Waldheim were both nodding. “And threatening. Yes, most definitely. Threatening.”
Schmidt sighed with relief, and the bishop smiled.
36
Mordecai Ben Judah Levi, a distinguished scholar from another Hasidic sect, had written to Barash requesting a favor. In his letter he had explained that he was currently drafting an exegetical work and wished to discuss a particular point of law with special reference to the teachings of Isaac Luria. The zaddik had promptly consented, and his guest had arrived the following evening with a satchel crammed with books and annotated papers. It transpired that the question posed by Levi was not as testing as Barash had expected. Indeed, he was immediately able to provide an exact answer, allowing the two men to indulge in a more far-reaching conversation, a conversation that repeatedly strayed away from the ordinary and embraced the arcane.
“Are you familiar with the principal means by which demons propagate?” asked the zaddik’s guest.
The curtains were drawn, and the only light in the room came from a single sputtering candle on the sideboard. A harsh wind had blown in from the east, carrying with it an icy memory of its Carpathian origins. It was curiously expressive, finding in every flue and vent an excuse to wail inconsolably. This disembodied moaning was most appropriate to their subject.
“I have not made a very detailed study of this area,” said Barash modestly.
“Onanism,” said the guest. “It is without doubt the principal means of demonic generation. Lilith, the queen of demons, and the familiars in her retinue excite concupiscent desire in men so that they are wont to engage in solitary acts of debauch. The demons do this so that they can make bodies for themselves from the lost seed.” The guest tilted his head, and appeared to be listening intently to the lamentations of the wind. “No man can be complacent, even the virtuous man whose desires are satisfied within the sacred and lawful union of marriage. Lilith is ever eager to trespass in Eve’s dominion. Thus, the Zohar recommends we perform a rite that keeps the demon temptress from the marriage bed. When the husband enters the bedroom, he should think only of holy things and recite the prayer of protection.”
The zaddik’s guest intoned a verse: Veiled in velvet-are you here?
Loosened, loosened be your spell
Go not in and go not out
Let there be none of you and nothing of your part
Turn back, turn back, the ocean rages
Its waves are calling you
But I cleave the holy part,
I am wrapped in the sanctity of the King.
“Then,” he continued, “the wise husband must wind cloth around his own head, and his wife’s head, and sprinkle fresh water on the connubial sheets.”
Barash was impressed by his guest’s encyclopedic knowledge of the Zohar, and of so many other holy tomes. He was not only familiar with The Book of Creation, The Book Bahir, and The Book of Visions but also numerous lesser works: The Treatise on the Emanations on the Left by Rabbi Isaac ben Jacob ha-Cohen and De Arte Kabbalistica by Johannes Reuchlin.
Barash was flattered that a scholar as renowned as Levi had chosen to consult him. However, as their conversation progressed, he became increasingly uneasy. The point of law that his guest had wished to discuss was easily dispensed with, and he had begun to suspect that the question had been merely a pretext. The scholar seemed to be testing Barash, exploring the extent of his knowledge-and, by implication, his power.
They spoke for some time about demonic entities-their provenance and exorcism, and rites for protecting the dead. Eventually, however, their talk subsided and the room was filled with only the sound of banging shutters and the mournful cry of the wind. The zaddik’s guest closed his eyes; he might have been sleeping were it not for the slow rise and fall of his right index finger. In due course, the scholar spoke. “The monk and the councillor.” The words seemed to sustain an unnatural presence, like the protracted reverberation that follows the striking of a bell. “We have heard rumors. Your prophecy, scattered earth…”
So, thought Barash. Now we have it at last.
“And I hear that your students have been telling, once again, the old stories. The old stories of the Prague ghetto.” The wind created a full-throated, almost human cry of desperation, and the scholar opened his eyes. They glinted in the darkness like mica. “My people want to know what is happening.”
“Then tell them. Give them answers.”
“What answers?”
“The answers that you know to be true, in your heart.”
A sudden draft extinguished the candle, and they were plunged into total darkness. Barash could hear the scholar breathing: fast and shallow.
“Did you make it?” Levi asked, his voice no more than a whisper.
“No.”
“Then who? Who among us today has the strength?”
“I don’t know,” Barash replied. “But surely, whoever it is, he will soon reveal himself.”
37
From the journal of Dr. Max Liebermann
Today I saw Clara, the woman I once loved. Or perhaps I should say the woman whom I thought I once loved. The woman who by now would have been my wife, had I not broken off our engagement. It is a strange consideration. Marriage. She looked stunning, coming out of the Imperial in the company of a handsome lieutenant. I had heard rumors, of course. They say she met him at a sanatorium in the Tyrol where her father had sent her to convalesce. I had always derived consolation from this news. It served to assuage my guilt. I couldn’t be held responsible for ruining her life. Indeed, she might find true love with her lieutenant, and be patently much happier than she ever would have been with me. I wished her well, because if she found happiness in the arms of her handsome lieutenant, then my judgment would be vindicated. There, you see? It was for the best, after all.
So why is it, I wonder, that when I saw them together today I felt so ungenerous, so empty of goodwill? They stepped out of the Imperial, and the lieutenant hailed a cab. Clara was smiling. She was wearing a long fur coat with a matching hat and looked like a Russian princess. A cab pulled up, and the lieutenant helped her inside. As she ascended the step, he held her gloved fingers in one hand, and pressed the small of her back with the other. It was casual contact, accomplished with careless, practiced ease. He was used to touching her, and she was used to being touched. As the cab rolled off, I saw them kiss. A merging of shadows in the frame of a small window, glanced a moment before the curtain swished across to protect her honor.
It left me feeling excluded and horribly alone: standing on a corner, a revenant, or less-a voyeur-blinking into a gritty, chill wind. I remembered kissing her: the desire, the wanting. She was, and remains, a very beautiful woman. She was not right for me, and I was not right for her. I know that. I knew that then and I know that now. Even so, when I go to bed this evening, I will be going to bed alone. What have I replaced marriage with? An obsession. A fetish. The pursuit of a woman whose inaccessibility is equaled only by that of the stars. I am no different from some of Krafft-Ebing’s cases. Excepting, perhaps, that their erotic lives are more satisfactory than mine! At least they have real outlets, whereas I appear to have none at all.
Amelia Lydgate was my patient. Her hysterical symptoms arose from a sexual trauma, the unwelcome advances of a man in whose household and care her parents had thought she would be safe. Miss Lydgate has now placed her trust in me. If I attempt to become intimate with her, will this not re-create elements of the very situation that made her ill? I wonder, what correspondent memories would a passionate embrace arouse in her mind? Schelling, stealing into her room at night and attempting to force himself upon her? The mattress tilting as he crawled over the bed, the suffocating weight of his body? How can I make my feelings known to such a woman,
