While Ben Attar was wondering whether to join the inquisitive rabbi on his walk through the town, which was now steeped in a milky light, or to go and demand that he be given back his two wives, who at the end of the women’s prayers (which were shorter than the men’s) had been taken back to their hosts’ homes, a pair of armed, mail-clad horsemen entered the synagogue, holding the inventory sent by the customs officer of Verdun. These men had been given the task of overseeing the distribution of goods not only to the descendants of the Christ-killers but, according to a new and generous interpretation of the ducal authorities, also to those who revered the Christ. The two wagons, which were standing outside the synagogue with empty shafts, were soon cleared not only of the bags and bolts, reduced and multiplied by the first wife’s resourcefulness, but of the rest of the travelers’ personal effects, which had also been changed into gifts by the generous order. So on this festive night the local folk seasoned their pork chops and their wolf stew with new spices from the desert, poured olive oil from Granada on their salad, and decorated the walls of their homes with brightly colored strips of silk embroidered with threads of gold torn from the robes of Ben Attar’s wives, while ragged urchins in the church square unpicked the Ishmaelite sailors’ big sandals to make a long rope. It was just as well that the Jews of Worms hastened to compensate the distressed litigants with matching gifts, and instead of the bright robes that had been torn to shreds by the excited Christians they dressed them all, Jews and Ishmaelites alike, in dark robes tied with shiny black belts with fringed tassels, and put pointed hats on their heads, so that it was not easy to distinguish them from the local Jews, who would soon scan the skies in search of the new moon, which was believed to draw with a golden thread not only a new month but a new year.
But before the fine crescent appeared at the twilight hour, threading its way rapidly through the dark tatters of cloud, and a satisfied sigh arose at this confirmation that the calendar from the hills of Jerusalem was still operating so accurately, they honored the rabbi’s wish to stroll around their town and patiently replied to his questions. The sages, who as they walked had accustomed themselves to his unfamiliar, difficult way of uttering Hebrew from the depths of his throat, invited him to a chamber in the synagogue where there was a chest stuffed with obsolete texts and broken remains of twisted yellowing rams’ horns, to hear him deliver a little homily on the subject of the sanctity of the coming day so that they could make an assessment of the intellectual acumen of the southern visitor, of which Master Levitas had given them prior warning.
Elbaz hesitated at first between a wish to lull his adversaries’ concern about the danger he represented and a desire to make them aware of the pitfalls of the battlefield. He started with some trite generalities about the binding of Isaac, but he allowed himself to expatiate on the shape of the small gray horns of the original and authentic ram of the Land of Israel, which was offered up in place of the beloved son who was not indeed an only son. As though with the intention of warming the hearts of the local Jews toward the Ishmaelites who had come with them, he addressed to his curious hearers a few kind sentences about Abraham’s elder son, who had been cast out thirsty behind a bush in the desert of the Beautiful Land, where all of Abraham’s descendants were destined to meet on the day of final redemption, whether they wished it or not. And the rabbi contented himself with this little sermon, after noting that what he had said about a messianic meeting with Ishmaelites in a desert land had surprised his hearers greatly.
But there was no time to explore the subject further, for the festive service was close at hand and they needed to hasten to prepare the body so that it might not disturb the soul during the prayers. One of the scholars who had listened to the short homily, however, could not find any rest, and would not leave the Andalusian alone, for he was eager to hear more about the shape of the small gray horns of the original ram of the Land of Israel, whose slaughtered cries the Jews were said to reproduce each year at this new moon of the month of Tishri. This red-haired scholar had a special reason, for he was the one who would lead the prayers and blow the ram’s horn, so it was no wonder that his imagination was captured by the story of a simple small dark ram’s horn that trumpeted forth sound without unnecessary twists and spirals.
The thought suddenly flashed through Elbaz’s mind that this curious man might be a suitable arbiter in the matter of double matrimony. He resolved to pay special attention to him. He withdrew into a corner with him, and took from the innermost pocket of his baggy trousers a small black ram’s horn that he had borrowed at the last moment, before boarding the ship, from the synagogue in the port of Cadiz, for according to the original calculation of the journey, without the overland extension, they should have heard the sound of the horn on their way home, somewhere on the ocean between Brittany and the Bay of Biscay. While the astonished scholar of Worms was feeling the simple Andalusian horn, which to judge by its fineness had evidently been taken from a mountain goat rather than a ram, Rabbi Elbaz attempted unobtrusively to take stock of the man’s character with a few test questions well directed to his purpose, which he was keeping hidden until he had had an opportunity to consult Ben Attar.
But where was Ben Attar? And where were the other travelers? Jews and Ishmaelites, white, dark, and black-skinned, had been swallowed up by the wooden houses of the Jews of Worms who now emerged into the drizzle of eventide to assemble in the synagogue, which, even though it was still under construction and the whole western wall was missing, seemed to be as dear to the worshippers as though it were whole. They pressed together in the united brotherhood of a proud congregation, dressed in festive clothing and raising their eyes in satisfaction to three large oblong windows, above which were three circular lights like portholes, glazed with thick yellow panes, which, since they were not adorned with any image, of angel or man or even floral designs, shone into the darkness of the synagogue with the charm of three bright suns.
Master Levitas insisted that the Andalusian rabbi and his son, who had emerged from somewhere or other with a pointed hat on his head, should be seated against the eastern wall, beside the holy ark, so that the rabbi could be impressed by the excellence of the congregation standing facing him—a congregation that would scrub away at its sins on Thursday and Friday, continue to afflict itself on the Sabbath of Repentance, and then mark a slight pause on Saturday evening to ascend the judgment throne and to decide between north and south, between Abulafia and Ben Attar. These two were now standing side by side, swallowed up in the worshipping congregation, shivering slightly in the cold damp wind that in Europe accompanied the evening prayer of the New Year, whereas in Tangier, their birthplace, they both recalled sorrowfully, it was always said under a warm, star-studded sky.
Ben Attar customarily spent the first night of New Year with his first wife and the second night with his second wife. His first wife prepared the meal before the Day of Atonement, and he broke his fast afterward with the second wife. He built the tabernacle first at the first wife’s house, and he carried the small scroll to the second wife’s house at the Rejoicing of the Law. And so for the other festivals of the year, whose naturally double nature invited and demanded at least two wives, always fresh to help the man, who might otherwise be overwhelmed by the many complex regulations of his faith.
But this evening, in the dark synagogue on the bank of the Rhine, where the service followed the abbreviated rite of Amram Gaon rather than the long Babylonian rite of Saadia Gaon, the worshippers had time to embellish the chants and repeat their favorite passages, and since they all knew the prayers by heart, they were not too troubled by the lack of light. Ben Attar stood holding a parchment text that he would have had difficulty reading even in daylight, let alone in the dark, wondering at himself. So many hours had passed since he had been separated from his wives, and yet he was in no hurry to be reunited with them, and had not even asked after them. Was this only because he was confident that their hosts would be treating them with generosity and respect, as he himself was treated, or because for the first time in his life he felt relieved that they were not with him, as though his soul were sated with them?