, he declaimed:

Jubilat ruhaka fi ruhi kama
          Yujbalu al-inbaru b'il-miski 'l-fatik.
Fa'izza masaka shai'un masani
          Fa'izza anta anna la naftarik.

Hannah Tedeschi replied at once:

Thy soul merges with mine
          As with fragrant musk, amber.
Touch mine and it's thine.
          Thou art me forever.

Rivlin, one of the few in the auditorium to appreciate what the translatoress had accomplished, lifted his curly head to regard with satisfaction the Arabs around him—among whom he was astonished to see, in the dark corner occupied by the musicians, a pale-faced,
black-hatted yeshiva student, with earlocks and a beard, whose burning eyes were none other than Samaher's.

O
NLY NOW WAS
it apparent what an effort had been made by the festival's organizers to reach out to their Jewish guests. They wanted the Israelis, whether peaceniks or poetry lovers, to feel at home in their hilly city—which, freed of the cruel yoke of occupation, extended to them a strictly cultural welcome on this chilly but brightly lit winter night.

And so when Samaher had suggested producing for the half-liberated Palestinians a scene from
The Dybbuk,
“the Jewish
Hamlet,
” as she called it (although she might just as well have said “the Jewish
Faust
” or “the Jewish
Tartuffe
”), the idea met with the approval of Nazim Ibn-Zaidoun, the baby-faced director with eyes of steel. These now glittered as he directed the ushers to remove the table from the stage, hang a white lace curtain in its place, and dim the lights completely.

First upon the dark stage, lit only by a few beams of wet moonlight shining through the window opened by Fu'ad, were two timid, dark-haired boys carrying candles that made their shadows flicker on the curtain. Rivlin could have sworn they were Ra'uda's sons. Soon they were joined by a serious-looking young man. This was the brilliant Rabbi Azriel, who stood between the candles staring silently at the audience with Samaher's bright eyes. Rivlin held his breath as the rabbi summoned the possessed bride:

“Leah, the daughter of Sender, you may enter the room.”

But the bride refused to enter. The voice of the dybbuk possessing her, Rashid's, called from the wings:

“I won't! I don't want to!”

And a woman echoed the words in Arabic:

“
La urid ad'hul, la urid
!”

Rabbi Azriel, played by Rivlin's M.A. student with surprising aplomb, was unfazed. Turning to the wings, he said with quiet firmness:

“Maiden! I command you to enter this room!”

The figure of the bride grew slowly visible in the darkness. It was Ra'uda, still wearing the judge's old clothes, over which a long bridal veil hung past her shoulders. She stood behind the white curtain, waiting for the haunt to speak from her throat. Rashid appeared, white-bearded and wrapped in shrouds, for he was a ghost. He walked with a cane, its handle the doll-like head of a woman, illustrating his obsession for the Palestinian audience. Rivlin was startled to see that this doll had the features of his cousin Samaher.

“Sit, maiden!” Samaher commanded sternly.

The doll did not want to. The dybbuk said:

“Leave me alone. I won't.”

And Ra'uda, behind the white curtain, echoed in Arabic:

“
Utrekuni. La urid.
”

Samaher: Dybbuk! I command you to tell me who you are.

Rashid: Rabbi of Miropol, you know who I am. But no one else may know my name.

(Repeated by Ra'uda in Arabic.)

Samaher: I command you again. Tell me who you are.

The little doll squirmed in Rashid's hand.

Rashid: I am a seeker of new paths.

“
Alathina yufatshuna an subul jedida,
” said the echo.

Samaher was displeased by this answer. She stroked her little beard and rebuked the dybbuk severely:

“Only those who stray seek new paths. The just walk the path of righteousness.”

Rashid: It is too narrow.

Samaher: Why have you possessed the body of this maiden?

Rashid: I am her mate.

Ra'uda:
Ana zowjuha.

Samaher: Our Torah forbids the dead to haunt the living.

Rashid: I am not dead.

Ra'uda:
Ana lastu maitan.

Samaher would have none of it. “You have departed to another world—and there you must remain till the great ram's horn is sounded. I command you to leave the body of this maiden and return to your resting place!”

Rashid:
[Softly]
O Tzaddik of Miropol! I know how great you and your power are. I know that angels and seraphs do your bidding. But I will not.
[Bitterly]
I have nowhere to go, nowhere to rest in this world, apart from where I am now. Everywhere the jaws of Hell await me, and legions of devils and demons would devour me. I will not leave this woman! I cannot!

And Ra'uda repeated, trembling bitterly in her bridal veil:

“
La astati'u 'l-huruj.
”

Samaher turned to face the audience, sprightly in her black jacket and pants with her glued-on beard and earlocks. “O holy congregation!” she addressed it. “Do you grant me the authority to drive out the dybbuk in your name?”

“Drive out the dybbuk in our name!” the two candle-holding brothers cried, the bigger one in Hebrew and the little one in Arabic:

“
Utrud al-jinni!
”

Solemnly, Samaher stepped up to the doll held by Rashid and admonished it:

“In the name of this congregation and all the saints, I, Azriel the son of Hadassah, command you, O dybbuk, to leave at once the body of the maiden Leah, the daughter of Hannah, and to injure neither her nor anyone in departing. If you do not obey me, I will war against you with bans and excommunications. But if you do, I will find you a penance and drive away the devils surrounding you.”

Rashid: I do not fear your curses, nor do I believe your promises. No power on earth can give me peace. I have no place in this world. The paths are all blocked, the gates are all locked. There is heaven and there is earth and there are worlds upon worlds, but nowhere have I found as pure and holy a refuge as I have found in the body of this maiden. Here I am at peace like an infant in its mother's lap and fear nothing. No! Do not make me leave! No oath will compel me!

Ra'uda's echo:
La, la tutruduni! La tahlefuni!

Samaher: Leave the body of the maiden Leah the daughter of Hannah at once!

Rashid:
[Defiantly]
I will not!

Ra'uda:
La atruk!

Samaher:
[Taking a small whip from her belt and lashing the doll
while the audience gasps]
In the name of the Lord of the universe, I adjure you for the last time. Depart from the maiden Leah, the daughter of Hannah! If you do not listen to me now, I will excommunicate you and deliver you to the angels of destruction.

(A terrifying pause)

Rashid: In the name of the Lord of the universe, I am joined and conjoined with my mate and will not leave her.

Ra'uda:
Malsuk wa'mulassak ana bi'zowjati wala atrukha ila 'l-abd.

Despairing of getting the stubborn dybbuk to depart peacefully, the Arab rabbi strode with small steps to the leather-coated Nazim Ibn-Zaidoun—who, enchanted by the performance, was standing off to one side excitedly fingering his little pistol.

“O Archangel Michael!” the rabbi commanded him. “Have seven Torah scrolls taken out and prepare seven ram's horns and seven black candles.”

But either this was as far as the rehearsals had gone or Ibn-Zaidoun had forgotten his lines, because, shaking with laughter, he saluted, bowed, and went to turn on the lights. Then, to the beating of the drum, which spurred the lute, the rebab, and the shepherd's pipe to make music, he broke into loud applause. The audience followed suit. The lace curtain fell, and the older of the two boys snuffed out the candles. Samaher had tears in her eyes. Visibly moved, she pulled off her beard and earlocks and turned shyly to Rashid, who gallantly dipped the head of his doll to her. Yet when he gestured to his sister to join him for a curtain call, she fled the auditorium with her two sons, overcome by stage fright. The two cousins dropped everything and ran after her.

Rivlin, touched to the quick, turned to his wife.

“Unbelievable!” he exclaimed. “Simply unbelievable. . . .”