One Generation After (13 page)

“It’s your fault. You no longer talk to me.”

“What do you want me to tell you?”

“Why you no longer talk to me.”

He fell asleep, moaning.

6

The bellboy brought his breakfast. “Did you hear the explosion?” he asked, all excited.

“I did. What was it?”

“A bomb.”

“Where?”

“Not far from here. At secret police headquarters. Two floors demolished. The colonel killed, his aide too: shot like mad dogs. Nine wounded. It’s the revolution, sir! You understand? Dictatorship, corruption, fear, torture: finished, the old regime. Finished! For good! The revolution has won!”

“Good for you.”

“Is that all you have to say?”

“What do you want me to say? I’m a foreigner here. I don’t even know who is in power or who would like to be. You want to know something else? I don’t even care.”

“How can you say these things? How can you be so callous?
Last night some men were killed, others became heroes—and it doesn’t touch you? Doesn’t even interest you?”

“I repeat, young man: what happens in this country is not my business. I don’t take sides. You want to play games? Fine, but play without me. Leave me out.”

“I can’t believe you, sir … you can’t possibly be as insensitive as you wish to appear … No one is …”

“Listen, young man. If your revolutions prevent my having breakfast in peace, I’ll have to reconsider …” The stranger tasted the coffee and made a face. “It’s lukewarm! Horrible! I like my coffee scalding hot! Whose fault is that, young man? The old regime’s or the revolution’s?”

Disgusted, the bellboy rushed out, decided not to apologize.

7

There was repeated knocking at his door, but it took the stranger a while to hear it. He was shaving and his electric razor was noisy. As soon as he unplugged it, he heard the noise. Opening the door, he found himself facing two angry men.

“Are you deaf?” they shouted.

“Excuse me, but …”

“Later. You’ll make your excuses later. Let’s go.”

“You must be crazy.”

“Let’s go.”

“Who are you?”

“Police.”

“What do you want?”

“Please follow us.”

“But what have I done?”

“Later. You’ll get all the answers later. We have our orders. Get dressed. Please.”

The stranger was rapidly losing his composure. “But I haven’t done anything! I’ve just arrived! Surely this is a case of mistaken identity! I’m a foreigner! I demand to see my consul! I know my rights!”

The two policemen didn’t even take the trouble to confer. “Don’t get excited and don’t make a fuss; it won’t do you any good. These stalling tactics can only hurt your case.”

What was the use of arguing? Trying to look detached, he picked up his jacket, his billfold and a handkerchief, and declared himself ready to go. His things? He didn’t care; he could do without them. It was just like him to divest himself of his possessions. On his travels, he invariably distributed them among strangers, arriving home empty-handed.

Followed by the two policemen, he left the hotel and was pushed into a black unmarked car parked a few steps away, near the corner.

It’s a good thing I brought my handkerchief, he thought as he wiped his face. It was going to be a hot day.

8

Yet he was not afraid. He found the adventure disconcerting, incomprehensible—nothing more. What did it all mean? They were going to put him in prison, condemn or perhaps even execute him. By mistake. Everything was possible in these countries. Who do they think I am? he wondered. Well, he’d soon find out.

No, he was not frightened. Simply amused. At last something will happen to me, he thought. Too late? No, it wasn’t too late. The last day, the last hour count more than all the others.

Life had recently become tiresome, marginal, not unlike a robot’s. He was untouched by surprise or disappointment, joy or sorrow, poverty or love. Resigned to apathy, he let himself drift. His days were all alike, his nights grew longer. His dreams became burdens. Everything had been said and experienced; he had drained the cup. Never again would he know the rapture of creation or the despair of failure. Never again would he delight in the joys of new encounters. Death itself would not be new; let it come. Here or elsewhere, now or later: he didn’t care. For years now he had been dead without knowing it. Now his death would become fact, a part of reality. And absurdity. He should actually welcome it. To die for nothing, out of sheer negligence, in someone else’s stead, should actually please him. A death, an end he neither sought nor fled, should suit him. Since his existence had become meaningless, why then should his death have a meaning?

Such were the thoughts running through his mind while he was being driven toward the young woman he had met the afternoon before.

9

The office in which she received him had belonged to the former governor of the city. Three armed guards stood at attention.

“Glad to see you again,” said the young woman with a tired smile.

He tried to conceal his astonishment. “So am I. Tell me: did you send the police?”

“Naturally.”

“Well, well,” he said admiringly. “When you feel like seeing someone again, you know just what to do. My compliments.”

“If the policemen were rude, I apologize.”

“No apologies necessary. Police are the same everywhere. But you know, if you wanted to see me that badly, you could have chosen some simpler way than starting a revolution, don’t you think?”

She didn’t flinch. “Revolutions are not started by individuals for individuals, but for the people. Ours is no exception. I am sorry I forgot to tell the police chief that you did your part.”

“My part in what?”

“In last night’s revolution. You are not a prisoner, you are our honored guest. Better still, our hero.”

“I wish you were speaking for yourself—not for your countrymen. Your hero? I’d be delighted. Any time. Theirs? Never.”

“Your modesty is to your credit. However, the facts remain: your courage is known. That case you helped me carry yesterday, do you know what it contained? A bomb, a powerful bomb. Meant to destroy the secret police headquarters. With your help
I managed to cross several check points. Thanks to your assistance, the operation was a success. That is why …”

She stopped and motioned to one of her assistants, who handed her a small rectangular box. Opening it, she went on: “… on behalf of the Revolutionary Movement for National Liberation, I hereby bestow upon you the first medal for revolutionary heroism.”

As in a dream he watched himself extend his hand and, a bewildered grin on his face, accept the box. “You’re mad,” he said. “I don’t know your name and you don’t know mine.”

Her comment was brief: “If that’s all that bothers you, I can reassure you. When you leave here, buy a newspaper. You will see that by now the entire country knows both of us.”

Then she expressed regret that due to other pressing matters she could not stay with him longer. She saw him to the door and whispered: “Don’t be angry. We need a foreign hero. To show our enemies that we have friends abroad.”

“Thanks for having thought of me.”

“You are angry; I am sorry.”

He looked at her and smiled. “Forget it,” he said. “I am not angry, not really. Besides, what difference does it make?”

Nothing made any difference.

10

Back at the hotel, he had to face a large crowd of newsmen, both foreign and domestic. They showered him with provocative
questions, which he dodged with tact and diplomacy. Several microphones were shoved under his nose and the national hero had to improvise the usual statements which all heroes of all revolutions must improvise in all languages, praising the same leaders and invoking the same principles. All things considered, it was not too difficult a task.

After the press conference, the bellhop came in, blushing like a schoolboy. “I should have known … guessed who you were … How stupid of me … Will you ever forgive me?”

For several days—or was it several weeks?—the hero could not go out without being mobbed by autograph-seekers. Women smiled at him, men greeted him with respect. Yet fame had no effect on him. It did not make him feel better. Or worse. He was carried from one celebration to another, from one political function to another, performing as in a dream.

More than once he almost left the tiny republic to return to his own country, his hometown. Since he had not succeeded in overcoming his apathy, he might just as well be living at home, surrounded by familiar objects. But each time he postponed his departure. Somehow he knew that this adventure had a sequel, an ending. It was this element of the unknown he loved and sought; he loved nothing else. And sometimes not even that.

11

Then one morning he had a nightmare: there was knocking at the door, they had come to arrest him. Again? Yes, again. Once more he went through the same motions. In the street below, the same unmarked black car was parked near the same corner.
It made its way toward the same building. He was led into the same room and found himself face to face with the same woman, aged and ravaged, her hands tied. There was blood seeping from her mouth and emptiness in her eyes.

“You are accused of revolutionary activities against the government and the people,” said the officer, tall and serene, in a monotonous voice. “Guilty or not guilty?”

“Not guilty,” he replied mechanically.

“Too bad. Your denial makes it worse for you. We have witnesses. Look at this person. You know her, she knows you. And she confessed. You were her accomplice. A traitor’s accomplice, that’s what you are.”

“No,” said the stranger. “I am nothing of the kind. I am nothing and nobody.”

“Very well,” said the officer. “The witness will repeat her testimony.”

And the young woman obeyed: “Yes, he was my accomplice; yes, we did collaborate in armed attacks; yes, he knew it was a bomb he was carrying.” She stared at him and hissed: “Stop denying the obvious, friend. Why let yourself be tortured? They know everything. The revolution—yours and mine—has failed, and we have to pay the price: it’s part of the game, you know. So follow my advice: sign your confession.”

In his dream, he was going to shout that she was lying, that she was losing her mind, that he was not guilty—anything but guilty, at least of this crime—but in the face of so much absurdity, he chose not to humiliate himself. So, rather than protest, he began to laugh, gently at first and then with all his might.

Dumbfounded, the officer gaped at him in silence. Then he
summoned a guard to take away the young woman. As she was being led past the stranger, she whispered: “I’m sorry, friend, but our movement will need martyrs, innocent martyrs especially.”

She went out, and the stranger’s eyes followed her. What a strange dream, he thought. What a strange life. One could die laughing.

“… mastering thirty ancient and modern languages, knowing by heart the Vedas as well as the Zohar, he felt at home in every culture, in every role. Always dirty, unkempt, he looked like a vagabond turned clown, or a clown turned vagabond. He wore a tiny hat, always the same, on top of his huge round head; his glasses with their thick, always foggy lenses only blurred his vision … For three years, in Paris, I was his disciple. And under his guidance I learned a great deal about the dangers of language and reason and about the ecstasies of wisdom and madness. I learned about the mysterious progress of thought through centuries and the equally mysterious persistence of hesitation through centuries of thought; but nothing about the secret which, though consuming him, protected him against a diseased humanity.”

That is how, in
Legends of Our Time
, I described without naming him, my master and teacher Rav Mordecai Shushani. If I reveal his name now, it is because he is no longer alive.

I received word of his death from another writer, Jean Halperin, who also considers himself his disciple. The news was given to me without details, because it was thought that I knew.
I did not. I knew Shushani had settled in Montevideo, as mysterious as ever; nothing else.

On one occasion he had invited me to resume our studies together. From time to time I felt—and resisted—the urge to take the first plane leaving for Uruguay, to see him at least one more time, to compare him with the image I had retained. Also I wanted to be roused again; suspended between heaven and earth and permitted to see what brings them together and what sets them apart. But I was afraid. I wrote: “… I tremble each time I think of him in Montevideo, where he still awaits me, where he still calls to me; I am afraid to plunge into his legend which condemns us both, me to doubt and him to immortality.”

A young man in Montevideo wrote me describing his last hours: sitting on a lawn, surrounded by students, he was teaching them Talmud when suddenly he paused in mid-sentence; a moment later he had stopped breathing. In Jewish tradition, such death is called
mitat neshika:
the angel comes and embraces the chosen one like a friend and takes him along without inflicting pain.

And in his pockets they found my tale about my encounters with him.