Читать книгу The Joseph Dialogues - Alan Sorem - Страница 8

On the day of Joseph’s sixth annual visit, as usual in early spring of the year, the choice of woods lasted into early afternoon so that loading of the cart took longer than usual. On this occasion, he accepted my invitation to stay the night.

We dined on chicken and sliced vegetables from the garden. My housekeeper washed up and left us with another jar of wine. We moved to more comfortable chairs near the hearth. The evenings were cool and a fire had been lighted earlier.

There was a matter I had been thinking about since his last visit. I leaned toward him after we had dispensed with idle chatter.

“My friend, you need a wife,” I told him bluntly.

He laughed. “Alexios, such a sudden change to a serious subject.”

“I have been thinking. You are in the same situation that I find myself. My brothers had no children. Nor do I. It is time to marry and have children.”

“We shall both be rude,” he responded. “What you suggest seems more suited to yourself. You are older than I by at least ten more years.” He smiled to take the bite from his words. “Less time to be a father.”

I leaned back in my chair and raised my cup of wine to him.

“Ah, but I was married. To a beautiful, wonderful woman. We were to have a child, but her heart was not strong enough for a long delivery. Our son died with her.”

Joseph stared at me. “I am so sorry to hear of this. My father never mentioned it.”

“It was before he came to me.” I shrugged. “I have made my peace with the life I have and do not wish to search for another wife.”

“There is yet time for a son and heir. Or several sons.”

“No. For me a housekeeper is sufficient. She makes excellent meals at a reasonable cost, keeps the house clean, and washes my clothes when needed. She never argues with me about anything and returns to her own family at the end of the day, leaving me in peace.”

I turned the issue back to him.

“Surely your father has spoken of this marriage matter?”

“Yes.” He turned his gaze to the logs in the hearth that gave us warmth from their ruddy embers. “It seems a more pressing matter for you.”

I laughed. “To find someone whose only duty is to produce a son? Is that what I am to do?”

“Alexios!”

“That is the relationship you suggest. For the sake of a possible son or sons to carry on the work?” I snorted. “It would not be fair to the woman! In my heart I still mourn my Sophia.”

Joseph was silent.

I pressed him again. “Surely in Nazareth or elsewhere in Galilee there is a woman for you who will bring you the joy of many children.”

“My father has spoken of this.”

“Has he been more specific? Names?”

Joseph laughed and turned to me. “Once or twice he has said to me, ‘Pass by the town well today at midday and watch for the one who curtsies to you.’”

“And what has come of this?”

“Nothing but girls giggling as I pass by.”

“No curtsy?”

“Oh, yes, but well hidden in the flock of gigglers.”

“Hmm. I think your father should be more definite.”

Joseph’s eyes turned to survey the fire in the hearth. “My mother presses him. I sometimes hear them speaking of it.” After a pause, he said, “You still have time for a son. Or sons.”

I stood and grasped the tongs by the hearth and settled the logs.

“I will get a good price for my land and trees. One day. But you, an only son. A son in his twenties. Surely you have sufficient means by now to afford a wife.”

I turned back to him but he avoided my eyes.

“There is not always harmony in my house,” he said.

“Your father is a man of good cheer.”

“Indeed. A man innocent of malice. He is not the problem.”

“A common story,” I remarked and returned to my chair.

“Yes.”

I glanced at him. “That is why I cannot think of anyone taking Sophia’s place. She was a delight! But enough of old tales. Tell me about the disharmony.”

“My father, like you, would have preferred many sons. They did not come. He has difficulty now with carpentry measurements. More and more he leaves the work to me and finds pleasure in sitting in the sunshine of the garden and musing about old times.”

“And your mother?”

“My mother desired daughters as handmaidens to serve her every wish. They did not come. And now she is past the age for bearing children. She has turned sour and resentful and would be a burden on any bride of mine.”

“And you, Joseph? What do you wish for?”

He thought for a moment, eyeing the floor, and then spoke quietly. “An intelligent girl, one who has household skills, but one who can truly be a loving partner just as you describe your Sophia.” He paused. “Peace in the house would be nice also.”

“Ah.”

“And it is a complicated matter.” He looked at me. “Have you the custom here—when the bride marries she goes to her husband’s house?”

“Depends on what money they have.”

“For us it is always. The men in the bride’s family keep the family’s income intact. The man’s family pays the bride-price. The woman comes to their house.”

“It is a different arrangement here. How much is the bride-price?”

“In Nazareth, usually four hundred shekels or so for a virgin. Less for a widow.” Joseph grimaced. “But I cannot imagine a woman who would wish to marry me and be under the thumb of my mother.”

“Perhaps the price paid may need to be higher.”

“Yes. Nazareth is a small village. The families are well acquainted with each other. I cannot imagine a woman who would be my wife for less than five or six hundred. Or more,” he added.

I nodded in agreement. “As is said, two women in a house often are one too many.”

Joseph sighed. “That is certainly true in my mother’s case.”

“So, shall you wait until they are gone and you are free to choose?”

He gave me a long look and then replied. “I have thought of that.”

“But your father, though older, seems energetic still. Your mother may be so, as well. It could be quite some time. And you, have you no desire for the comfort and closeness of a woman?”

He smiled. “I prefer my own company at present.”

We both turned our eyes to the hearth and watched the flames licking at the logs for a while.

“And you,” Joseph asked at last, “have you no desire for the comfort and closeness of a woman?”

A sudden vision of Sophia bloomed in my mind. A day when we had gone walking in the countryside and she slowed and turned to me, her face radiant as she told me that she was with child. A joyful day. I had suppressed all memory of that day for long years since her death. My eyes filled with tears.

“Alexios?”

I wiped my eyes. “A sudden memory,” I replied huskily.

“Sophia?”

“Three years we had together. Wonderful years.”

I smiled. “My father wanted me to marry a younger girl in town. He told me, ‘She has the build fit for a mother of many children.’ But I had glimpsed another woman in the marketplace. I had seen her as she picked out fruit. A lovely smile, a slim build, and such beautiful dark hair she had, coiled respectably under her headscarf. I knew at once that we were meant for each other. I learned of her name from the fruit seller. Sophia. A friend spoke to her father.

“Another memory. How delighted she was early in our courtship at my gift to her of a hair comb carved from olive wood. She danced around me, laughing with excitement as she waved the comb in her hand. Then she handed the comb to me and said. ‘You must be the first to comb my hair with this.’ With that she pulled off her scarf, loosened several pins, and her lovely long hair tumbled almost to her waist. It was the day of our first kiss.”

I turned to Joseph, my eyes moist. “Imagine! A woman in her twenties, passed over for whatever reason by others. Soon to be considered a spinster, only good for service as an aunt to the children of her brothers and sisters.”

Joseph smiled. “But saved for you. I remember a verse of the Psalmist. ‘You have put gladness in my heart, more than when grain and wine and oil increase.’”

“Yes, great gladness for each other and a deep love I had never dreamed possible.” My voice grew husky. “Three years—”

I could not speak further.

Joseph leaned over to me and put a hand on my shoulder and spoke softly.

“Alexios, better than no years at all.”

“Not true! To have the warmth of love and partnership. To wake with joy every morning knowing that once again I would see her dear face, and then, gone! Never to see her again! It is a living death for me!”

“Is this what you believe?”

“Yes.”

“I think a different way.”

Sudden anger rose in me and I glared at him.

“Yes, you Jews have your God to comfort you! Mind the Commandments you have been given and the sacrifices and burnt offerings that you make to appease your God! Follow the rules and enter the heavenly kingdom. A fool’s dream! Empty words of consolation, I say!”

Joseph spoke quietly. “I believe you will see Sophia again.”

With an edge to my voice I said, “Is this your way of consoling me? Stop.”

His soft voice continued. “Please do not be offended.”

“What rubbish!” I wanted to slap him and shake his whole frame for such talk. Instead I pulled his hand from my shoulder and turned my face away.

“Alexios, death is real. When I think of my own mortality, at times I am frightened of the darkness that may come and feel powerless. But there is something other than the Law and the Commandments that gives me hope in times when hope seems impossible.”

I turned back to face him with scorn in my voice. “So, are you among those who consult the witches and seek news of the departed?”

“No, never! My hope comes from a prophet of old named Micah. In a time when my people were trodden down by the rich and powerful, he said many things, but of them all, one saying is inscribed on my heart: ‘What does the Lord require of you? To do justice, to love kindness, and to walk humbly with your God.’”

“Huh!” I snorted, “A fine notion.”

“Alexios, I know you find no worth in Roman gods.”

“The belief of fools. With every conquest Rome adds local gods to the list and thus soothes the conquered people.”

We both looked at the hearth. There were no words between us for a time. When at last Joseph spoke again it was in a low voice.

“You think me young, but I, too, have endured much.”

“Then be satisfied with your faith and may it comfort you in hard times.”

“I offer these words as comfort for you also.”

“Oh, are you now to convert me? So that I may worship in your synagogue and rock myself to and fro as I stand in prayer to the invisible one you call your Lord?”

“Alexios, I come here to purchase excellent wood, not to make you into someone you have no desire to be.”

“Thank you.”

“In my visits of these past years I have come to know you.”

“And I you. Up to now we have been comfortable together.”

“May it continue. What seem to be boundaries may not be so.”

“Meaning?”

Joseph looked me full in the face.

“Without knowing the prophet Micah you follow the path of his words. You are a just man, a kind man. I believe your love for Sophia and hers for you does not end in the grave. Your love will be recognized.”

“We are born; we die.” I responded. “That is the beginning and the end of our existence.”

“It is not. Think of your love for her, your memories of her. Neither has ended.”

“Words, words,” I muttered.

“Love is greater than death, Alexios.”

“We must stick to what the eye can see and the ear can hear.”

Joseph paused. I was waiting for more words of the scripture he studied. I would rebut it as well, I told myself. But he surprised me.

“Alexios, tell me. You truly loved Sophia and truly love her still?”

“Don’t be silly. Of course.”

“Of course. Now think with me for a moment. When we have spoken of the Lord, you picture God as an angry, wrathful god, a god who must be appeased. A god we weak humans never can live up to. Am I right?”

“Somewhat. My belief is that we have only ourselves for help.”

“I understand. But what if, instead of an aloof, easily angered god, there is a Lord who has created all that is, and loves us and wants the very best for us. What you wanted for Sophia.”

“Yes,” I said softly. “And she was taken from me. Is that the kind of love your Lord shows us?”

He was silent, thinking. At last he spoke once more.

“There was a time when the people cried out to heaven in anguish. The prophet Isaiah spoke the word of the Lord to them. ‘Do not fear, for I am with you. I will help you. I will uphold you with my right hand, my hand of righteousness.’”

We looked at each other for some time. I was the first to turn away.

My eyes had dried. I felt a stirring of hope within me as well as a deep fatigue. I had not spoken of Sophia for years, and the sudden onrush of memories overwhelmed me.

“Perhaps,” I said. I rose. “But let us not argue the matter further. A good night’s sleep will prepare you for your journey home.”

“I bid you a good night also,” Joseph replied.

We went to our separate beds in silence. As I extinguished the oil lamp on my bedside table, I spoke words into the darkness that I had not used since that last night before her birth pains began.

“Good night, my darling. Rest well.”

For the first time in many months, my sleep was dreamless.

After a simple breakfast in the morning, I invited Joseph to walk with me to the tallest cypress in my land of trees. It is where Sophia’s face was bright with joy as she told me she was with child. She and our son are buried there.

We stood there silently for a time, Joseph and I. My anger and resentment of the night before had softened. I asked him to say a few words from his own tradition. He offered a brief prayer of thanksgiving for Sophia’s life.

“Eternal Lord, we thank you for the life of Sophia. When sadness threatens to overcome Alexios, remind him that she and the child are held close in your everlasting care, free from pain in glorious light along with others we have loved. To you we ascribe all honor and glory forever. So be it.”

Our arms around each other’s shoulders, I walked with him to his horse and loaded cart. Simple words of farewell and he was on his way back to Nazareth.

As my hand lowered from a final wave of parting, I realized that Joseph accepted me and came to me not only as a buyer of wood but also as a true friend.