The Spinoza Problem (38 page)

“I warned you about entering this Jewish field. What does psychoanalysis know about race and blood and soul? I warned you, and now I fear that you’ve already been corrupted.”

“And I told
you
that this knowledge and this method are too good and too powerful to be the sole property of Jews. I and my colleagues have used the principles of this field to offer enormous help to legions of wounded Aryans. And you’re wounded too, Alfred, but, despite your own wishes, you will not allow me to help you.”

“And I thought I was dealing with an
Übermensch
. How much was I mistaken!” Alfred stood, extracted an envelope of deutschmarks from his pocket, placed it with great precision on the corner of Friedrich’s desk, and strode toward the door.

“I’ll see you tomorrow at the same time,” Friedrich called after him.

“Not tomorrow,” Alfred called from the vestibule, “and not ever! And I’ll make sure these Jew thoughts will leave Europe along with the Jews.”

A
s Bento trudged toward Amsterdam, he actively turned his thoughts away from the past, away from nostalgic images of the Rosh Hashanahs shared with his family that had been evoked by the Ashkenazi Jews observing Tashlich, and turned toward what lay ahead. In about an hour he would see Simon again, dear generous Simon, his most ardent supporter. It was good that Simon lived near enough for occasional visits, but it was also good that Simon did not live even closer, since on several occasions, he had shown signs of wishing to be too close. A scene from Simon’s last visit to Rijnsburg drifted into his mind.

“Simon, you are a generous man. And know that I love you for your generosity. But my needs are few and easily attained, and excessive money will distract rather then aid my concentration. What’s more—and Simon, you may not find this credible, but believe me—
lens grinding is good for thinking
. Yes, I concentrate hard on the lathe, the angle and the radius of the glass, the delicate polishing, but while I do this, my thinking germinates in the background at such a rapid pace that I often finish a lens and discover that,
mirabile dictu
, there are new solutions to thorny philosophical arguments ready at hand. I, or at least the attentive I, do not seem to be needed. It’s not unlike the phenomenon of problems being solved in dreams, which many ancients have reported. Independent of this, the science of optics fascinates me. At present, I’m developing an entirely different method of grinding fine telescope lenses that I believe will be a major advance.”

The conversation had ended with Simon grasping Bento’s hand with both his hands and holding it overly long while saying, “You shall not escape me. I shall not give up my attempts to facilitate your work. Please know that my offer shall remain open however long I live.”

That was the moment Bento thought it was good that Simon did not live too near.

 

 

 

I
n Amsterdam on a bench by the Singel, Simon Joosten de Vries awaited his friend’s visit. The son of wealthy merchants, Simon lived a few blocks from van den Enden in a substantial four-story house twice the width of the adjoining houses fronting the canal. Not only did Simon adore Bento, but he resembled him in appearance—frail, small-boned, with beautiful, delicate facial features and a carriage of great dignity.

As the sun set and the glowing orange sky turned charcoal gray, Simon paced impatiently in front of his home and grew increasingly anxious about the whereabouts of his friend. The
Trekschuit
should have arrived an hour ago. Suddenly spotting Bento strolling on the Singel two blocks away, Simon waved his arms, rushed to meet him, and insisted on carrying the heavy shoulder bag containing notebooks and the newly ground lenses. Once inside the house Simon led his guest to the table set with rye bread and cheese and a freshly baked spicy
oudewijvenkoek
(old ladies’ cake), a northern Dutch aniseed delicacy.

As Simon prepared coffee, he went over plans for the morrow. “The Philosophy Club will meet here about 1900 hours. I expect twelve members, all of whom will have read the ten pages you mailed me. I had two copies made and asked them to read it in a day and pass it along to the others. And in the afternoon I have a gift for you from the Philosophy Club, which I am sure you will not turn down. I’ve found some interesting volumes at two booksellers—the establishments of Abraham de Wees and Lubbert Meyndertsz—and will escort you there to select one of your choice from a tasty menu of Virgil, Hobbes, Euclid, and Cicero.”

Bento did not decline this offer; instead his eyes lit up. “Simon, I thank you. You are too generous.”

Yes, Bento had one weak spot, and Simon had discovered it. Bento was in love with books—not only the reading of books but the possession of them. Though he politely and consistently declined all other gifts, he could never refuse a worthy book, and Simon and many of the other Collegiants were gradually building him a fine library that had almost filled the large
bookcase standing on the side wall of his living room in Rijnsburg. Sometimes late at night, when unable to sleep, Bento would go to his bookcases and smile as he gazed at the volumes. Sometimes he would rearrange them, sometimes for size or for subject or simply alphabetically, and sometimes he would inhale the aroma of the books or caress them, luxuriating in the heft or the feel of the variegated bindings upon his palms.

“But before the book shopping,” Simon continued, “there will be a surprise. A visitor! I hope it will be a welcome one. Here, read this letter that arrived last week.”

Bento opened a letter that had been tightly rolled and bound by twine. The first line was written in Portuguese, and Bento immediately recognized Franco’s handwriting. “My dear friend, it has been far too long.” At this point, much to Bento’s surprise, the letter switched to excellent Hebrew. “I have many things to discuss with you. First among them is that I am now a serious student and a father. I am wary of writing too much and only hope your friend can arrange a way for us to meet.”

“When did this arrive, Simon?”

“About a week ago. The deliverer was a caricature of furtiveness as he zipped through my door as soon as I opened it. He immediately handed me the letter and then, after opening the door slightly and peering carefully up and down the street to make sure he was not seen, quickly slipped out. He would not leave his name but said you had told him to use me as a contact. I assumed he is the man who was so helpful after the assassination attempt?”

“Yes, Franco is his name, but even that should be kept secret. He runs a great risk—remember that the excommunication expressly forbids any Jew from speaking to me. He is my one link to the past, and you are my one link to him. I want very much to meet with him.”

“Good. I took the liberty of telling him you’d be in Amsterdam today, and his eyes brightened so much that I suggested that he stop here to see you tomorrow morning.”

“His response?”

“He said that obstacles existed, but he would do all that is humanly possible to get here at some point before noon.”

“Thank you, Simon.”

The next morning, a loud rap at the door echoed throughout the house. When Simon opened the door, Franco, wearing a robe with a hood covering his head and much of his face, slipped inside. Simon led him to Bento, waiting in the front salon facing the canal, and then discreetly left them alone. Franco beamed as he grabbed Bento’s shoulders with both hands. “Ah, Bento, what a blessing to see you.”

“And a blessing for me to see you. Take off your cloak and let me look at you, Franco.” Bento strolled around him. “Well, well, well. You’ve changed: you’ve gained weight; your face is more full, hearty. But that beard and your black clothes—you look like a Talmudic student. And how dangerous is it for you to be here? And how is it being married? And being a father? And are you content?”

“So many questions!” Franco laughed. “Which one to answer first? The last one I think. Wouldn’t your friend Epicurus have considered that the main question? Yes, I am very content. My life has changed much for the better. And you, Bento? Are you content?”

“I, too, am more content than ever. As Simon may have told you, I live in Rijnsburg, a small, quiet village, and I live exactly as I wish—alone with few distractions. I think, I write, and no one tries to stab me. What could be better? But my other questions?”

“My wife and my son are true blessings. She is the soul mate I hoped for—and now evolving into an educated soul mate. I’ve been teaching her to read Portuguese and Hebrew, and we learn Dutch together. What else did you ask? Oh, my clothes and my shrubbery?” Franco stroked his beard. “This may come as a shock, but I am a student at your old school, the Pereira Yeshibah. Rabbi Mortera has granted me such a generous stipend from the synagogue that I no longer need to work for my uncle or anyone else.”

“That is rare.”

“I’ve heard the rumor that you were once offered such a stipend. Perhaps by some quirk of fate it has been redirected to me. Perhaps I am being rewarded for betraying you.”

“What reason did Rabbi Mortera give?”

“When I asked him ‘How am I worthy?’ he surprised me. He said the stipend is his way, the Jewish community’s way, of honoring my father,
whose reputation, and the reputation of his long line of rabbinical ancestors, is far greater than I had ever imagined. But he also added that I was a promising student who might one day follow in my father’s steps.”

“And—” Bento took a deep breath. “Your response to the rabbi?”

“Gratitude. Bento Spinoza, you’ve made me thirsty for knowledge and, to the rabbi’s pleasure, I have plunged into a joyous study of Talmud and Torah.”

“I see. Uh . . . well . . . you’ve accomplished much. The Hebrew in your note is most excellent.”

“Yes, I am pleased with myself, and my joy in learning increases day by day.”

A short silence ensued. They both opened their mouths to speak at the same time and then stopped. After another brief silence Franco asked, “Bento, you were in much anguish when I last saw you after the attack. You recovered quickly?”

Bento nodded. “Yes, and in no small part thanks to you. You should know that even now in Rijnsburg I keep my old slashed overcoat hanging in plain sight. It was excellent counsel.”

“Tell me more of your life.”

“Ah, what to say? I grind glass half my day and think, read, and write the rest of the time. I have little to tell on the outside. I live entirely in my mind.”

“And that young woman who brought me up to your room? The one who gave you so much pain?”

“She and my friend Dirk are planning to marry.”

A short silence. Franco asked, “And? Tell me more.”

“We remain friends, but she is a devout Catholic and he is converting to Catholicism. I imagine our friendship will suffer once I publish my views on religion.”

“And your concern about the power of your passions?”

“Ah . . . ” Bento hesitated. “Well, since I last saw you, I’ve enjoyed tranquility.”

Again, a silence ensued, finally broken by Franco.

“You notice something different between us today.”

Bento, puzzled, shrugged. “What do you mean?”

“I mean the silences. We never had silences before. There was always far too much to say—we chattered without stop. There was never an instant of silence.”

Bento nodded.

“My father, blessed be his name,” Franco continued, “always said that when something big is not talked about, nothing else of importance can be said. Do you agree, Bento?”