Joseph and His Brothers, page 47
sons and princes of the underworld, just as Ismael, the false son, had been.
There were also moments when the old man spoke in strange tones of Sara, the first father's wife. He called her "daughter of the castrated one" and "heaven's highest." He added that she had carried a spear, a perfect match for the fact that she had originally been called Sarai, that is "heroine," which God then later muted and diminished to Sara, a mere "mistress." The same had happened to her brother-husband; for Abram, which means "exalted father" and "father of the exalted," had been muted and diminished to Abraham, that is, father of a vast and teeming posterity of spiritual and physical offspring. Did he then cease to be Abram? Not at all. It was merely that the sphere was rolling; and that tongue, subtly forked into Abram and Abraham, spoke of him now in one way, now in another.
Nimrod, the father of his people, had wanted to devour him, but he had been snatched away from his gluttony, had been nourished in a cave by angelic goats, and when he grew up had played such a prank on that greedy king in his idolatrous splendor that one might well say Nimrod had felt the "tickle of the scythe." Before he had in any sense assumed his just place, he had had to suffer. He had been held captive—and what fun it was to hear how he had used even this stay to make proselytes and convert the guardians of that deep dungeon to the highest God. He was sentenced to be sacrificed in Typhon's blazing heat, thrown into a limekiln or, even better— Eliezer's details varied—sent to be burned at the stake, which also bore the stamp of truth, for Joseph knew very well that even in his own day a "feast of the stake" was celebrated in many cities. But do people celebrate feasts that commemorate nothing, unreal feasts with no roots? Were the pious masquerades acted out on New Year's or Creation Day representations of events that someone or some angel had woven from thin air and that had never happened? Man invents nothing. Ever since he had eaten from the tree, he was indeed arch-clever and in that regard little less than a god. But no matter how clever he was, how could he ever have come up with a thing that was not there? And so there was something to his having been burned at the stake.
According to Eliezer, Abraham had founded the city of Di-mashki and had been its first king. A weakly flickering statement.
for cities are not usually founded by a single man, and those beings one calls their primal kings do not usually have a human countenance. Even Hebron itself, or Kiriath-Arba, within whose domain they lived, had not been built by a man; instead—or so at least it was popularly asserted—it had been founded by the giant Arba or Ar-baal. Eliezer, however, held strictly to his claim that Abram had also founded Hebron, which perhaps did not, nor was it meant to, contradict popular belief, for the primal father must have been of gigantic size, since it was Eliezer's testimony that his stride was a mile long.
Was it any wonder, then, that—at certain dreamily muddled moments—in Joseph's eyes the figure of his ancestor, this founder of cities, merged in that faraway vista with that of Bel of Babel, who had built that city and its Tower and who became a god after he had been a man and was buried in the tomb of Bel? Though with Abraham it seemed to be the other way around. But what does "other way around" mean in this case, and who can say what had come first and where the original home of his stories was, above or below? They are the present of the rotating sphere, the unity of what is twofold, the statue that bears the name "Simultaneous."
Part Three
JOSEPH AND BENJAMIN
The Grove ofAdoni
A half hour's walk toward the city from Jacob's scattered settlement—from his tents, stalls, sheepfolds, and sheds—was a ravine filled with a dense growth of stunted but sturdy myrtle bushes, a grove that the people of Hebron considered sacred to Astarte-Ishtar, or rather to her son, brother, and husband, Tammuz-Adoni. An agreeably bitter, in the heat of summer sometimes peppery, fragrance filled the air; and the venerated wilderness was not impenetrable, but rather a maze of twisting random openings suggestive of paths threaded through it in all directions, and if one aimed for the lowest point in the basin, one found an open area obviously cleared of undergrowth, and within it a shrine, a square stone obelisk rising taller than a man and inscribed with fertility symbols, a massehah — evidently itself a fertility symbol erected in the middle of the clearing, with offerings placed about its pedestal: earthenware pots filled with soil from which whitish green sprouts emerged or more elaborate objects of a similar sort, rectangular wooden frames stretched with canvas against which there stood out a crude, green human figure wrapped in what looked like a shroud. The women who had placed it there had sketched a corpse on canvas, covered it with soil, sown it with wheat, moistened the seeds, then trimmed the sprouts even, leaving a figure set in green reUef against the background.
Joseph often came to this place with Benjamin, his full brother, who at age eight now had begun to outgrow the watchful eye of women and enjoyed trying to match strides with his mother's firstborn. He was a chubby-cheeked boy who no longer ran about naked, but wore a short-sleeved knee-length tunic of dark blue or rust red wool with embroidery along the hem. He had lovely gray eyes that held an expression of utter trust when he would look up at his older brother. His thick, almost metallic hair ran from midbrow to the nape of his neck and fit tightly to his skull Hke a sleek helmet
with slits for the ears, which were as small and sturdy as his nose and his stubby-fingered hands, one of which he always gave to his brother when they walked together. An engaging boy, he had inherited Rachel's cordiality. But over his little person lay the shadow of a shy melancholy, for he had not grown up unaware of the hour and manner of his mother's death, of what he had done while still all unconscious; and the sense of tragically guiltless guilt he carried with him was nourished by Jacob's attitude toward him—which, though certainly not without tenderness, was imbued with a painful reticence, to the point where his father was more likely to avoid his gaze than seek it out. From time to time, however, Jacob would ardently press his youngest son to him, call him Benoni, and whisper words of Rachel in his ear.
And so as the boy began to step out from behind the women's skirts, he found he could not deal truly openly with his father. All the more affectionate, then, were his ties to his full brother, whom he admired in every way and who, though everyone he met greeted him with a smile and raised eyebrows, was in fact quite isolated and could certainly use this kind of devotion and, for his own part, likewise felt a strong natural sense of attachment to the boy, so that he accepted him as a friend and confidant—to such a degree, in fact, that Joseph would pay too Httle attention to the difference in their ages, leaving Benjamin more troubled and confused than proud and happy. Yes, the things that the clever and startlingly beautiful "Yossef" (which was how Benoni pronounced his brother's name) would say to him in confidence were more than a child's heart could hold; and eager as Benjamin was to take all this in, it only intensified the shadow of melancholy that lay over a little boy who had murdered his mother.
Hand in hand, they walked away from Jacob's hilltop olive garden, where the handmaids' sons were busy harvesting and pressing. They had banished Joseph from the place because he had gone to their father—who had been seated in the sheepfold while Eliezer stood before him rendering accounts—and accused them of having let the fruit on almost all the trees grow too ripe, so that it no longer yielded the best oil, especially since, in his opinion, his brothers were pressing the olives too hard in the mills, mashing rather than gently squeezing them. Upon being reprimanded, Naphtali, Gad, and
Asher had stretched out their arms and, skewing up their mouths, told this braggart—or, better, slanderer—to clear out.
But Joseph had called Benjamin to him and said, "Come, let us go to our spot."
On the way he said, "I did in fact say 'on almost all the trees'— fine, that was an exaggeration, the sort that just happens when you're speaking. Had I said 'on several' it would have been more precisely put, I admit. You see, I had climbed up into the old tree, the one with three trunks and masonry around the base, to pick fruit and toss it down into a cloth, while unfortunately our brothers were just throwing stones at the tree and banging the boughs with sticks, and I saw with my own eyes that the fruit on the old tree at least was already too ripe—I can't say as to the others. But they act as if I were lying in general and as if you get fine oil by rolling the stone clumsily like that and mashing God's gift to smithereens. Can a person look on and not protest?"
"No," Benjamin replied, "you know better than they do and had to tell Father so he could hear of it. But it's fine by me that you quarreled with them, little Yossef, for then you called your brother to take your right hand."
"And now, my noble Ben," Joseph said, "let's take a running jump over that wall in the field there—one, two, three ..."
"All right," Benjamin responded. "But don't let go of me! It's more fun together, and a lot safer for a little fellow like me."
They ran, jumped, and walked on. It was Joseph's habit when Benjamin's hand became too hot and damp in his own to grab hold of the boy's wrist—which Benjamin would hold limp—and fan the whole hand to let it dry in the breeze. This airing procedure would always set the boy laughing so hard that he stumbled.
Upon arriving at the ravine of myrtle and the grove of the god, the brothers had to separate and walk single file—the narrow paths through the underbrush required it. They formed a maze that was always fun to wander; for it was fascinating to see how far a meandering corridor let you proceed before impenetrable barriers held you fast and to discover whether by veering uphill or down you could go any farther or would have to turn around despite the risk that you might lose the path that had brought you there and end up once again in a cul-de-sac. Fending off blows and scratches to their faces, they talked and laughed as they struggled along, and Joseph
would also break off twigs from the bushes, which blossomed white in the spring, collecting them in his hand for later; for it was here that he always supplied himself with green myrtle for the wreaths he loved to wear in his hair. At first Benjamin had wanted to imitate him and had plucked twigs of his own, giving them to his brother so that he could weave a wreath for him as well. But he had noticed that Joseph did not like him to adorn himself with myrtle, wanting, without ever saying so, to keep this adornment for himself—behind which, or so it seemed to the boy, lay hidden some secret thought, like those others Joseph had, something Benjamin had also noticed, especially since in the company of his little brother Joseph did not always keep them to himself. Benoni guessed that Joseph's undeclared but obvious jealousy about the myrtle twigs might have something to do with the selection of an heir, with the nominal honor of the firstborn and the right to bear the blessing, which, as they all knew, their father had left hovering above his head—and yet that was evidently not the sole reason.
"Hush now, my boy," Joseph might say to him, giving his companion a kiss on his cool helmet of hair. "When we get home I shall make you a wreath of oak leaves or colorful thistles or a wreath of mountain ash with its red pearls—what do you say to that? Is that not prettier? Why bother with myrtle? It doesn't suit you. One must be careful how one adorns oneself, and make good choices."
Then Benjamin replied, "You're obviously right. I realize that, Josephyah, Yashub, my Jehosiph. You are clever beyond measure, and I could never say the things you say. But when you say them, then I realize it is so and defer to your thoughts, so that they become mine as well and I'm as clever as you make me. It is quite clear to me that choices must be made and that not every adornment suits everyone. I can tell that you wish to leave it at that and to leave me as clever as I have now become. But even if you were to go farther and speak out more explicitly to your brother, I would follow you. Believe your little brother; you can demand a great deal of him."
Joseph was silent.
"This much have I heard people say," Benjamin went on, "that the myrtle is a symbol of youth and beauty—that's what big people say, but if I say it, it makes you and me laugh, for what sort of phrases are those that they should be suitable to me, both in tone and meaning. I am truly young, indeed small, that is to say not even
young, but only a whelp. You are young and beautiful, enough to set tongues wagging everywhere. Whereas I am more droll than beautiful—when I look at my legs, they are so short in relation to the rest of me, and I still have the potbelly of a suckling babe, and my cheeks are round, as if I were forever puffing them up with air, not to mention the hair on my head, which is like a cap of otter fur. And so if myrtle becomes youth and beauty, and if that is the nub of the matter, then indeed it suits only you, and it would be a mistake for me to wear it. I know very well that one can blunder and do oneself harm in such matters. You see, all by myself and without your even telling me, I understand some things, but of course not all, and I still need your help."
"My good little man," Joseph said, laying an arm around him, "your otter cap suits me fine, as do your belly and cheeks. You are my nearest and truest brother, flesh of my flesh, for we came from the same abyss, which is called absu, but which we call Mami, the sweet wife for whom Jacob served. Come, let us go down to the stone and rest."
"That we shall do," Benjamin replied. "Let's inspect the little garden the women have set in frames and pots, and you will explain the gravesite to me, for I love to hear about it. Most especially because Mami died on my account," he added as they descended, "and half the time I am called Little Son of Death—and at most the myrtle might suit me as well for that reason, for I have heard people say that it is also an adornment of death."
"Yes, there is lamentation in the world for youth and beauty," Joseph said, "and that is because Asherah makes her children weep and brings ruin upon those who love her. That is why the myrtle is also a shrub of death. But take note of the fragrance of this twig—do you smell its harshness? Bitter and acrid is the myrtle's adornment, for the whole sacrifice is dressed with it, and its green is set apart for those who have been set apart and chosen for those who are chosen. For the name of the whole sacrifice is consecrated youth. But myrtle in the hair, that is the herb touch-me-not."
"You no longer have your arm about me now," Benjamin remarked, "and have taken it from me, leaving this little fellow to walk all alone."
"Here is my arm again!" Joseph cried. "You are my true little
Joseph and Benjamin }6i
brother, and when we are home I shall weave for you a wreath of many colors, from all the flowers of the field, so that everyone who sees you will laugh for joy—and shall that be a word given here and now between you and me?"
"That is sweet and dear of you," Benjamin said. "Grant me your robe for a moment, that I may touch my lips to the hem."
He thought: "Obviously what he has in mind is the firstborn and the election of an heir. Yet what strikes me as new and strange is how he has mixed it with talk of whole sacrifice and touch-me-not. It's possible that he's thinking of Isaak when he speaks of the whole sacrifice and of consecrated youth. At any rate he would have me understand myrtle as an adornment of sacrifice—which frightens me a little."
But aloud he said, "You are doubly beautiful when you speak as you have just now, and I in my folly can scarcely tell whether the scent of myrtle in my nose comes from the trees or your words. But we have arrived at the spot. Look, the gifts have increased since last time. There are two more seedling gods in their frames and two sprouting pots. Women have been here. They have planted little gardens before the grotto as well; I want to have a look at them. But the stone has not been touched or rolled away from the grave. I wonder where the Lord is—might he be inside in his beautiful form?"
For a Httle to the side of the slope and surrounded by shrubs, there was in fact a rocky cave—not very high, but long as a man and partially sealed by a stone—that served the women of Hebron in their festal rites.
"No, no," Joseph said in answer to the question, "his figure is not here and is not visible the whole year over. It is kept in the temple at Kiriath-Arba, and is brought forth only for the feast, on the day of solstice, when the sun begins to vanish and light is given over to the underworld, and then the women deal with him according to their rites."
"They lay the figure to rest here in the cave?" Benjamin inquired. Their first time here he had asked this same question, and Joseph had instructed him. Later, then, the boy often pretended to have forgotten, so that he might be taught anew and hear Joseph speak of Adonai, the Shepherd and Lord who had been murdered, for whom there was lamentation in the world. For he would listen
between the words and attend to the tone and flow of Joseph's speech, as if in some vague way he were trying to find his brother's secret thoughts, which—it seemed to him—were dissolved in his words like salt in the sea.
"No, they bury him later," Joseph replied. "First they search for him." He was sitting at the base of the Ashtaroth shrine, a rough-hewn obelisk of blackish stone whose surface appeared covered with Httle mildewed bUsters, and as he began to weave the gathered myrtle into a wreath, the delicate, agile tendons stood out on the backs of his hands.
