Rashi's Daughters, Book III: Rachel (10 page)

“Maybe only a week, but it might be as long as a month or six weeks,” Mama replied.

Rachel stared down at the now sleeping baby in her arms. How was she going to protect Asher from the demon? Already his stuffy nose made it difficult for him to nurse, and his fretful crying was a clear sign that he wasn’t getting enough to eat.

When Papa came that night to bless her children, she begged him to stay, not to leave her to face the demon alone.

“It would be better if the four of you stayed with us,
ma fille
,” he replied. “Then your mother can help.”

“
Merci
, Papa. With all the holy books you have, we should be safer there.”

So the battle raged. During the day, but mostly during the night—sometimes as often as three or four times an hour—the demon tried to strangle Rachel’s children. And each morning, more exhausted than the day before, Rachel gave thanks that all three, as well as Miriam’s four, were still alive to greet the dawn.

Yet Asher continued to have trouble nursing and grew increasingly lethargic. One night, just after the bells chimed Lauds, he woke up crying with hunger. Before Rachel could get him to suck, his cries were cut short by a fit of coughing that didn’t stop, the spasms coming so close together that he couldn’t catch his breath. Rachel lit the lamp and raced down to the kitchen for a steaming towel. She held it over his face, but his coughing continued, interrupted only when he gagged on the thick mucus dribbling from his lips. She froze with horror as her baby’s lips and nails turned blue, and then his face started turning blue as well. She began to scream.

Papa and Mama found her moments later, her son’s limp and lifeless body still clutched to her breast.

 

As Córdoba loomed in the distance, Eliezer eagerly anticipated meeting wealthy buyers for his furs and woolens. Among them he would find a suitable host, with whom he’d stay while he waited for Safik to arrive with a supply of dyestuffs. On his previous trips to Tunisia, Eliezer’s formidable Talmud knowledge had opened many doors for him, and he expected similar doors to open in Córdoba. He’d heard enough about the city to know that behind its doors were lavishly furnished salons inhabited by men who drank fine wines and dressed their wives in expensive silks, men who wielded power in their communities.

Before a week was out, Eliezer met a man like that named Hasdai.

Hasdai had studied Talmud in Kairouan during its yeshiva’s zenith, and to him Eliezer’s words were sweet as those of a long-lost lover. When he discovered that Eliezer knew much of the Talmud by heart, the two of them quickly reached an agreement: Hasdai would provide Eliezer room and board in exchange for teaching his two grandsons Tractate Berachot. When they finished Berachot, they would continue with Tractate Shabbat.

“But Shabbat is too difficult for beginning students,” Eliezer protested. “I would suggest studying Rosh Hashanah instead.”

Hasdai shook his head. “This is how we learn Talmud in Sepharad—first Berachot, and then, in order, the tractates about festivals that follow.”

“Then what tractates do they study?”

“At this point, rather than becoming overwhelmed with discussions whose conclusions are not always plainly stated, we prefer our students to learn from responsa of the Babylonian Geonim,” Hasdai replied.

Eliezer barely contained his shock. “But how will they learn to make legal decisions if they haven’t studied the tractates concerning women or damages?”

“If they base their verdicts on the writings of Rabbi Hai Gaon or Rabbi Hananel, who rendered judgments in clear language, they will not err,” Hasdai said.

Eliezer allowed his host to take his silence for agreement. But as far as he was concerned, Talmud was properly studied in Ashkenaz, where yeshiva students and scholars argued until the law was clear to all.

 

At first Eliezer gave no thought to what Hasdai’s grandsons studied when they weren’t learning Talmud, but after less than a month in Cordova, it became evident that the men in Hasdai’s circle had intellectual interests besides Talmud. Several nights a week, Hasdai either invited other men to his home or he and Eliezer went out. Women never attended these soirees, whose main entertainment was conversation, and for the first time since childhood, Eliezer found himself unable to hold his own among Jewish men.

Of course he added nothing to the gossip, which seemed to concern whether one of the local cantors had been frequenting brothels even though he lived with his wife (if true, the fellow should be dismissed, or at least cautioned to be more discreet), and if a certain man had taken one of his wife’s maidservants as a concubine (not very considerate behavior, but understandable since the wife had stopped bearing).

But he also had no reply to their other questions, ones he had never even contemplated.

Why is seawater salty while rivers are not? From where do the winds arise? Why do all men die? How is the earth held up in the middle of the air? How are voices carried through the air and heard by us? Why must all animals sleep?

Hasdai’s friends debated questions like these with great enthusiasm. None of them knew the answers, but they all knew scholars who studied such things. There were also questions that did appear to have answers, although the men disagreed on which answer was correct.

Is the universe eternal? Was the world truly created from nothing? How do the celestial bodies act on the world? Does nature obey certain laws? If so, how can man have free will?

Various authorities were cited reverently—names that Eliezer had never heard before: Philo, Aristotle, Plato, Ptolemy, al-Zarqālī, al-Khwarīzmī, al-Jayyani, al-Haytham. These scholars’ works must be what Hasdai’s grandsons were studying, and Eliezer left these gatherings with a burning desire to know what the boys knew, what Hasdai’s friends knew, and more.

Later, when Eliezer was alone with his host, he struggled to ask about these things without exposing his terrible ignorance. “Do boys here study Aristotle at a special school?”

“No,” Hasdai replied, apparently finding nothing unusual in the question. “We have many tutors of Greek philosophy in Córdoba.”

“What about al-Khwarīzmī?” Eliezer chose an Arabic name.

“They study mathematics with a different tutor.”

Eliezer was sure this subject was far more complicated than learning to keep accounts or use an abacus. Suddenly he had an idea. “What texts do they use?”

This was definitely the right question to ask because Hasdai grinned proudly. “Come, I’ll show you.”

Eliezer followed him out of the salon and into an adjoining storeroom that held the extra cushions and small tables used at large gatherings. Hasdai rearranged the cushions and pushed against the now bare wall, which slowly began to move. Moments later they stepped into a long, narrow room lit by a skylight.

Eliezer gasped in astonishment. Each wall was covered with shelves of books.

“Córdoba’s caliphs spent years stocking their royal library.” Hasdai sighed. “Some say it contained over five hundred thousand manuscripts written in Greek, Arabic, and even Hebrew—translations of the great works of antiquity and original treatises.”

“You said ‘contained.’ What happened to it?”

“When the Berbers—illiterate scum filled with contempt for the Moors—threatened the city, the library’s contents were dispersed and hidden. As I’m sure you know, the Moors prefer poetry and philosophy to warfare. We Jews saved many of the Hebrew volumes.”

“Incredible. And you obtained these.” Eliezer stared at the walls of manuscripts in awe. Salomon’s library in Troyes was a fraction of this size.

“As well as some Arabic texts, including several copies of al-Khwarīzmī, Philo, and Aristotle. I hope my grandsons and great-grandsons will eventually want their own copies,” Hasdai said. “Some of my friends have similar collections, but who knows where the rest of the caliphs’ library resides?”

Eliezer didn’t care. There were more than enough books here to keep him occupied until Passover, when he would need to leave if he hoped to be home for his third child’s birth. The problem was where to begin. He didn’t dare lower Hasdai’s opinion by asking for recommendations, but—he grinned at his own cleverness—the man’s grandsons were another matter.

“Tell me about your other studies,” he asked them nonchalantly, after services. “Which subjects do you like best?”

“Mathematics,” the younger one replied immediately. “Philosophy is boring.”

“That’s because you’re too little to understand it,” his brother retorted.

“I’m tired of Aristotle. I want to study somebody else for a change.”

“But you have to understand Aristotle before you can study Abraham ibn Daud, Philo, or Solomon ibn Gabirol.” The older one sounded like he was quoting a teacher.

Eliezer now knew where he should begin, at least for philosophy. But before he could ask about poetry and the sciences, he found out that there was more he needed to know about Aristotle.

“I’ve already studied his
Metaphysics
,
Politics
,
Ethics
, and
On the Soul
,” the younger one complained.

“You’re almost done,” his brother said. “You only have his writings on logic left to go.”

Eliezer made a point of remembering the titles he’d just heard. “So you like mathematics,” he said to his younger student. “Which text are you studying?”

“I finally understand al-Khwarīzmī.” The boy’s eyes were shining. “He’s amazing. Now I can go on to Ptolemy and al-Haytham.”

“Who are your favorite poets?” Eliezer asked. The Jews of Sepharad were fanatics about poetry; every man considered himself a poet.

“Grandpapa says we can’t study poetry until we’re older.” The brothers exchanged looks of frustration. “They’re all about wine, women, and death.”

Eliezer chuckled. But the mention of women brought Rachel to Eliezer’s mind, which led to vivid memories of their last night together. Once the boys had left for their secular studies, he walked briskly to the Street of Harlots.

 

Eliezer couldn’t wait to begin his new studies. He selected Aristotle and al-Khwarīzmī to start, and as he expected, Hasdai’s library contained these elementary texts. But it was soon apparent that he would need a tutor for mathematics. The gift that allowed him to memorize pages of Talmud was appropriate for Aristotle, but solving quadratic equations was not something he could learn to do by reading about them. Reminding himself that few men discussed algebra at parties, he put mathematics aside and concentrated on philosophy.

As his Arabic vocabulary grew, Eliezer realized that Aristotle, who took pains to explain his ideas clearly, was far easier than Talmud, where the text was deliberately obscure, with many words missing and no punctuation. He spent his spare time in Hasdai’s library and came to recognize Aristotle’s ideas when he heard them. He also came to disagree with many of them.

He conducted his business leisurely, banishing any remorse for not coming home for Passover or the birth of his child. He convinced himself that he needed to remain in Córdoba to make more contacts with the local merchants, many of whom would only be arriving after the Great Sea opened to shipping in the spring. But eventually his guilt mounted to the point where he announced that he was leaving the following Sunday.

“But you can’t go yet.” Hasdai appeared stricken. “Not all the merchants have returned, and I’ve promised to prepare a great wine party in your honor once everyone has arrived.”

“In my honor?” Eliezer couldn’t insult his host by leaving before the event. Not if he hoped to do more business in Córdoba. Rachel would understand the delay—he hoped.

“Of course. You’re famous; everyone wants to meet you.”

Eliezer sighed and gave in. “Tell me, my friend. How is a wine party different from a regular party?” Every gathering Eliezer attended served wine.

“Ah.” Hasdai smiled. “A wine party is actually a poetry party. On a warm spring evening, at some outdoor venue, we celebrate the beauty of nature.”

“I hope you don’t expect me to compose any poetry.” Eliezer laughed.

“Don’t worry. I know you’ve lived among the Jews of Ashkenaz, who have no appreciation for man’s intellect. Their minds are so permeated with vinegar and garlic that it leaves little room for fixed ideas—except regarding sexual relations and eating, which they seek to restrict.”

Eliezer, who still considered himself a Provençal, thought of the German Jews he knew and nodded. “Perhaps you can suggest some books of poetry for me to read in advance.”

“Of course.” He beckoned Eliezer to the library.

“I think I will hire a boat,” Hasdai mused as he removed books from the shelves, only to reject them and put them back. “A cruise on the Guadalquivir will be very scenic.”

“How can we appreciate nature at night?”

“We will contemplate the heavens in all their glory, and sunrise over the newly green hills is truly an inspiration.” Hasdai took down some volumes and handed them to Eliezer. “Here we are.”

“I thought Samuel haNagid was the vizier of Granada.” Eliezer glanced at the books’ authors. “And that Solomon ibn Gabirol was a philosopher.”

“That is true. But they are also excellent poets.”

 

The week before the wine party, Eliezer alternated poetry with Aristotle, memorizing poems about wine and springtime in case he was expected to speak. The day of the event, Hasdai took him, not to the bathhouse they usually patronized, but to a larger establishment outside the Jewish Quarter.

Compared to Edomites, most of whom never immersed in water again after their baptism, the Jews of Troyes were clean people. They washed their hands after using the privy, and many bathed monthly. But the Jews and Moors of Córdoba, who bathed several times each week, would have considered French Jews filthy.

Eliezer followed Hasdai into the bathhouse’s long, narrow entry, called the cold room since it remained unheated. They undressed and an attendant handed them each a robe, towel, and pair of wooden sandals. Eliezer had frequented many bathhouses, but the grandeur of the warm room stopped him in his tracks.