A. Yehoshua - The Liberated Bride

The driver himself was engaged in gently pushing Rivlin into a bathroom that locked with a key. Unable to find the light switch, he made do with the unveiled moon, which illuminated a large bathtub whose claw-footed legs, like the Devil’s cast in lead, reminded him of his parents’ old-fashioned tub in Jerusalem.

He felt dizzy. As though in a dream, he urinated silently and briefly, wet his face and hair with cold water from the tap, and leaned halfway through the open window, outside of which was hanging some freshly laundered underwear, to take a deep breath of the Palestinian countryside. The door handle rattled. Opening it to make way for the next in line, he saw the Lebanese singer standing in the dark corridor. He bowed his head in homage, feeling himself redden as he said:

“ Shaifi sayid’ti, hatta il-yahudi biddo yi’raf shu b’ghanu il-leili b’il-janeh. ” *

Laughing in her strong, sure voice, she dismissed, with a charming gesture, the Jew and Paradise equally.

“ Il-janeh… il-janeh… kulhon honi bi’Filastin b’balghu, majanin shwoy. Min hakalhon inno b’il-janeh ’am b’ghanu?” †

The professor laughed, too. Emboldened by her friendly tone, he begged to differ. Why should there not be song in Paradise, he said, and inquired in what language she would be singing that night and whether it would be possible to obtain the words.

The nun answered that she planned to sing the Easter Mass in Greek and Arabic.

“ Hasan jiddan, ” he responded enthusiastically. “ Ana ’l-an bash’ur b’il-mut’a abl-ma tiji alay .” ‡

Her pale face seemed to twitch in the moonlight, her remote glance turning to an ironic compassion. Extending a finger toward the Jew’s heart, she said in French, as though embarking with him for new territory:

“ Mais vous n’êtes pas trop fatigué, Monsieur?” §

25.

EVEN THOUGH, GIVEN the history of the previous twenty-four hours, he should have been not only tired but thoroughly wiped out, he did not doze off, even once, the way he did during Philharmonic concerts. Deeply moved, he sat beside the Abuna, listening intently while holding some creased pages that contained the Arabic program notes and the text of the Mass. His front-row seat, which offered no visual distractions, forced him to keep his eyes on the singer, who stood erect in her habit and sandals on a step near the altar, accompanied by four white-haired men. It wasn’t clear whether she had brought them from Beirut or assembled them locally.

Her rich coloratura voice showed the influence of the Arab scale, its vibrato tendencies kept in check by a religious austerity. Though distilled in her to an abstract emotion, the soulfulness of Arab vocalism retained its erotic sweetness. Despite the monotony of the Byzantine chants, she gave their transitions a dramatic power, her strong, sure voice rising to stirring heights. The accompanists, standing behind her by a flickering candle, backed her with a steady, unobtrusive drone that reminded Rivlin of the hum of a generator or the rush of water past a boat. At times, as though yielding to the current, she let her voice drop and joined them, or at other times fell mute during the choir’s recitative. Then would come a moment of silence, while she considered what had been said before framing her reply.

Rivlin made no attempt to comprehend the Greek. But the nun’s soft Arabic sent a shiver through him, as though an ancient matriarch were speaking to him. Under his breath, he translated the words to the chant for Holy Thursday.

“Include me, O Son of God, in this mystic dinner with its holy bread. For I will not reveal your secret to the enemy, nor give you the kiss of Judas. Like the thief on the cross, O Lord, I beseech you to remember me when you come into your Kingdom.”

The spiritual uplift often noticeable in performing musicians shone redoubled in her face. Yet her singing was no more a religious rite than it was a concert to be greeted by applause. Halfway between prayer and art, it belonged to the domain of memory or of hope for an uncertain redemption.

“Many of the Muslims have come to see her faint,” the Abuna whispered to Rivlin in English, perhaps to prevent those near them from understanding. “But she won’t tonight. She’s already told me.”

Proud that so many believers in Allah had come to his church to pass the time between the post- and the prefast meals, he was also a bit apprehensive of them.

The Jew turned cautiously around in his seat. How could he tell the Muslims from the Christians? Perhaps Rashid, standing in the aisle behind his somber sister, could enlighten him. But his driver merely flashed him a V sign, as if to say, Admit that I’ve kept my word.

“But why won’t she?” Rivlin whispered, disappointed.

“You embarrass her.”

“Me?”

“That’s a fact, Professor. She’s a real Lebanese, not a Palestinian refugee. She comes from way up in the mountains and isn’t used to crying or fainting in front of Jews.”

The Abuna laid a hand on the Orientalist’s knee to comfort him, or perhaps to end their conversation, since the singer, who was looking straight at them, had a note of annoyance in her voice.

Rivlin’s cheeks burned. It piqued him to think of the nun being embarrassed to faint in front of him. She was now singing about the sacrament of the washing of feet. Would she let him wash hers — which, glimpsed through the straps of her sandals, were carnally petite? Or would he first have to become a Christian?

26.

THE EXCITEMENT IN the church was building. The candle in its tall candelabrum had begun to sputter. As the ancient Byzantine chants quavered more and more with Arab grace notes, the mostly male audience swayed and joined the droning chorus. The little sailboat had entered stormy waters.

The Abuna, his moon-shaped face bright with satisfaction, was unfazed. Removing his eyeglasses and rubbing his eyes, he let half a cross-eyed squint roam the throng of rhapsodic Muslims while the other half winked at the Christians. Although the upsurge of emotion threatened to swamp the church’s sanctity, frowning upon it too openly might strike the Muslim notables in the front row as Christian impudence. One of them, a bearded young imam, was staring at the Lebanese with burning eyes, as if plotting to steal her voice at the concert’s end.

“ T’safrani, ya ruhi, t’safrani, ya idisi ayuha il-batul…. ” *

The murmur was Plato’s. Alarmed by the sharp tilt of the sacred toward the profane, he prayed for a dignified fainting fit that might calm the clamorous crowd and bring the evening to a peaceful end.

The nun, however, showed no sign of swooning. Determined to stay conscious for the Jew, she confidently let her unclouded coloratura plunge to more masculine depths. A note of grief crept into the chant for Palm Sunday:

“I inspect the bridal chamber, O Lord. But although it is adorned in glory, I have no garment with which to enter it. I beg you, lave the garment of my soul, enlighten me, save me.”

Once more he felt a lump in his throat, as on the night of the biblical drama in Tel Aviv. Was he about to succumb, in this godforsaken church near Jenin, to the same strange need to cry that had overcome him while watching the thrice-repeated dance of Jephthah’s daughter? And there was no one here, not even Rashid, who could calm him with the wisdom of his wife.

He lifted the program to his eyes to hide them. What was it that moved him almost to tears? There were no human conflicts or relationships here, only the bliss of an ancient Jew’s moonstruck disciples discovering he was gone from the grave. Yet the magical voice of the Lebanese nun soared with such power that he turned in wonder to the Abuna, who nodded with approval at the Jew’s damp eyes. It’s perfectly natural, Professor, he might have said had he been inclined to say anything at all. Cry, weep all you want. Such is the Song of Paradise. Sometimes it’s in Arabic, sometimes in Greek. Inshallah, the day will come when you Jews, too, if only you show some magnanimity, will sing it in Hebrew.