Joseph and His Brothers, page 165
"Right, right. All the same, my heart is pounding for fear they will recognize me."
"Don't you want them to?"
"Not right away, Mai, by no means right away. For it to be drawn out and for it to dawn on them only very slowly before I speak the word and say, 'It is I'—all that is necessary, first as embellishment, as a way of giving shape to God's story, and second, there is so much that must first be tested and discovered, so much to be sounded out, above all as regards Benjamin ..."
"Is Benjamin with them?"
"That's just it, he's not. I've told you there are ten of them, not
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eleven. But we were twelve! There are the red-eyed ones, and the sons of the handmaids, but not my mother's son, the Httle one. Do vou know what that means? You are so composed, you're slow to grasp it all. That Ben is not with them may mean one of two things. It may be, and may this prove the true interpretation, that my father is still alive—just think, the sublime old man still alive!—and is watching over his youngest, so that he has forbidden him to take this journey, has not compelled him to take it for fear that he might meet with an accident under way. His Rachel died while on a journey, I died on a journey—why shouldn't he be prejudiced against journeys and retain for himself the last token of his lovely wife still left to him? It can mean that. But it can also mean that he is dead, my father is dead, and that they have nastily abused defenseless Benjamin, have thrust him aside and denied him their company as brothers, because he is the son of the true wife, the poor little fellow ..."
"You keep calling him little, Adon, and apparently are not taking into account that your nearest and truest brother has to have matured as well in the meantime. Clear reason says he must be a man in the prime of life."
"Quite possibly, yes, it's true. But he will always be the youngest, my friend, the youngest of twelve, how can one not call him little? There's always something special and dear about the youngest, there is such a grace and a magic about him in this world that it almost of necessity gives rise to ill-will and treachery among those who are older."
"But when one stops to consider your story, my dear master, one might think that you are in fact the youngest."
"That's just it. I won't deny it, there may be some truth to your remark. Perhaps the story plays loose with things, is a bit off-center. That bothers me and it's why I am determined that the littlest brother shall receive his share of honor as the youngest, and if the ten have thrust him aside and been nasty to him, if—I dare not think of it!—they have mistreated him the way they once did me, then may the Elohim preserve them, for they'll get an unpleasant reception from me. I won't even reveal myself to them. The beautiful words, 'It is I,' will never be spoken. And if they do recognize me, I shall say, 'No, I am not he, you villains!' and all they will have in me is a stern stranger as their judge."
"Why, look at you, Adon! You've put on quite a different face now, are strumming a different tune on your lyre. Your mind is not occupied with idle generosity and mild reconciliation, and instead you're thinking of how they mistreated you, and seem to me a man who can indeed distinguish between a deed and its consequences."
"I don't know what sort of man I am, Mai. A man never knows beforehand how he will behave in his own story; that is revealed only when the time comes and he finds out who he is. I am curious about myself and about what I shall say to them, for I have no idea what it will be. That's what leaves me trembling—I wasn't anywhere near so agitated when I was to stand before Pharaoh. They're only my brothers, after all. But that's just it. Everything's topsy-turvy in my heart, as I've told you—what a muddle of joy, curiosity, and fear, it's quite indescribable. You can't imagine how shocked I was when I read their names on the list, even though I knew it would happen and had most definitely expected it—but then there's no shocking you. Was I afraid for them or for myself? I don't know. But that for their part they ought to have good reason to be frightened to the bottom of their souls—never mind about that, that's as it should be. For it was no small thing they did that day—however long ago now, it still has not become a small thing. That I told them I had come to see if things were in order with them was flagrantly immature, I admit it—I admit it all, and especially that I should not have told them my dreams, and also that of course I would have told father everything had they pardoned me and released me from the well— they had to leave me there. And yet, and yet, that they were deaf to my cries from the depths as I lay there bound and bruised, wailing and imploring them not to do this to father by letting me perish in that hole and then showing him the blood of some animal—my friend, despite everything it was a hard, hard thing, not so much for me, I'll not speak of that, but for my father. If he died of grief and went down to Sheol in his sorrow—will I be able to deal kindly with them then, too? I don't know, I don't know who I shall be if it comes to that, but I fear who I am, I fear I shall not be able to deal kindly with them. If by breaking his heart, they brought his gray head down into the pit—that would also be one of the consequences. Indeed it would be the main one, and would cast a great shadow over the light that other consequences shed on their deed. In any case, it
remains a deed that deserves to be confronted with all its consequences, eye to eye, so that in seeing the good that has resulted they may perhaps be ashamed of their wickedness."
"What do you intend to do with them?"
"How do I know? I don't know how to proceed with them and wanted to ask you for advice and support—you, my steward, whom I have taken into this story so that you may lend me your calm in the midst of my agitation. You have too much of it already, you can give me a bit of it; you're all too calm, just standing there with your eyebrows raised and making that little mouth of yours, for there is simply no shocking you—which is why no ideas occur to you now. But this is a story that should give a man a great many ideas—we owe it that much. For the encounter of deed and consequence is a feast of a special sort and needs to be celebrated and adorned with all sorts of trimmings and holy mischief, so that the world can laugh and cry over it for five thousand years and more."
"Agitation and shock, Adon, are less productive than calm. I shall at once go mix you something to dampen the nerves. I pour a powder into water, and all is quiet. But if I add a certain other powder to it, the combination fizzes up, and drinking the foaming brew calms the heart."
"I shall gladly drink it later, Mai, at the right moment, when it's most needed. But listen now to what I have done so far. I have sent orders by express messengers that they be set apart from the other new arrivals with whom they are traveling and not be provided grain at a frontier city, but be directed down here to Menfe, to the main office. I have ordered that an eye be kept on them during their trip through the land, that they and their animals be quartered at good inns and be inconspicuously looked after here in a foreign land that will seem so strange and peculiar to them, just as it did to me when I died and came down here at age seventeen. I was a supple youth, but they, now that I think of it, are all in their late forties or not far short of it, with the exception of Benjamin, that is; but he is not with them, and all I know is that he must be brought here—first, so that I can see him, and second, because once he is here, Mai, then father will come as well. In short, I have directed that our people discreetly bear my brothers up on their hands, so that they do not dash their feet against a stone, if that turn of phrase says anything to you. Once
they are here, however, they are to be brought to me at the ministry, to the hall where I hold audience."
"Not to your house?"
"No, not yet. First quite officially to the ministry. Just between us, the reception room there is also larger and more impressive."
"And what do you intend to do with them?"
"Yes, that will be probably be the moment when I shall drink your foaming brew, for when I stop to think that they will not know what to do once I speak the word and say 'It is I,' then I really have no idea how to proceed. But at least I shall not be so clumsy or inept at adorning the feast that I shall fling the door wide and simply blurt out my 'It is I,' but shall sit pretty behind the door for a while yet and treat them as strangers."
"You mean as enemies?"
"I mean somewhere between strangers and enemies. For I don't think, Mai, that I shall be able to manage the role of stranger without pushing ahead to that of enemy. That's easier. I'll have to come up with some reason for speaking harshly and taking them to task. I must act as if their case seems very suspicious and sinister to me, as if serious investigation is first required in order to bring clarity to the circumstances—or something of this or that sort."
"Will you speak with them in their language?"
"That is the first helpful word that your composure has managed, Mai!" Joseph cried, clapping his hand to his brow. "I definitely needed to be reminded of it, because all this time I've been speaking Canaanite with them in my mind—what an idiot I am. How am I supposed to be able to speak Canaanite? That would be a terrible faux pas. Even though I speak it with my own children—though I think they're picking up an Egyptian accent from me. Well, that's the least of my worries. Here I am chattering away, it seems—going on about things hardly worth noting even under much more tranquil circumstances, and certainly not now. But of course I dare not understand Canaanite, I must speak with them through an interpreter. I'll have to bring in a interpreter, I'll give the order to the ministry for one—a first-rate fellow equally skilled in both languages, so that he can convey to them what I say very precisely, without smoothing it over or crudely coarsening it. As for what they have to say, big Ruben for instance—ah, Ruben, my God, he was at the empty hole, he wanted to rescue me, I know that from the watchman, I don't
think I've told you about that, Til have to tell you some other time— but as for what they say, I shall understand that well enough, but don't dare let them notice that I understand, carelessly responding at once, for example, instead of waiting until that tedious fussbudget between us has translated for me."
"Once you've taken your place, Adon, you'll do fine. And then I would suggest that you act as if you take them for spies trying to scout out the weaknesses of the land."
"I beg you, Mai, spare yourself such suggestions. How does it happen that suddenly you gaze at me with kind, round eyes and offer suggestions?"
"I thought I was supposed to offer them, my lord."
"I originally thought so myself, my friend. But now I realize that in this high and festive matter no one can or ought to advise me, but that I must shape it all on my own, just as my heart tells me. Think of how you adorn your story of the three loves in a most gratifying and exciting way, and then let me adorn mine as well. How do you know I might not have come up with the idea of pretending to think they were spies all on my own?"
"Then we both came up with the same idea."
"Of course, because it is the only right one and might as well already be written down. This whole story has already been written, Mai, in God's book, and we shall read it together amid laughter and tears. For you do intend to be part of it yourself, don't you? To join me at the office when they arrive, tomorrow or the day after, and are brought before me in the Hall of the Provider, whose walls are filled with Hapi's image? You are part of my entourage, of course. I must have a grand entourage for the reception. . . . Ah, Mai," the man who had been raised up so high now exclaimed, covering his face with his hands, the same hands that that whelp Benoni had once watched weave a wreath of myrtle in the grove of the god and one of which now bore Pharaoh's ring of sky blue lapis that read "Be as I am"—"I shall see them, my family, my own, for they were always that, no matter how bad things were between us for a while, for which we all share the blame. I shall speak with them, with the sons of Jacob, my brothers, I shall hear whether my father is still alive, before whom I had to remain silent in death for so long, and whether he can still hear that I am alive and that God has accepted the animal in place of the son. I shall hear it all and learn from them—how Benjamin lives
and whether they have treated him as a brother. And they shall have to bring him to me, and Father as well. Oh, my good taskmaster, who is now my steward, it is all too exciting and festive. And the feast is to be observed with every high delight and amusement. For high delight, my friend, and the subtle jest are the best that God gave us, and the profoundest knowledge we have of this complicated, equivocal Hfe. God gave it to our spirits so that we might make this stern life laugh. That my brothers mutilated me and threw me into the pit and that they shall now be standing before me—that is life. And life is also the question of whether one should judge the deed by its consequences and so call what is evil good, because it was necessary for a good result. Those are the questions that life poses. One cannot answer them with a long face. The human spirit can rise above them only in serene delight, so that in its own profound amusement over what is unanswerable, it may move God Himself, the great unanswering God, to laughter."
The Interrogation
When he sat in his chair on a raised dais in the Hall of the Provider— flanked to the right and left by lance-bearers of the office guard standing at attention and surrounded by the chief scribes of the ministry, extraordinarily haughty magistrates—sat there beneath white ostrich fans thrust into embossed gold shields and held over him by aproned lads with pageboy haircuts, Joseph was indeed "as Pharaoh." Two double rows of elaborately inscribed orange columns with white bases and green lotus capitals stretched ahead of him toward distant entrance doors with enameled lintels; and above the frieze running along the base of the high sidewalls were depictions of Hapi, the Inundator, in human form but with sexual organs hidden, one breast male, the other female, the royal beard at his chin, marsh plants on his head, and a sacrificial tray with swamp blossoms and slender water jugs held on his upturned palms. Between the repeated images of the god, however, other scenes of life were portrayed in sweeping lines and cheerful colors dancing in the shafts of light that fell through the open stonework of the high windows: farmers sowing and threshing, Pharaoh himself plowing with oxen and cutting the first swath of golden grain with a sickle, as well as the
seven cows of Osiris, plus the bull whose name he alone knew, all striding one after the other—each scene accompanied by splendidly arranged inscriptions, such as "Oh, that the Nile may bring me food and nourishment, each growing thing in its season,"
This, then, was the hall of audience, where the Vice-Horus listened to those cries for seed grain and bread about which he reserved the decision for himself. And it was here he sat on the third day after his conversation with Mai-Sakhme, his steward—who now stood behind him, after having first prepared that foaming brew for him— and had just dealt with some pigtailed and bearded gentlemen in pointed shoes, a delegation from the land of the great King Murshili, that is from Hetti, where drought likewise reigned, and had treated them, as everyone noticed, in a very absentminded and offhand sort of way, dictating to his "true scribe" that these Hettite mayors be granted more wheat, spelt, rice, and sorghum at a lower price than they themselves had proposed. A few people assumed it was for reasons of state and that, who knew why, perhaps the moment had come on the world's political stage to pay attention to King Murshili; but others attributed it to a slight ailment of the Unique Friend, for he had explained at the start of the session that the dust had given him a catarrh and he now kept a handkerchief held to his mouth.
He gazed wide-eyed over it out into the hall as the Hettites departed and a group of Asiatic men who were next in line were led in: one of them towered above the others, one had the head of a melancholy lion, one was sturdy and vigorous, another had long nimble legs, two of them could not hide their rough combativeness, one shot fierce glances, another had noticeably moist eyes and lips, one was remarkable for his strikingly bony build, another for his curly hair, full beard, and the rich reds and blues of the purple dye in his garment. Each, then, had some distinguishing trait. Somewhere in the middle of the hall they decided it was time to kiss the floor, and the Unique Friend had to wait until they were on their feet again to signal with his fan for them to draw closer. They approached and fell on their faces again.
"So many?" he asked in a muffled voice, which, God knew why, he lowered almost to a growl. "Ten at once? Why not eleven then? Repeater, ask them why there aren't eleven of them, or for that matter twelve. Or do you men understand Egyptian?"
"Not as well as we would wish, my lord and our refuge," one of
them replied in his own language, the one with legs for running, who evidently had a nimble tongue as well. "You are as Pharaoh. You are like the moon, the merciful father, who sweeps along in majestic robes. You, moshel, sovereign, are like a firstling bullock in ■ his adornment. Our hearts unite in praise of him who keeps the market, the Provider of the Two Lands, the Food of the World, without whom no one would have breath, and we wish him as many years of life as the year has days. But, begging your pardon, Adon, your servants do not understand your tongue sufficiently to engage in commerce in it."
"You are as Pharaoh," they repeated in chorus.
While the interpreter quickly translated Naphtali's statement in a businesslike monotone, Joseph's eyes devoured the men standing before him. He recognized them all, had little difficulty telling one from the other, despite what time may have done to them. There was big Ruben, his hair already completely gray, his legs like columns, the strong muscles of his face drawn in a surly scowl. O God of dispensations, they were all here, every one, this starved wolf pack that in its hatred had pounced upon him crying "Off! Off!," no matter how hard he begged "Don't rip it!," the same enraged men who had dragged him to his grave with a heigh! and a ho!, despite his uncomprehending cry to them, to himself, to heaven: "Oh, oh, what's happening to me!," who had sold him as Hey There the kennel boy to the Ishmaelites for twenty pieces of silver and had dragged the tatters of his garment through a slaughtered kid's blood before his eyes. They were here, his brothers in Jacob, reemerging out of time—his murderers because of dreams, led to him here by dreams, and all of it like a dream. Here were the six sons of the red-eyed wife, and the four of the handmaidens: Bilhah's adder and her gossipmonger, Zil-pah's stout firstborn in his battle coat, outspoken Gad, and his sweet-toothed brother. He was the youngest, except for Issakhar, the beast of burden, and pitch-stained Zebulun—and he too had wrinkles and creases in his face and a great deal of silver in his beard and smooth, oiled hair. Eternal God, how old they had all become. How moving it all was—just as life is moving. But he was shocked by the sight, too, for if they were this old it was almost unthinkable that their father might still be alive.
