The next day, when the year that had passed had been fully gone over and the hope for the year to come had been cautiously adumbrated, the delicate moment arrived when Ben Attar had to decide how to apportion the year’s profit among the three partners. To free his mind from all distractions he would dispatch his two partners back to the coast, to the stable adjoining Benveniste’s tavern, so that Abu Lutfi might explain to Abulafia the nature of the new merchandise they had brought with them, justify its choice, and discuss the price it should fetch. Meanwhile Ben Attar himself would bolt the door, cover the window, light two large candles, spread out on the table the booty of coins, gold bars, and precious stones from the Frankish lands, and begin to let his mind roam over the year that had elapsed, so as to scrutinize honestly the share of each of the partners in the labor that had been expended and the profit that had been made. So he sat in that ancient Roman inn, in the depths of a thick wood, tracing first in his imagination the travels of the Arab, wandering among the tribes on the fringes of the Sahara, collecting spices and condiments, animal skins and daggers. The more harshly the sun beat down in the Jew’s imagination and the fiercer the desert nomads appeared, the more his heart went out to the Ishmaelite, and he added more and more coins and jewels to his little pile, which grew accordingly—until Abulafia’s spirit became resentful, and he compelled his senior partner’s thoughts to turn northward, to the wind and the rain and the muddy roads. After allocating him several large gold coins for his travels among the estates and castles of the lovers of the cross in the Touraine, Ben Attar added a few small silver ones on account of Abulafia’s talent for evasion and disguise, his knowledge of languages, and his dexterity. Still not satisfied, in his compassion for his nephew’s wandering alone among gentiles filled with hatred and contempt, he reached out and transferred to Abulafia’s pile two sparkling jewels from that of the Muslim.
But as the candles on the table burned down, he would realize that he had been so carried away by sympathy for his trusty friends that he had neglected his own share. Surely he should not forget that the source of all this wealth was not only his own money but his initiative, his connections, and his ample warehouses. Even if he himself did not take to the roads, his far-ranging concern protected the other partners from danger. He thought also of his wives and children, of his many servants and his large houses, which demanded not merely subsistence but luxury and beauty, and as he weighed these considerations against the simplicity of Abu Lutfi’s life and Abulafia’s tragic loneliness, by the light of the guttering flames he carefully diminished the piles he had made for his partners and increased his own. By the time the light had flickered and died, there lay before him on the table three leopard-skin pouches, two of which he concealed in the luggage of his partners, whom in his heart of hearts he still considered to be agents rather than true partners. Only then was his mind at peace, and he unbarred the heavy door, unshuttered the window, and feasted his eyes on the pleasant afternoon light filtering through the trees, composing himself after the struggle that had divided his soul against itself in pursuit of justice.
Already he could hear the hoofbeats of the horses coming up from the bay. The two men seemed worn out by their discussions, and Abu Lutfi’s face was somewhat sullen because of a slight contempt displayed by Abulafia toward the new merchandise, and his low estimate of the expected prices. But out of a sense of nobility and pride, the Ishmaelite did not examine the contents of the leopard-skin pouch concealed in his baggage, nor did he weigh it against that of Abulafia or Ben Attar. He did not wish to betray any hint of a suspicion of unfairness, which would involve him in calculations that the two Jews would handle so adroitly that he would be unable to keep up. Instead he chose to take his leave forthwith and be on his way, for in any case he and Ben Attar never returned together, so as not to tempt the devil. He fastened his possessions onto his horse, concealed the leopard-skin pouch close to the fleshly pouch that held the tokens of his manhood, and after partaking of the Jewish food that Benveniste’s wife had sent for their supper, he withdrew, took his bearings, prostrated himself in the direction of the holy city of Mecca far away in the desert, cupped his hands to his ears, and delivered himself loudly and clearly of a prayer in praise of God and the Prophet, concluding with an extravagant curse upon anyone who had done or would do him any hurt. He slapped the two Jews heartily on the shoulder, and then, since he disdained to disguise himself even for safety’s sake, he contented himself with wrapping his head in the scarf that his distant forebears had brought from the desert, so that anyone lying in wait would not recognize him and anyone pursuing him would not know whom he was pursuing. As twilight fell, he mounted his horse and galloped off in the direction of Granada, whither he would travel only under cover of night.
Even though Ben Attar trusted his Ishmaelite partner—indeed, felt affection and friendship toward him—he was pleased as the sound of Abu Lutfi’s horse’s hooves faded into the red of the dying day, for only then did he feel free to leave aside concern with commerce, coin, and news of the world and hear what had happened in the previous year to his beloved kinsman, who had been sundered by a cruel fate from his native land and his family. Although it was not prudent for two strangers, and Jews to boot, to stray too far from the inn in the darkness, the eager pair, after first taking care to conceal their respective leopard-skin pouches, pressed on into the thick of the wood, making for a spot that had become dear to them ever since their first meeting. There, among jutting rocks in the mouth of a cave hollowed out by some ancient earthquake, they lit a fire, not only to ward off any local wolf or inquisitive fox, but also to sprinkle the embers with fragrant herbs, whose smoke curling around them might perfume the joys and sorrows of the year that had passed. Notwithstanding his great curiosity to hear all about the private life of the exile, who had years before abandoned the sun and sea of North Africa in favor of the loneliness and backwardness of Christendom, Ben Attar knew well that his seniority conferred the obligation to speak first. He was duty-bound to give an account of kinsfolk—wives and mothers, sons and daughters, brothers and sisters, and other relatives and friends—whom Abulafia was keen to learn all about precisely because they had betrayed him, and then to slake his nephew’s thirst for his native town, with its white houses and narrow alleys, its olive trees and palms, its vegetable gardens, its golden beach and its pink harbor. And finally to help Abulafia weep again, across the years, for his beautiful young wife, who had drowned herself because of the bewitched, feeble-witted child she had brought into the world, doubling and redoubling by her scandalous death the shame she had brought upon her husband, so that he had been compelled to banish himself.