Читать книгу Deathless - Andrew Ramer - Страница 8

In which I introduce myself

and begin my ancient story

People say we Hebrews are a talkative nation. This is true. It’s also true that our contribution to world literature is far greater than our small numbers would indicate. How could this not be the case when the god of our national epic is said to have brought the entire universe into being with words? We are a people of words, a people of the book, as our Muslim cousins call us. In fact we are a people with lots and lots of books. And yet, for every story that we’ve written or told there are as many that have not been told. Take my own case, for example.

You may have heard of me, as I am mentioned—by name only—three times in the Hebrew Bible. I make my first brief appearance in chapter 46, verse 17 of the book of Genesis, in a list of the family members who went down to Egypt with my beloved grandfather, the patriarch Jacob, where I appear among my father’s children:

Asher’s sons: Imnah, Ishvah, Ishvi, and Beriah, and their sister Serach. Beriah’s sons: Heber and Malchiel.

If you take a look at the full text you will see that almost everyone in the list is male. The few women named, and one unnamed, seem to be asides—but please pay attention to the other female descendant who is named, my aunt Dinah. Later you will understand why.

There’s a nearly identical list in the last book of the Hebrew Bible, Chronicles, which is very tidy, showing up at the beginning and the end of the book—but my name in those lists won’t tell you anything about me, because everything about me was either left out—or cut out—by several sets of ancient editors.

The text of the Torah as it exists today says that I was the only daughter of Asher the son of Jacob, the son of Isaac, the son of Abraham, all of which is true. I am the daughter of Asher, but your Torah says nothing else about me, and doesn’t mention my mother Arsiyah or my full sister Tamimah at all. In fact, the Bible says almost nothing about most of the women in my family. For instance, the Torah tells us that my Grandfather Jacob had four wives, twelve sons, and just one daughter, Dinah, when in fact he had five wives and thirteen daughters. But where are their stories? Forgotten, never written down, or deliberately edited out of the book, for a variety of reasons that you will come to understand in due course.

In this memoir I promise to tell you the truth just as I observed it—but the truth often contradicts recorded history, as you may have noticed yourself. And while History is a subject that is taught in schools all over the planet, Truth has not been a required subject anywhere that I’ve ever heard about since the time of the ancient Greek philosophers. But let me get back to my story.

I make my second named appearance in the Bible in the book of Numbers, in chapter 26, verse 46, where you will find me listed with the Hebrew clans that came up from Egypt after the Exodus:

Descendants of Asher by their clans: of Imnah, the clan of the Imnites; of Shivi, the clan of the Ishvites; of Beriah, the clan of the Beriites. Of the descendants of Beirah: Of Heber, the clan of the Heberites; of Malchiel, the clan of the Malchielites. The name of Asher’s daughter was Serach.

It’s true that I lived through all of our years in Egypt, was there when we left and there at Sinai, a very long time after I was born and a very long time after I should have been dead. For most of my life I’ve lived an underground existence, not telling anyone who I really am. But from time to time I’ve confided in others, including (recently) my new friend Estelle, just as I’m now confiding in you. I was friends with one or two rabbis of the Talmud, and they told a few stories about me, based on my very long life. And once, a few years ago, when I was living in New York City, I met two very funny men at a cocktail party. We hit it off immediately and, having a bit too much to drink, which I rarely ever do, I began to tell them about myself. I doubt they believed me, and suspect they thought I was trying to break into their field—they were and are noted comedians—who later developed a character they called the Two Thousand Year Old Man. He spoke with a Yiddish accent. I do not. He was very funny. I am not. He went on to become quite famous. I hope that that will not be my fate. All I want is to set the record straight, and then go on with my private life, however unusual it may be. I have no idea when or if I’ll ever die, but I have been slowing down recently, and I don’t know exactly when I was born. Our experience of time was very different when I was young. We only knew new moons and seasons: rainy, not rainy. Weeks were a new idea and not many of us used them yet. Imagine that! I’m one of the oldest human beings who has ever lived, but all I can say about my birth is, “I arrived one spring.”

At some point a very long time ago I made up a birthday for myself, at the Vernal Equinox, and I suspect that the year of my birth was 1324 BCE, based on things I’ve read in history books about events that happened at the time. If you add up all these years you will see that I am over three thousand and three hundred years old. Over the centuries I’ve met a few ancient masters from Africa, India, Tibet, and China who have lived as long as I have. We form a very small private club, and when we meet we always have a lot to say to each other. I’ve also heard many stories about vampires and zombies and other dark immortal creatures, but I’ve lived all over the world and haven’t met a single one. As for me, I don’t think of myself as an immortal. I think of myself as a mortal woman who hasn’t died yet. Or, conjuring the image of the Tree of Life, perhaps I am more tree than human; I read recently of a spruce tree in Sweden that is over 9500 years old, which makes me more like a feisty young adult just getting started in life.

Right about now I imagine there are three things you’re asking yourself:

First, “Why should we believe anything this old woman is telling us?”

Second, “Why is she writing her memoir now?”

And third, “Why has she lived this long?”

To the first question I will say this: I’m really no different than any other person of advanced years who you may have encountered. I’ve already forgotten what I did yesterday, and most of the time I’d rather not remember who the president of the United States is, but my memory of what happened to me when I was young is quite perfect. I remember the hairy mole on Grandma Zilpah’s left cheek. The way that Grandpa Jacob used to lie on his pallet of sheepskins all day long eating grapes and pulling on his long white nose hairs. The taste of good oven-baked Egyptian bread. The way the sun rose over a little hill that you all remember as Mount Sinai. Yes, all of that is as clear to me today as it was when it happened.

Given that we’re a people of words, and given all I’ve seen and done, don’t you think, kind reader, that it would be a waste if I died without telling my story? For I am slowing down, my hair has at last turned gray, there’s a pain in my left knee and one in my right shoulder that won’t go away. And my digestion isn’t what it used to be. So it seems like time to put down my long story; who knows how much time I have left. In addition, I owe it to everyone I’ve ever known and loved who’s been left out of history, or been distorted by it, to put them back into the story, right where they were in the first place. I know that my stories will offend both Orthodox Jews—who believe that the Bible is the literal word of God, and scientific Jews—who see the Bible as a layered and much-edited human document that doesn’t reflect the truth at all, or, not very much of it. My book, which is that of an actual eyewitness, will reveal to you both the marvels of our history, and the core truths that inspired the stories we all know (and many of us love.)

As for your second question—and it’s a good one—about why I’m writing this memoir, let me say this. In my early years few women could say what they wanted and write what they wanted, and it’s been that way for most of the time that I’ve been alive, with several noteworthy exceptions. But the world is changing. Women are once again taking our place in society, not everywhere, but in many locations, so, having carried my story, our story, for so long, I am grateful to have lived this long, for this is a very good time to be a woman writing. But, and this is harder to discuss, I did once before sit down and write another book, on rolls of parchment with a quill pen and black ink that I ground and mixed myself. It wasn’t a work of history, but a work of satire. Alas (and this is the difficult part) my book was taken up and used in ways that still upset and embarrass me, so much so that I haven’t done any writing since the time of King Solomon, except for a note or a letter every now and then. But more on that later.

A psychiatrist I saw in the last century in Vienna suggested I was suffering from something now called Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. How could I not be, given our difficult history? Just beginning this chapter has given me a migraine. Now, you may be wondering what a woman my age thinks of human progress. We have advanced very little in terms of what’s actually important. But looking back over my long life I would say that the three most important human inventions have been (not the electric light, which has deprived us of the wonders of the night; or the automobile, which has ruined the air and made restless people even more restless; or the mobile phone, which connects people all over the globe while disconnecting them from the people right around them, but)—One: hot running water. There’s nothing in the morning like a good hot shower. Two: the printing press. When I was a girl it took years to copy by hand a single book! A very rich man might boast a library of three or four short scrolls. Even a king would possess only eight or ten. And three: my favorite invention of all—the camera. What I would give to have had one when I was a little girl. Oh, the things I would show you! The shallow murky (so called) Sea of Reeds when we crossed it. David dancing naked in front of the ark. King Solomon’s temple on the day that it was dedicated. Jerusalem burning centuries later with Roman fire. Instead, I’m forced to make pictures with words. (Films I’m not too crazy about. They go too fast, and get faster and faster. Besides, I like something you can hold in your hand: a book, a picture. You can imagine my thoughts on these new e-books.) So in stories, in painted words (not meant to ever be turned into a film) I will do my best to render what I know in colors appropriate and pleasing, and I hope that you will pardon my at times awkward English, which is (I believe) my twenty-seventh language.

As for your third question—I really don’t know why I’ve lived this long. My best guess is that I’m some kind of genetic anomaly. Given all the generations of human history, why couldn’t there have been a slight mutation in the genes of a few scattered individuals, a mutation that allows our cells to keep replicating long long after we should have died? (Not that I or anyone knew about genetics until very recently.) Before I did, my preferred theory about my life was a mystical one, a tale that you may have already heard, as it’s one of the very few stories about me that has been preserved.

When I was still a young girl there was a famine in Canaan. My grandfather Jacob sent two of my uncles down to Egypt to buy grain and other supplies. While they were there they found out that their brother Joseph was not just dead, as they’d long believed, but in a position of importance. You may remember the story from reading the Bible, although what you read there wasn’t exactly what happened.

Uncle Joseph was my Grandfather Jacob’s favorite son, although he was always much fonder of his eldest daughter Maacah, Rachel’s first and long-forgotten child. Alas, my poor grandfather Jacob had long been in mourning for Joseph, after his sudden and unexpected disappearance, and his wives, my four grandmothers, were all afraid that the news of Uncle Joseph’s survival would be too great a shock for Jacob. I was around fourteen at the time, had a clear strong voice, and was minorly accomplished on a stringed instrument not unlike a modern oud. During the day I would do my chores, all the while singing, and every night I used to go into Grandpa’s tent to play music and sing songs for him. So my grandmothers sent for me and told me the good news. Although I’d never met my Uncle Joseph, who was only spoken about in whispers, I was as happy as they were to find out that he was alive. What they asked me to do was to weave the good news into the words of a song when I sang to Grandfather that night. So I did. “And Joseph, Joseph, Joseph, lives. He lives. Yes he lives. Yes he lives.” Sung to plucked strings made out of sheep gut, inserted into a song about a lonely dove perched in a treetop, the one that Noah had sent out from his ark, which didn’t return to him, letting him know it was safe to leave the ark and go back to dry land.

To this very day I can see the tears in Grandfather’s once nearly black eyes, turned white with cataracts, his face a web of wrinkles. Sniffling, wiping his hairy nose on the back of his sleeve, he leaned over, kissed the top of my dark hair, right above the line in the middle where it was parted, and said, “If what you are telling me is true, my little one, may death never come to you.” Well, never is a very long time. But so is three thousand years. And while my life, but not my name, has been edited out of the Bible, every once in a while someone noticed me, as I already said, a rabbi or more often than not, a storyteller. I’ve been talked about more in some places than others. The Jews of Persia, a place I lived in for quite some time, were very fond of me and treated me well. But they were wrong when they claim that a fiery chariot carried me off to heaven many centuries ago. It didn’t. Instead, I left by camel along the Silk Road, ending up in China.

For more than two thousand years I have moved about the globe as a wanderer, always settling in with our people. And for the last sixty years I have been living in the United States of America, first in Manhattan, then Boston, then Brooklyn—and now I make my home in Venice Beach, in the city of Los Angeles, in a lovely old apartment complex half a block from the ocean. (The older I get, the more I like warmth, and like to be near the water, as far away from wars as I can get.) To support myself I give guitar lessons to young students. (I’ve always loved stringed instruments.) And now, old, bitter, and blessed, I am ready to begin to tell you my story.