Judah the Pious (17 page)

“But,” Jeremiah Vinograd reminded himself, shaking his head as if to dislodge some impediment, “I am dealing in generalities again, when I have promised you specifics. And now, if you will accept my apology, I will do my humble best to compensate for the time I have spent chatting.

“In case of ulceration,” he began, jumbling the words in his great haste to get them out, “dose the patient with moss grown on top of a skull. For hemorrhage, nothing works like children’s fingernails boiled in a kettle by a blue-eyed man. Frogs’ eggs will prevent a wound from festering; a spider hung round the neck will keep away the ague. Vitriol works wonders against epileptic seizures, arsenic against the French pox. Human blood draws lost sheep and cattle like a magnet; viper fat and feathers will make a lover more attentive. Azoth of the Red Lion is remarkably effective against convulsions. Mummy powder, as you probably already know, cures absolutely everything, but, in these advanced days, has become somewhat hard to come by. Still, a passable substitute can be obtained from pigeons stuffed with spices and pulverized to a fine paste.”

Late that afternoon, Jeremiah Vinograd concluded his lecture on prescription. “And now,” he proclaimed, “I will reveal my own personal secret of secrets, a trick which I would never disclose if not for my unselfish love for medical science: black hellebore, the only plant which flowers in the midst of the deepest winter snows, has, according to its nature, miraculous powers of rejuvenation, of restoring the bloom to the white cheek of age.”

“Is that right?” murmured Judah ben Simon dubiously, wondering how many of the old man’s remedies were the result of cautious experimental investigation, and how many were merely the product of some haphazard folk chemistry.

“Yes, that is right,” replied Jeremiah Vinograd, slower to anger now that he had filled ten hours with the music of his own knowledgeable voice. “But I am fully aware that your know-it-all skepticism, your stupid insistence on proving everything for yourself is, at this very moment, preventing you from accepting the wisdom I have offered here today. ‘Why should I believe in this old fool’s home remedies,’ you are asking yourself, ‘when I have never seen them in action.’ Well, Judah ben Simon, what can I say? You will simply have to trust the experience of my years until you have the opportunity to test my theories in practice. And for a start,” said the mountebank, his wild eyes gleaming with significance, “let me suggest that you investigate the effect of a few drops of hellebore’s essence on the petals of a wilted rose.”

Judah ben Simon lowered his eyes, and made no further comment.

“Very good!” cried Jeremiah Vinograd, smacking his lips in evident satisfaction. “Now, since we are on the subject of tricks and secrets, perhaps I should at least present you with a short dissertation on the Arcane Mysteries of Mountebankery, the Three Principles of Performance, Self-Promotion, and Publicity—which, if the truth be known, can make or break the most highly skilled pharmacist and diagnostician.

“I am afraid that these may well be the most difficult skills for a serious and studious young man like yourself to master. Perhaps I should assure you that I, too, had no easy time learning the fine art of vending my wares.

“But now, in my old age, it is truly the one aspect of the work which pleases me most, which alone offers constant promise and surprise. Let me explain it this way: not once in my entire career has tincture of laudanum ever failed to put a patient to rest; by now, I know that, after administering the proper dosage, there is precisely enough time for me to drink one cup of tea before I must go back and check on the sleeper’s tranquil pulse. Yet fifty-five years of experience have not enabled me to predict whether the members of my audience will greet me with cheers and acclamation, or whether they will pull me down from my platform and drag me through the outer gates of their town.

“This uncertainty is what amuses me, Judah ben Simon. But it is absolutely certain that a novice like yourself will earn only tar and feathers for your efforts, unless I teach you those few flourishes of style which I myself learned from Father Time—and which, after all these years, allow me the occasional luxury of a warm reception.

“Of first importance,” said Jeremiah Vinograd, grinning with pride at having accumulated such priceless information, “is the matter of names. Invent yourself a professional title under which you can travel with due pomp, elegance, comfort, and speed. I myself have ten or twelve appellations, all with a certain exotic flavor, from which I pick and choose, depending on my mood. I am the Sowdain of Babiloun, Count Fibanaccio, the Knight of the Gilded Scalpels, Absalom the Jew. And, when I am in a comical frame of mind,” he giggled, “I blacken my face with pitch and bill myself as the Moor of Tours. At any rate,” he continued, growing suddenly serious, “I would advise you to find a suitable name as quickly as possible, and learn to turn around when someone uses it to call you.

“But names are only an opening,” sighed the herbalist, “a foot in the door. Once you have introduced yourself, then the real work begins. If only I had not left my equipment with a friend in Warsaw, I could show you how to twirl the bench three times around your head before stepping up on it; as it is, you will simply have to practice on your own.

“But listen: as soon as you have mounted the platform, spread your arms out wide and start talking. Use only the most dramatic gestures, the longest words, the most obscure pharmaceutical terminology. Speak as loud and as fast as you can; make your listeners think they are observing a scientific genius, and a master of elocution. Spend your first wages on a figured cloak, some bells, a fur hat, perhaps even a trained monkey; that way, those who do not like your face will at least have something to look at. Memorize a few jokes, some ribald stories for the evening crowd; simple feats of prestidigitation are always useful in convincing an unsympathetic audience. And, while we are at it, let me give you a short list of handy expressions and turns of speech which may add some spice and color to your presentations.”

Just as the autumn sun began to set, Jeremiah Vinograd finished dictating these catch phrases, and commenced a lesson on what he termed “spiritual medicine”—the petty lies and falsehoods which, he swore, were regrettably but absolutely necessary for the recovery of one’s patients and the furthering of one’s business. “Always prescribe
lots
of medicine,” he was saying. “Nothing strengthens a sick man like an armload of glass bottles. Always tell your customers that the gingerroot you stole from their neighbors’ gardens has been specially imported from the far reaches of Cathay. And, when a character of great social importance fails to recover after two weeks under your care, leave town by the fastest possible route. Do you understand what I mean?”

But, if Judah ben Simon understood, he gave no sign, for he was already standing up and rubbing his stiff, cramped limbs. “Thank you for the instruction,” he said, interrupting the herbalist in mid-sentence. “I assure you that I will put your knowledge to good use.”

“I knew that this last part would not please you,” laughed Jeremiah Vinograd. “That is why I saved it for the end. Nevertheless, if you manage to remember half of what I told you today, your business will be a profitable one. And I sincerely hope that our bargain will be among the things you remember. I am sure that you are an honorable man, Judah ben Simon, and that you will keep it in mind: one-eleventh of your earnings, a year from today, one hundred miles to the south.”

“I will keep it in mind,” said the young man, and walked slowly back towards the north-south road.

“O
N A CHILL, SEPTEMBER
morning,” continued Eliezer of Rimanov, “precisely one year and seven days after his meeting with the mountebank, Judah ben Simon arrived to find that the hundredth milestone south of his village was lodged between the elegantly-worked railings of a tall iron fence.

Beyond the bars was a forest of dark pines; across the highway, wheatfields stretched towards the horizon. Nowhere in the wet, gray fog was there any sign of Jeremiah Vinograd. Judah paced the mile-long fence until he spotted a scrap of paper impaled on a spiked ornament; but the crude, hand-lettered public notice only identified the enclosed property as the estate of the exalted Prince Zarembka, and went on to list the unwary trespassers, each of whom had forfeited six fingers in payment for his crime.

“No wonder Jeremiah Vinograd decided not to spend a week awaiting me in this inhospitable place,” thought the latecomer uneasily. “Perhaps I should reexamine the milestone once more for good measure, then continue on my way.”

But, as Judah ben Simon neared the smooth granite tablet, he was startled by the loud notes of a tune which he immediately recognized as “The Dove”—a sentimental folksong which the girls of his village used to sing until they collapsed from weeping.

“The poor white pigeon,” a man’s voice was bellowing, “Shot down by the hunter/ Is in no more pain/ Than a lady abandoned by her lover.”

“That vile croak could only belong to one man,” laughed Judah happily, and, summoning all his courage, squeezed through the space between two railings. Emerging from a dense curtain of tall firs, he reached a circular clearing where, as the fog alternately thinned and thickened, he began to perceive the elements of a strange spectacle.

The vale had been landscaped according to the tastes of the Old Nobility; the artificial pond, grassy banks, and lacy, white-pillared pavilion all seemed incredibly small, delicate, and perfectly proportioned in contrast to the massive, sinister pines which surrounded them. At one time, the dell might well have been a favorite trysting place for aristocratic lovers; but it had clearly fallen into disuse, so that a thick scum of green algae floated on the surface of the pond, blending fuzzily with the lower borders of the mist.

On the steps of the gazebo, a beefy soldier—whose unkempt uniform identified him as a member of the royal guard—was placidly coughing up phlegm and spitting into the lake. “So this is the fellow who sings like Jeremiah Vinograd,” thought the disappointed young man. “He is not what I would call a ferocious type, but, nevertheless, that notice on the fence suggests that there may be some sharp teeth behind that dumb grin.” With this in mind, Judah ben Simon was just about to slip back into the woods, when a momentary break in the fog permitted him to catch sight of the pond’s far shore—and of Jeremiah Vinograd, who was sitting quietly near the water’s edge.

Even from a distance, the herbalist’s face seemed heavier, firmer, alight with the complacent smile of a man used to feasting on wine and fine meats. He was dressed in a quilted cloak of rich maroon velvet, stitched with gold thread; his scarlet turban had been refurbished, bordered with a rope of bells and a band of black mink. On his feet were low-cut shoes of tooled leather, turned up at the toes. Surprised by the charlatan’s new splendor, Judah ben Simon grew even more amazed when he realized that Jeremiah Vinograd’s magnificent garments represented only a fraction of his recent acquisitions.

Directly behind the old man, a white mule grazed peacefully beside a covered gypsy cart adorned with carved woodwork and painted all over with brightly colored symbols, hexes, birds, flowers, spells, and incantations. The wagon was balanced on high, light wheels with orange spokes; its front end, covered by a heavy black curtain, tilted down towards the ground.

As soon as Jeremiah Vinograd noticed Judah ben Simon at the edge of the forest, he jumped up and began to wave both arms in the air. Casting sidelong glances at the white pavilion, the young man inched forward, until the mountebank laughed, motioned deprecatingly towards the guard, and came out to greet his visitor.

“What took you so long?” boomed the herbalist, slapping his former student on the back.

“An error in judgment,” murmured Judah evasively. “I am sorry for having made you wait.”

“Think nothing of it,” said the mountebank graciously, ushering his guest around the lake until they stood within inches of the gypsy cart. “There is nothing I enjoy more than a leisurely week in my own sweet haven of refreshment and relaxation.”

“Your haven!” cried the young man incredulously, wondering if he had perhaps underestimated the charlatan’s sensational good fortune. “Do you mean to tell me that this grand estate is yours?”

“Be reasonable, my boy,” laughed Jeremiah Vinograd. “Would the owner of a paradise like this spend fifty-one weeks a year cramming leaves and roots down the throats of ignorant peasants? I should say not; indeed, I should say not. I meant only that I consider this setting uncommonly soothing and inspirational, and that I would sooner lay my head on this sweet bank than on the finest silk pillow in Poland.”

“And have you no fear of the penalties for trespass?” inquired Judah, peering anxiously at the soldier, who seemed to be picking lice from his shaggy blond forelocks.

“It is obvious that you have not been a mountebank for very long,” smiled the old man patronizingly. “Otherwise, you would realize that the prince’s men—who have guarded this estate for the fifteen years since his lordship’s death—are, like all members of their class, hopelessly superstitious fellows; they simply cannot tell the difference between a scientist and a warlock. More than a decade ago, when I first discovered this lovely glade, they were afraid to evict me, petrified lest I curse them with some sort of black magic enchantment; since then, we have become fast friends. Is that not right, Corporal Svoboda?” yelled Jeremiah Vinograd, directing a jaunty salute towards the man on the pavilion steps.

Corporal Svoboda raised his head and grinned, revealing a set of wildly irregular, tobacco-stained teeth.

“But surely,” continued the charlatan, “you must have encountered certain symptoms of this superstitious awe among your own patients?”

“Whenever possible,” the young man replied coldly, “I try to discourage that sort of thing.”

“So much the worse for you,” declared Jeremiah Vinograd. “But, while we are on the subject, let me ask you: how have you been faring in this business of mountebankery?”