And with that he brought us a golden mead
That knocked the three of us off our feet,
So that what was meant to be a weekender
Has lasted a month and we’re still on a bender!
12.
THE 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: