The Finkler Question (34 page)

‘People just won’t see it,’ he warned Hephzibah. ‘Or they’ll crash looking.’

‘Well, that’s helpful,’ she said. ‘What would you like me to do, have the road flattened?’

Treslove saw himself standing outside in his curator’s uniform, waving down the traffic.

He had another worry which he chose not to express. Vandalism. It was licensed hereabouts. Just about everyone who visited the Abbey Road Studios wrote messages on the outside walls. Mostly these were good-natured –
So-and-So loves so-and-so, We all live in a yellow submarine, Rest in peace, John!
– but one day when Treslove was passing he noticed a new aerosoled graffito in Arabic script. Perhaps it too was a message of love –
Imagine there’s no countries, it isn’t hard to do –
but what if it was a message of hate –
Imagine there’s no Israel, imagine there’s no Jew
 . . . ?

That he had no reason to suppose any such thing, he knew. Which was partly why he kept his suspicions to himself. But the Arab script looked angry. It was like a scribble over everything else that had been written on the walls, a refutation of the spirit of the place.

Or did he imagine that, too?

Though he was sensitive to condescension, Hephzibah’s suggestion that the best thing he could do for her right now was ruminate suited him just fine. There was much to think about and he was happy to think about it in a semi-professional capacity. Sometimes he thought about it at home, in an office Hephzibah had made for him from a room where she stored the Hampstead Bazaar shawls she had essentially finished with but didn’t quite want to throw away. (Treslove was pleased to observe that when it came to a choice between him and the shawls, the shawls lost.) At other times he thought about what there was to think about in the as-yet-unfinished museum library – the advantage of that being the access he had to Jewish books. The disadvantage being the hammering of carpenters and the suspect graffiti he had to read on the way.

In the end he stayed in the shawl room. Or sat and read on the terrace with its view of Lord’s. And to the left, a few buildings along, a view of a synagogue, or at least a view of its courtyard. He had hoped he would see bearded Jews singing and dancing here, carrying their children on their shoulders, ceremonially cutting their hair in the way he’d seen in a television documentary, or arriving solemnly for a festival, their prayer shawls under their arms, their eyes turned towards God. But it seemed not to be that sort of synagogue. Either he looked at the wrong times, or the only person using the synagogue was a burly Jew (he looked like Topol, that’s how Treslove knew he was a Jew) who came and went on a big black motorbike. Treslove didn’t know if he was the caretaker – he had too much swagger for a caretaker – or the rabbi – but he didn’t look much like a rabbi either. It wasn’t just the motorbike that counted against the rabbi proposition, it was the fact that he wore a PLO scarf which he would wind around his face, like a warrior going into battle, before putting on his helmet and roaring off on his bike.

Day after day, Treslove sat on the terrace and looked out for the Jew on the motorbike. This became so obvious that day after day the Jew on the motorbike looked out for Treslove. He glowered up, Treslove glowered down. Why was he wearing a PLO scarf, Treslove wanted to know. And not just wearing it but swathing himself in it as though it and it alone defined his identity. In a synagogue!

Treslove accepted that under Libor’s tutelage he had grown obsessive about the PLO scarf. It frightened him. Whatever its innocent origins as a headdress ideally suited to a cruel climate – Abraham and Moses, presumably, would have worn something like – it had taken on a huge symbolic significance, no matter that the PLO was now, as Libor explained to him, the least of Isrrrae’s worries. To wear it was to make an aggressive statement, regardless of the rights and wrongs of the situation. Fine, if you were a Palestinian, Libor always said; a Palestinian had a right under all the laws of grievance to his aggression. But on an Englishman it only ever denoted that greed for someone else’s cause, wedded to a nostalgia for simplicities that never were, that was bound to make a refugee from the horrors of leftism shudder. So Treslove, who was a refugee only from Hampstead, shuddered along with him.

But this ageing biker who couldn’t wait to muffle himself in a PLO scarf was not just one more English ghoul feeding on the corpses of the oppressed, he was a Jew, and what is more he was a Jew who seemed to have made his home in a Jewish house of prayer! Explain that, Libor. But Libor couldn’t. ‘We have become a sick people,’ was all he said.

In the end Treslove had no choice but to ask Hephzibah, whom he had wanted to spare.

‘Oh, I make a point of never looking there,’ she told him when he at last mentioned what he’d been watching for the last however many weeks.

She made the place sound like Sodom, which one cast an eye over at one’s peril.

‘Why?’ he asked. ‘What else goes on there?’

‘Oh, I doubt anything goes on. But they do parade their humanity a bit.’

‘Well, I’m all for humanity,’ Treslove was quick to make clear.

‘I know you are, darling. But the humanity they parade is largely on behalf of whoever isn’t us. By
us
, I mean . . .’

Treslove waved away her awkwardness. ‘I know who you mean. But couldn’t they do that without going so far as to wear that scarf? Can’t you want better of your own without actually cheering on your enemy? By y
our
, I mean . . .’

She kissed the back of his head. Meaning, he had a lot to learn.

So he sat at home and tried to learn it. He felt that Hephzibah preferred it that way, not having him under her feet in the museum. And he preferred it that way too, guarding the apartment while she was out, being a proud Jewish husband, breathing in the smell of her, waiting for her to come home, sighing a bit with the excess weight she carried, her silver rings jingling like a belly dancer’s on her fingers.

He liked the hopeful way she would call his name the moment she let herself in. ‘Julian! Hello!’ It made him feel wanted. When the others used to call his name it was in the hope that he was out.

It was a relief to hear her. It meant he could call it a day with his education. He wished he had done a module or two in Jewish Studies at university. Perhaps one on the Talmud, and one on the Kabbalah. And maybe another on why a Jew would wear a PLO scarf. Starting from scratch was not easy. Libor had suggested he learn Hebrew and was even able to recommend a teacher, a remarkable person almost ten years older than he was and with whom he sometimes enjoyed a leisurely lemon tea at Reuben’s restaurant on Baker Street.

‘By leisurely I mean it takes him three hours to drink it through a straw,’ Libor explained. ‘He taught me the little Hebrew I know in Prague before the Nazis turned up. You’ll have to go to him, and you might not be able to understand much of what he’s telling you, his accent is still pretty thick, he came from Ostrava originally – he certainly won’t be able to hear you, by the way, so there’s no point in your asking him anything – and you’ll have to put up with the odd neck spasm – his, I mean, not yours – and he’ll cough over you a lot, and maybe even shed a tear or two, remembering his wife and children, but he speaks a beautiful classical pre-Israeli Hebrew.’

But Treslove considered Hebrew, even if he could find someone to teach him who was still alive, to be beyond him. It was more history he wanted. In the history of ideas sense. And the knack of thinking Jewishly. For this Hephzibah recommended Moses Maimonides’
The Guide for the Perplexed
. She hadn’t read it herself, but she knew it to be a highly regarded text of the twelfth century, and since Treslove owned himself to be perplexed and in need of a guide, she didn’t see how he could do any better.

‘You’re sure you don’t just want me out of your hair?’ he checked, once he’d seen the contents page and the size of the print. It looked like one of those books which you started as a child and finished in an old persons’ home lying in a bed next to Libor’s Hebrew teacher.

‘Look, as far as I’m concerned you’re perfect as you are,’ she told him. ‘I love you perplexed. This is what you keep saying you want.’

‘You sure you love me perplexed?’

‘I adore you perplexed.’

‘What about uncircumcised?’

It was a subject to which he frequently returned.

‘How often must I tell you,’ Hephzibah told him. ‘All that’s immaterial to me.’

‘All
that
?’

‘Immaterial.’

‘Well, it isn’t exactly immaterial to me, Hep.’

He offered to talk to someone. It was never too late. She wouldn’t hear of it. ‘It would be barbaric,’ she said.

‘And if we have a son?’

‘We aren’t planning to have a son.’

‘But if we do?’

‘That would be different.’

‘Ah, so what would be good for him, would not be good for me. Already, there are competing criteria of maleness in this house.’

‘What’s maleness got to do with it?’

‘That’s my question.’

‘Well, go and get yourself an answer from some higher authority. Read Moses Maimonides.’

He dreaded getting so far with Maimonides and then suddenly hitting that blank wall of incomprehension that awaited him at about the same point, even at about the same page, in every work of philosophy he had ever tried to read. It was so lovely, bathing in the lucidities of a thinker’s preliminary thoughts, and then so disheartening when the light faded, the water turned brackish, and he found himself drowning in mangrove and sudd. But this didn’t happen with Maimonides. With Maimonides he was drowning by the end of the first sentence.

‘Some have been of opinion,’ Maimonides began, ‘that by the Hebrew
zelem
, the shape and figure of a thing is to be understood, and this explanation led men to believe in the corporeality [of the Divine Being]: for they thought that the words “Let us make man in our
zelem
” (Gen. i. 26), implied that God had the form of a human being, i.e., that He had figure and shape, and that, consequently, He was corporeal.’

Of themselves, Treslove believed he might have made some headway with these refined distinctions relating to the appearance, or not, of the divine, but first he had to ascertain the exact status of the word
zelem
and at that point he was among the mystics and the dreamers. OK, literally the word meant what Maimonides said it meant, an image or a likeness, but it had a strange disquieting sound to Treslove’s ear, almost like a magic incantation, and when he tried to track down those with whose ‘opinion’ Maimonides was arguing – for one needed to know the extent of one’s perplexity in order to be guided out of it – he found himself in a world where commentary was piled upon commentary, striations of reference and disagreement as old as the universe itself – until there was no knowing who was arguing with whom, or why. If man was indeed made in the
zelem
of God, then God must have been incomprehensible to Himself.

This religion is too old for me, Treslove thought. He felt like a child lost in a dark forest of decrepit lucubrations.

Hephzibah noticed that a mood of despondency had fallen on him. She put it down at first to his not having enough to do. ‘Another few months and we’ll be up and running,’ she said.

What exactly Treslove’s responsibilities were going to be when the museum was up and running had never properly been discussed. Sometimes Treslove imagined he would be a sort of Anglo-Jewish culture
maître d’, welcoming people to the museum, showing them the way to the exhibits, explaining what they were looking at – the Anglo as well as the Jewish – exhibiting in himself that spirit of free unschismatic enquiry and cross-cultural interchange the museum existed to foster. And it was possible that Hephzibah had not progressed beyond that idea herself.

The question of what precisely Treslove was for – whether in the professional, the religious or indeed the marital sense – remained to be addressed.

‘Everything all right between you?’ Libor had asked his great-great-niece early on.

‘Perfect,’ she had told him. ‘I believe he loves me.’