On the return voyage from Barcelona to Tangier, however, on board the ship that was now lightened of its cargo, Ben Attar was suddenly stricken with fear. He felt himself to be naked and exposed. He missed the company of those bolts of cloth and sacks of condiments, which always warmed his heart and gave him a sense of security, and he needed that assurance all the more now that his belt and pockets were full of the coins and precious stones that Abulafia had brought him. True, Abu Lutfi was beside him, although from the moment they had embarked his old assistant had seemed for some reason to be alienated and displeased, whispering a great deal with the two Ishmaelite sailors, who seemed to have been smitten with a kind of religious fervor on the return journey, for instead of dancing naked on the prow of their boat they now knelt in prayer five times a day. It was not surprising that Ben Attar had forgotten how tedious the prattle of the Jew who had accompanied them to Barcelona was, and now he missed his company. In his newfound loneliness he even felt a pang of longing for the backward child, remembering with an ache in his heart how she had toddled toward him, tied by a cord, to peer into his eyes. He thought now that if the child were once again lying in his bosom, the Ishmaelite sailors would refrain from attacking him in his sleep, stealing his money, and throwing him overboard. But the little girl was now beyond the Pyrenees, and all Ben Attar could do was to order the sailors to hug the coast, in the hope that there would be someone nearby who could testify against them if they tried to harm him. But they adamantly refused, supposedly for fear of hitting a sandbar, and Abu Lutfi not only refused to intervene but even defended their decision. Had the Ishmaelite managed to follow Ben Attar’s conversation in Hebrew with Abulafia when he had promoted him to partner, while Abu Lutfi had to content himself with the leftovers? Ben Attar’s fear grew stronger, and by nightfall he had come to regret the whole expedition. He sat hunched in the stern of the boat with a dagger hidden in the folds of his robe, straining to keep his eyes open, waiting for the attack.
Abu Lutfi sensed his Jewish master’s new fear, but did nothing to allay it. He had not managed to understand the Hebrew words spoken by the campfire at the old Roman inn, but he was sensitive enough to infer that if his employer was afraid not only of the sailors but of himself as well, it was a sign that he felt some new guilt toward him, so that when Ben Attar summoned him after a sleepless night and offered him a large gold coin he refused it, on the assumption that it was worth less than his forgiveness for an unspecified guilt. Ben Attar, startled by his refusal, was convinced that when the attack came Abu Lutfi would abandon him to his fate. So it was that after a second night without sleep, realizing that his strength was waning, he made up his mind to appoint the Ishmaelite as a partner as well, so that from now on the silver and gold would be as precious to Abu Lutfi as the apple of his eye.
Although in the course of this voyage Ben Attar had acquired two partners to share his profit, he felt that he was not returning to Tangier diminished but, on the contrary, increased and strengthened. And when the fast sailing ship passed through the Straits of Gibraltar and to the calm, steady blue of the Mediterranean was added the wicked, dreamy green of the great ocean that lapped at the walls of his fast-approaching native town, he understood how long the arm he had stretched out toward the distant northern horizon was, and he knew too, as he remembered the new confidence and earnestness that had radiated from Abulafia, that from now on the new partner in the north would stimulate the new partner in the south, and that the new partner in the south would charm the new partner in the north, while he himself, remaining where he was, would cast his protection over the two of them, keeping an intelligent pressure on the reins and receiving his share. The outline of the great cliff was still shimmering behind them like a tawny idol, and already the yellowish African midday light was flooding them, soaking the white walls of the city with a pleasant warmth. And they were ringed with the fishing boats of Tangier, and the fishermen, identifying the newcomers, greeted them happily on their return from their long journey. As Ben Attar disembarked onto dry land, he kissed the sand and gave thanks to his God for bringing him home safely, but instead of proceeding directly to his house, he handed his bundles to a young man and told him to inform his wife and servants that they should prepare a celebration for his arrival, while he for some reason headed for Abulafia’s house, which was now emptied of the last vestige of its owner. As he opened the iron-clad door with the key that was concealed on his person, he reflected that at this very moment, in the far north, Abulafia, dressed in black, might be taking his bewitched daughter with her tall nurse into a dark, gloomy house in Toulouse, no doubt surrounded with frightening crosses, and he felt sorry for them, because the house he was standing in was flooded with light and warmth, its floor was clean, and in a corner, neatly folded and tied into a bundle, was the bedding and clothing of the old nurse, who was still unaware that she would never return here. But nothing at all remained of the child’s things: it was as though she had never existed.
He strode from room to room and looked at the arches of the small inner courtyard. Most of the flowers had withered, because there was no one to water them. Again he recalled Abulafia’s dead wife, and her child who had made strange growling sounds here. He was holding an authorization signed by Abulafia to sell this accursed house on his behalf, and he suddenly felt sorry for the empty house, which at this pleasant summer hour revealed nothing but charm and pleasantness everywhere. He fondled the pouches of gold and silver bound to his loins, concealed under his robe, and calculated what he would do with all that money. Suddenly he had the idea of not selling the house to a stranger but buying it himself. But what would he do with another house, which was much too lovely to use as a storehouse for the new goods that Abu Lutfi would send him from the south during the year ahead? Perhaps he would lend it to his famous uncle as a meeting place for his pupils, and thus gain the credit for a meritorious act. But Ben Attar knew only too well that Ben Ghiyyat sometimes had difficulty in bringing together even the minimum number of ten worshippers, so where would he suddenly find enough disciples for a second house of study?