But the rabbi’s hosanna did not penetrate into the bowels of the old guardship tied up on the northern shore and swaying now under the feet of the Ishmaelite crew, woken from their slumbers by the rain. Even less could the recitation that shook the tabernacle on the left bank reach as far as the old artisan’s cottage at the bottom of the hill of the white smudge. But while the idol-worshipper’s body was still lying wearily among the idols at the feet of his own shrouded image, bitten by the greedy desire of the Gallic women and stained by the endless outpourings of his seed, Ben Attar too was woken by the rain, and accompanied by the sound of the camel shuffling around in the belly of the ship and the smell of the remains of the condiments, which had spilled from the sacks and mingled with each other, he began to stroke, kiss, and squeeze with all his strength the only wife he had left. And the first wife hastened to respond to the wakening man with all the power of her love in a perfect and unique congress that was free from all extraneous thoughts and from any remnant.
8.
Had the time not come at last to unfurl the triangular lateen sail on the tall mast of the old guardship and raise the anchor from the bottom of the Seine? Had the time not come to depart from this Europe with its darkening sky and sail back to the safety of home? Even the patience of such a hardy and experienced captain as Abd el-Shafi was strained at the sight of the wind and rain lashing the Île de France on the Day of Rejoicing in the Law, for who knew as well as he how urgent it was to set sail and leave before the northern winds grew stronger on the ocean? So anxious was the captain that he was prepared to protest against the calm Ishmaelite fatalism that left it to Allah to govern the infinite world according to his mysterious will, and he demanded urgently that Abu Lutfi stir his Jewish partner from the hesitations of his grief and force him to put off the torn robe of mourning and bring himself up from the bowels of the ship to the old bridge, to pronounce there the order that all the Ishmaelites had been so eagerly awaiting—to leave desolate Europe behind and return to luxuriant Africa, to hear once more the sweet sound of the muezzin’s call.
Perhaps it was the blood of Abd el-Shafi’s grandsire’s sire, who had been taken captive by the Vikings more than a century before and had spent many years as their prisoner, that sharpened the captain’s senses to perceive the dangerous, unhealthy hesitancy that was spreading like ivy over all Ben Attar’s thoughts and deeds. This fear concerned not only the voyage, which had lost the charm of novelty and adventure and was left mainly with the memory of hardships and distress, but also a deeper doubt about the leavetaking, both from the nephew, whose partnership had been renewed through blood and suffering, and from his blue-eyed wife, whose stern elegance had suddenly changed her old repudiation into a powerful new attraction.
In truth, a strange new attraction emanated from this woman toward the sorrowing uncle, the extinction of whose duality had left around him, or even within him, a new, unclear space, like that left by the loss of a severed limb. There was no way of telling whether Esther-Minna herself was in command, or was even aware, of the new quality emanating from her toward the uncle, who consented in honor of the closing days of the autumn festivals to emerge from his close mourning in the bowels of the ship, bathe and dress his beard and hair, and exchange his rent robe for a fresh one, so that he could clasp to his breast in holiness and purity the soft little scroll of the Law that was handed to him by Master Levitas and execute the modest dance ordained by custom.
What precisely was the secret of this strange new attraction passing between the northern woman and the southern man, which was able to delay the moment of parting despite the impatience of the Ishmaelite seamen? The North African’s enmity toward Abulafia’s new wife still blazed within him, and if his young wife had not departed to what was supposed to be a better world, it would not have occurred to Ben Attar to withdraw from the campaign he had launched, and despite the ban and interdict pronounced against him by the prayer leader in Worms he would have sought out another river on the European continent and challenged the woman to a third round. There, on the north or south or west or east bank, he would not have allowed the rabbi from Seville to appoint a court or a judge, but he would have taken the stand himself, alone and face-to-face with the stubborn woman, and overwhelmed her repudiation with a speech woven not of texts of the sages but of the wisdom of life.
His second wife’s unexpected death had indeed brought him a victory, but it was a hollow and bitter victory that had not extinguished his anger. Thus the nature of the new attraction that joined the two adversaries was unclear. Surely it was not possible that now, on the brink of the departure from Europe and the parting of north from south, the mind should be expected to endure the mounting suspicion that the extended intimacy enforced upon these two who had traveled together from Paris to Worms had kindled in one, or even perhaps both, a demented, forbidden fantasy, and that the hope of realizing it was delaying the departure? The date had already been set for the summer meeting of the renewed partnership in the Bay of Barcelona, and there remained nothing for Ben Attar to do at the close of the festival but to give the order for the Ishmaelite crew to spread the sail, weigh anchor, and glide downstream to the mouth of the river and out onto the great ocean, which, who could tell, might be longing to rock the old guardship on its waves.
Ostensibly what delayed them was the sickness of the rabbi’s son. This sickness Mistress Abulafia fomented with dark potions, so that she could plead with the rabbi and more particularly with the leader of the expedition to take pity on the little invalid, and instead of exposing him to wind and rain linger a little and let him recover in the comfort of her bed. But a sixth sense told the merchant of Tangier that behind his new niece’s pleas there lurked a brazen wish from which he himself might draw some advantage. Therefore, before determining what reply he should give, he sent his only wife to the sick child to discover, by questioning and feeling him, what was real and what was feigned in his body and his soul. The experienced, sensitive woman returned with news for her husband. Although it was almost certain that the eating of abominable flesh, which had so upset the child and infected him with guilt, was no mere fantasy, it had touched his soul alone and not his body. In other words, the sickness itself was entirely feigned.
Still Ben Attar held back from speaking ill of the feigned invalid, who had been taken under such a gentle yet enthusiastic wing. Since he even felt a certain compassion for the desire for a child that had suddenly arisen in the bosom of a barren adversary who was no longer young, he tried to think afresh how he might turn the pretended malady into a further pledge to fortify his partnership. Precisely because of its dramatic rupture, there might still lurk in the renewed partnership some hidden cracks through which that accursed repudiation might grow back, by attempted prevarication, by dispatching a strange agent, some private local associate instead of Abulafia to the summer meeting in Barcelona to bring the North Africans their money and take the new merchandise. Although it would not occur to Ben Attar to postpone the sailing on account of a woman’s desire for a curly-haired child, it seemed that he would be willing to abandon the young passenger and leave him behind in Paris until the following summer, so that he could recover body and soul. This he would do on condition that Abulafia would give an explicit promise, backed by an oath on the soul of his wife—not the living one but the first, drowned one—not only to watch over the child as the apple of his eye but to join him to the purse of money that he himself would bring to the ancient inn overlooking the azure bay of the Spanish March. Only when they had finished chanting the lament for the ruined shrine together would they hand the child over to Abu Lutfi, who would choose a young horse for him from Benveniste for the night ride by way of Tortosa, Toledo, and Cordoba back to his waiting father in Seville.