A. Yehoshua - The Liberated Bride

“My beauty,” I said to her, “come, be a sport,

Give us a kiss and be done with it!”

“But why,” she replied, “do you want a woman’s love

When a boy,

All dreamy-eyed and smooth as a gold coin,

Is so much better?”

She went and fetched a lissome lad,

Bright as the moon, fresh-bottomed—

But I, I left that place dead broke

And down on my luck.

And though, my shirt lost to her wine,

She said in parting,

“Now be well,”

I tell you that I felt like hell.

The Palestinians roared good-humoredly. The Israelis, prepared in the cause of peace to share the blame for a cunning Jewess who had lived twelve hundred years ago, tittered politely.

Ibn-Zaidoun now put on a pair of gold-rimmed glasses and read, to the delight of the audience, another poem about a Jew.

Jitu Ma’a As’habi

I came with my friends, both fine young men,

To the tavern keeper at the hour of ten.

You could tell by his dress he was no Muslim.

Our intentions were good — I can’t say that of him.

“Your religion,” we asked, “it’s Christianity?”

He let loose a flood of profanity.

Well, that’s a Jew: It’s love to your face

And a knife in the back, anytime, anyplace.

“And what,” we asked, “shall we call you, sir?”

“Samuel,” he said. “Or else Abu-Amar.

Not that I like having an Arab name.

It certainly isn’t a claim to fame.

Yet I prefer it all the same

To longer ones that aren’t as plain.”

“Well said, Abu Amar!” we chimed.

“And now be a friend and break out the wine.”

He looked us up and he looked us down,

And he said, “I swear, if word gets out in this town,

Because of you, that I sell booze,

I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes.”

And with that he brought us a golden mead

That knocked the three of us off our feet,

So that what was meant to be a weekender

Has lasted a month and we’re still on a bender!

12.

THE MOOD WAS growing mellow. Who could fail to be charmed by such comic proof of the pragmatic, hard-nosed collaboration of Jewish avarice and Muslim vice in the greatest Arab metropolis of the first millennium? And now, striding gracefully to the center of the stage, the Palestinian poet invited with a flourish the illustrious translatoress of Jahaliya poetry, Hannah Tedeschi, to demonstrate her talents in the name of the everlasting fraternity of two ancient languages. His request was simple. Dr. Tedeschi, he proposed, would stand by his side and render into simultaneous Hebrew some excerpts from the mystical tenth-century verse of Al-Hallaj, “the carder”—whose thirst for Allah was so great that it drove him out of his mind and made him decide that he himself was God, leaving the authorities no choice but to behead him publicly, burn his body, and scatter the ashes to dispel his delusion.

The translatoress was caught off guard. She crimsoned, simpered with fright, and tried making herself small, while glaring at the Orientalist who had got her into this. But before Rivlin could come to the defense of his ex — fellow student, presented with an impossible task by the Palestinian poet, his wife surprised him by taking the opposite tack and urging the translatoress to agree.

“But how,” Hannah protested, “can I just stand up and translate the fabulously subtle poetry of Hussein Ibn Mansur al-Hallaj? Any version I came up with could only be pitifully superficial.”

Yet her even knowing the middle name of so ancient a Sufi poet only strengthened the judge’s opinion. “Give it a try,” she said. “What do you have to lose? No one will dare criticize you. Those in the audience who, like me, don’t know Arabic deserve to know what a poet lost his head for.”

The flustered translatoress threw a desperate look at the sad-eyed Mr. Suissa, as if pleading with him to enlist the ghostly authority of his son on her behalf. But Rivlin, always swayed by any show of firmness on his wife’s part, now switched sides and took Hannah’s hand. “What do you care?” he said. “Don’t worry about subtlety. It might even end up in the jubilee volume.”

It was a well-aimed shot. To a murmur of approval from the audience, which had been watching her trying to make up her mind, Hannah rose, wound her old woolen scarf around her neck, and gave her hand to the renowned exile, who gallantly led her to the center of the stage.

The lights were dimmed still more, in honor of the martyred mystic. As the Palestinian poet read the first lines, the Jewish translatoress of Ignorance, her hair in need of dyeing and her shoes of new heels, shut her eyes and let Al-Hallaj’s cryptic but refined verse percolate through her.

Sukutun thumma samtun thumma harsu

Wa’ilmun thumma thumma wajdun thumma ramsu

Wa’tinnun thumma narun thumma nurun

Wa’bardum thumma zillun thumma shamsu

Wa’haznun thumma shalun thumma fakrun

Wa’nahrun thumma bahrun thumma yabsu

Wa’sukrun thumma sahwun thumma shawkun

Wa’kurbun thumma waslun thumma unsu

Wa’kabdun thumma bastun thumma mahwun

Wa’frakun thumma jam’un thumma tamsu.

Hannah Tedeschi opened her eyes and loosened her scarf. Taking the book of poetry from the Palestinian, who stood, smiling, with a fresh cigarette in his hand, she rested it on her open palms, looked up at him and back at it, and softly but surely improvised a Hebrew translation of the beheaded poet’s ode.

Quiet and then silence and then stillness,

And knowledge and then ecstasy and then the grave.

And clay and then fire and then light,

And cold and then shade and then the sun.

And rocks and then plains and then wilderness,

And a river and then a sea and then the land.

And drunkenness and then sobriety and then desire,

And closeness and then touching and then rejoicing.

And contraction and then expansion and then erasure,

And parting and then union and then life.

The translatoress glowed with a new radiance. To the applause of the audience, which did not need to understand the Hebrew to appreciate its music, she returned the book to the poet. He bowed ironically, exhaled a last puff of smoke, and chose another, shorter lyric:

Wa’inna lissan al-ghaybi jalla an al-nutki

Zahrta li’halki w’altabasta la’fityatin

Patahu wa’dalu w’ahtajabat an el-halki

Fa’tazaharu l’il-albab fi ’l-ghaybi taratan

Wa’tawrann an al-absar taghurbi fi ’l-sharki.

And again the book was handed with a smile to the translatoress, who threw back her head with such concentration that it almost flew off her shoulders like Al-Hallaj’s. She tossed off the five lines without batting an eyelash:

The language of mystery far exceeds speech,

Revealed to some, from others concealed.

They wonder and wander and meanwhile you are gone,

Sometimes sighted by hearts in the west,

While lost to the sight of eyes in the east.

Rivlin could not contain his admiration. Turning to his wife with a triumphant grin, he congratulated her for making Hannah accept the challenge.

The Palestinian poet bowed a second time, took the book gently, leafed rapidly through it, and found another short and enigmatic poem:

Fa’izza absartani absartahu

Fa’izza absartahu absartana

Ayaha al-sa’ilu an kissitna

Law tarana lam tufarik baynena

Ruhuhu ruhi wa’ruhi ruhuhu

Min ra’a ruheyn halat badana?

This time the translatoress was so sure of herself that she didn’t even look at the text. Leaving it with the poet, she answered him:

When you see me, you see him,

When you see him, you see us.

You who would know of our love