Richard Zimler - Hunting Midnight

At the time we were suffering together, I did not realize that much of my urgency and desperation was prompted by the sudden absence Francisca’s death had created in my life. I see now what a brave effort Violeta made in trying to save me from my own foolishness.

I now have thirty-nine correspondents and a list of one thousand seven hundred and eighteen names and locations of blacks in South Carolina, Georgia, Mississippi, Alabama, and Louisiana. My scroll reads not infrequently like the Old Testament:

Moon Mary, daughter of Augustus and Angola Mary, mother of William, Sawmill, and Linda, sister of Tina, Claude, Merchant, and Picker Stephen…

Frequent letters from Isaac and Luisa have given us news of River Bend, where Crow was indeed hanged shortly after our escape, at least if the rumors they heard in Charleston are to be believed. Shortly after our sudden departure, as Luisa so nicely refers to our escape, Mistress Anne invested in new stock straight from the auction block. She had the rice fields back to full production within months.

Lily, Grandma Blue, and the others who had remained behind were still in bondage. They are, of course, at the top of the list I am putting together. Morri has written to Lily to say we are all fine and that we miss her. We hope she has found someone to read the letter to her.

On realizing that I was not likely to return to Porto anytime soon, I began writing long letters to Benjamin, Gilberto, Luna Olive Tree, my father-in-law Egídio, and even Grandmother Rosa. Luna often sends sketches of fruit and flowers to me, and I return the favor with my drawings of the inhabitants of New York.

One day in September of 1824, there arrived in the post a slim manuscript written by Benjamin, entitled, “On the Hidden Meaning of Slavery,” whose dedication was made to me. In it, he gave readings of verses in the Torah to demonstrate that slavery was the last gasp of a dying world. The Lower Realms were shedding their skin like a snake, he theorized, in preparation for rising closer to the Upper Realms. The true and lasting evil of this practice, he wrote, is that slavery keeps our spirits from fulfillment and realization, from soaring into the firmament inside each of us, and therefore from union with the Lord. As such, it is an abomination that must be abolished if we are to create a world fit for the Messiah.

In his accompanying letter, Benjamin told me that though the political situation in Portugal has calmed, he foresees a civil war before too long between those who favor a constitution and those who prefer an absolute monarchy.

In one of my letters back to him, I told him that I had seen Berekiah Zarco while fading from life on the road from River Bend to Petrie’s Landing. He told me that there was little beyond the scope of a powerful Jewish mystic — even traveling across time — and that he wouldn’t be surprised to meet Berekiah one day himself! He was certain that my illustrious ancestor had helped to save my life by reciting secret prayers over me.

I learned of Benjamin’s death just four months ago from Luna Olive Tree and can still not bring myself to write more than a few words about its significance to me. It is as though an eclipse has set not simply over our life together but over the hopes he had for a better world to come. I wonder sometimes if there is anyone left to take over his mystical prayers and alchemy — who is endeavoring in a secret cellar somewhere to find the meaning in every moment.

Too weak to write me a last letter, the old apothecary had asked Luna to tell me that he was proud to have counted me among his friends and that — after I brought Morri to New York — he had seen me seated at the right hand of God in one of his visions. I was to always remember that each and every one of us was silver in the eyes of Moses.

Mama and I spoke a kaddish prayer for him, of course. And on the evening we received news of his passing, I set my flint to the seven candles of her menorah and let it blaze in my bedroom window all night long. It seemed essential to commemorate his departure from our world with light.

So it was that we reached October of 1825.

Three days ago, on the Fourteenth, at five in the afternoon, there was a knock on our door. Esther, who was practicing her violin in the sitting room, answered it and shouted, “Papa, you’d better come inside!”

I was in the garden, putting in some autumn bulbs — not an easy task with only one arm. With my fingers filthy with dirt, cursing the disturbance, I stomped into the sitting room.

He was removing his shoes in the doorway. I guessed it was him from that wee gesture and from his silhouette. No one else could have had that form.

He took a step inside the house. His eyes held the rains of the desert.

For a time I could not speak. My body seemed to be merging with everything around me. “We saw you from afar and we are dying of hunger,” I whispered.

He repeated my words. Then, in a delicate and lilting voice, he began to sing “The Foggy, Foggy Dew,” changing the lyrics for our reunion:

And every, every time I look into his eyes, he reminds me of the olden days …

In my broken whisper, I joined him: He reminds me of the summertime. And of the winter too. And of the many, many times I held him in my arms ….

I ran forward and fell at his feet, hugging his beautiful belly, breathing in the scent of him, which I now knew I had dreamed of all these twenty years of separation. I was sobbing and shaking. But I did not wish to regain my composure; my spirit was simply too full to be contained, and there was no need to restrain it any longer. In his arms, I could be what I most desired.

He ran his hands over my head, then bent down and kissed my brow. I reached up and gripped his hand, as if to assure myself that he was real. “Yes, I am here,” he said.

Esther came and knelt beside me.

“It’s Midnight,” I whispered to her.

“I know.”

I stood up then and asked the question that I had been afraid to voice all my adult life. “Can you forgive me?”

He grinned. “There is nothing to forgive, my wee gemsbok. I am very, very glad to see you. Thank you for coming to find me.” He reached up and touched my cheek. “You look the same as when you were a lad. Just a trifle taller,” he said with a laugh.

“I lost my arm while escaping with the slaves from River Bend.”

He patted the stump. “That’s a very bad thing. I’m sorry. We shall dance for your loss. But truly you will be just fine without it. I expect you’ve discovered that by now, as you were always so quick to learn.”

I nodded. I held his shoulder for support and began to weep again. I must have been quite a sight.

As I had not been able to think properly, Esther said to Midnight, “Morri is alive and is at her school. She has been waiting for you.”

And so it was that Midnight and his daughter were reunited at our home that very afternoon. After they had cried together, I gave him his old rattle and the hug sent to him by Benjamin. He was overjoyed to receive them, but distraught at the news of the apothecary’s death. We spoke of Benjamin and the Olive Tree Sisters for a time, and I told him how Graça was killed. Morri had already told him about Weaver’s sad fate. Of Father, all I told him for now was that he was long dead, killed during the French occupation of Porto. Midnight wept silent tears upon hearing that and shook for a time as I held him, reassuring me that he did not either hate him or remember him with anger. Then he smoked his pipe by our hearth and spoke to us of his disappearance and how he had come to find us.