The Origin of Sorrow (22 page)

“You have business in Mainz while the Fair is on?”

“Someone has to tell the blacksmith’s widow that we buried her husband. To put her mind at ease.”

“And the other reason?”

“There is no other reason.”

“To make sure that she has money to feed her children?”

“Well, yes. That also.”

Guttle squeezed his hand. “I’ll be fine.”

She watched him stride across the glistening cobbles and disappear into the stable. When he emerged he was sitting tall in a brown saddle, his back arched, atop a sturdy palomino whose blond mane ran down the sides of its neck like waterfalls. He waved goodbye to her and rode slowly down the crowded street. She watched until she could no longer see him, listened until the increasingly rapid hoof beats faded into the earth.

Book Three: A Flame of God

Toward your husband will be your lust, yet he will rule over you.

—Genesis, 3:16

19

On the day that Guttle turned sixteen years of age, the men in the Judengasse all wore their burial shrouds. The date of her birthday, 19 September, happened to fall that year on Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year — the start of the year 5530 on the Jewish calendar. It was the custom in the German lands for the men to attend Rosh Hashanah services in shrouds, a reminder of their mortality, a reminder to remain free of sin during the coming year, because they could die at any time. The shrouds were gray, with round white collars, and hung loose almost to their ankles.

Because Rosh Hashanah nonetheless was a happy day, a day of celebration, a Yom tov, the women dressed in their most colorful finery and largest hats. The contrast as they mingled in the lane touched off metaphors in Guttle’s brain: dead soldiers and ladies of the night; angels and devils; believers and atheists; shorn sheep and overgrown flowers. There was her father in his burial shroud. And Meyer. And Izzy. These were truths she could not accept, any more than she could accept the notion of her own death. All was carnival, the men mere players, like those she had seen at the Fair. A blasphemous thought danced in her head: perhaps all religion is carnival.

As she arrived outside the synagogue amid this odd commingling, wearing pale blue silk, Dvorah, in rustling burgundy, approached her, all aflutter, and asked, “Will tonight be the night?”

Guttle tried to appear calmer than she was. “Meyer Amschel is coming for dinner, to celebrate my birthday. It’s the first time they’ve invited him. Anything more, I don’t know.”

“But something is going on. You said so.”

“Papa has been giving me funny glances. Puffing his cheeks out, as if he’s swallowed a bird. But I don’t think he and Meyer have talked yet. And I’m sure they won’t discuss my dowry in front of me. I’m not even sure he’s turned down the Marcuses yet.”

“Don’t you want to scream? It’s been months with you and Meyer. With Lev and me it’s been just a few weeks, and I can’t stand it. I think he’s going to ask me soon. Without a father … with no dowry … but that won’t matter to Lev, do you think?” Guttle recalled Meyer’s words. “With all you have to offer him, Dvorah, I doubt he’ll miss a dowry.”

Three bearded men emerged from the temple, walking together and talking, like some ancient tribunal debating the meaning of Yahweh’s ambiguous words. Among them was Jacob Marcus, the Cantor’s father. Guttle saw him glance at her as they passed. She could not define his expression.

“You know what I was thinking?” Dvorah said. “If we both get spoken for soon, we could get married together. A double wedding. Wouldn’t that be fun?”

“We’d have to see what the men have to say.”

“Don’t be silly. Once we’re betrothed, the men have no say.”

“You’re not jealous of Doctor Kirsch anymore?”

“Oh, no. Rebecca always has her nose in somebody’s mouth, or ear, or chest. She doesn’t even notice Lev, except as another Doctor.”

The doors of the synagogue opened. The walking shrouds filed into the lane. Recess at the cemetery, Guttle thought. And shuddered. The coquettish noon sun glared off their white collars. Guttle hugged her father, Meyer, Izzy as she found them in the emerging throng. “Yom tov,” each said to the other as they shook hands. Happy day.

The sun took its highlights and fled, the gray of afternoon settled in. Dvorah didn’t see Lev, had no family men to greet. “Is this your first year?” she asked Izzy, fingering his rough shroud.

“I was already Bar Mitzvah’d, so I wore it last year. It fits better now.”

“What a terrible thing to say.”

“Don’t worry about Izzy,” Guttle said. “He’s doing Yahweh’s work. He’ll probably live for nine hundred years.”

The birthday dinner went smoothly. The gefilte fish, the cold beef with vinegar beets and asparagus, all prepared the day before, were superb, everyone agreed. Guttle felt the food clumping in her stomach, but the conversation flowed easily, mostly between her father and Meyer. When her mother brought out a raspberry cake, her father put up his hand. “The food is wonderful, Emmie, suitable to the occasion. But my breeches are splitting already. I want to walk in the lane with Meyer Amschel, to let our food go down. We’ll have the cake and the birthday wishes when we return.”

Wolf and Meyer folded their napkins and placed them on the table. Meyer followed her father to the door. He did not look back. Guttle was aware of her heart thumping noisily. She was afraid her food might come up, not go down. She listened to their footsteps descending the stairs, her father’s heavy, Meyer’s crisp. She looked across the table at her mother, who was still holding the raspberry cake. “Do you know anything? Will they be talking about me?” Emmie set the cake on the table, and shrugged her shoulders. “He never tells me anything.”

“Can’t we have birthday cake now?” one of the little ones asked.

Avra looked at Guttle with a sour smile. “After Papa’s food goes down.”

In the lane, pools of light rested on the cobbles like puddles of water, deeper in the centers than at the edges. In almost every kitchen people were eating their first supper of the New Year, the overflow light of their oil lamps spilling into the lane, brushing the shoulders of the two men as they strolled. Some of those who had finished their meals stood outside their doorways in Rosh Hashanah finery — the shrouds were gone — chatting with their neighbors. As Meyer and Wolf walked they were greeted by nods, or calls of Yom tov.

“Frau Schnapper is a good cook,” Meyer said. “That was a wonderful meal.”

“You’re telling me? Why do you think I have this belly?” Wolf patted his ample waist. “I’ll tell you a secret. Guttle cooks just as good. Maybe better.” He leaned towards Meyer. “Don’t tell Emmie I said that.”

“Guttle is a fine young woman,” Meyer said.

“They don’t come any better. You like her a little, maybe?”

“I don’t think that’s a secret.”

“You like her maybe a lot?”

Meyer laughed, kicked a stray chip of cobble into the ditch. “Have we started bargaining?”

Wolf clapped him on the shoulder. “I like you, Meyer Amschel. You come right to the point. She is a fine figure of a girl, don’t you think?”

“Absolutely.”

“Takes after her mother, not me, thank goodness. And smart.”

“Like a whip.” Meyer was enjoying the game. “I’ll put my cards on the table, Herr Schnapper. I don’t have one thing bad to say about your daughter.”

“You don’t? I could help you out. In the interests of a fair deal. Guttle does have her faults.”

“She does? Tell me one.”

“The truth is, she can be a little headstrong at times.”

“I’ve noticed that. Tell me another.”

“Well, let’s see. At other times, she can be a lot headstrong.”

“Now that’s serious. Perhaps I’d be making a mistake.”

“Now wait, wait. I may be exaggerating.”

Meyer touched Wolf’s arm. “Don’t be alarmed, that was a joke. Guttle likes to think for herself. It’s one reason I like her so much.”

“It is?”

“Of course.”

“That’s good to hear you say. I remember when she was little, maybe four or five, I took her in a coach a few times on business trips, so she could see the world outside. We had a nice guard then, who sometimes would look the other way for a child. Everything she saw delighted her — the trees, the birds, the flowers, Butchers Lane, Jewelers Lane — even St. Bartholomew’s church. Her questions were so intelligent that I encouraged her to read, to learn. Now I worry that it was a mistake.”

“How could that be a mistake?”

“For a girl, a woman, too much thinking makes the lane even harder to bear.”

They had reached the south gate, could hear the lapping of the river. Gulls circled in the distance, ghost birds in the moonlight, squawking their complaints. Meyer turned to begin strolling back.

“Wait a moment. Wait here.”

Wolf pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, wiped perspiration from his brow. He put the handkerchief back, slipped his purse from his vest, tucked several coins into his hand. He approached the gate and tapped on it. Meyer watched the dark form of the night guard approach. Wolf spoke quietly with him — Meyer could not make out the words — and slipped his hand through the bars. A moment later the gate swung open.

“Come,” Wolf said, and they both stepped through the gate before it closed behind them.

“Ten minutes,” the guard said as they passed.

Meyer said over his shoulder, “Fifteen.”

They walked downhill beside the sluice toward the docks. The river smell grew stronger. “Why did you tell him fifteen?”

Meyer could not tell if Schnapper was irritated or admiring. “I’m guessing you overpaid for ten.”

The docks were dark, effusive with the smells of ox manure and spilt wine, silent except for two snarling cats fighting over a fish. Clouds that had been dimming the half moon drifted away, letting moonlight spill over them. To the left they could see the multiple arches of the bridge coiled like a sleeping serpent. Walking to the right, they came upon a stone stairway that led to the new and forbidden promenade. The walkway stretched invitingly along the river bank, flanked by a grassy slope on the river side and a line of linden trees on the other. As they strolled, Meyer noted how the broad ribbon of river thinned in the far distance, then vanished into the dark — like life.

He felt slightly guilty about enjoying this bought pleasure, smelling the grass, watching the river dance on broken glass. He knew he was already privileged in his freedom, like Wolf’s, to leave the lane on most days, to travel on business, walking the streets of Frankfurt, or riding a coach or a stallion on roads that split meadows and farms with their fields of beets, potatoes, asparagus, cabbages, barley, sweet-smelling hay in neat stacks, thousands of birds chirping overhead, or suddenly blanketing the fields like a crocheted quilt.

Wolf broke the silence. “We have a subject to discuss, Meyer Amschel. I think the New Year is an appropriate time. Especially as it is also Guttle’s sixteenth birthday. This being Rosh Hashanah, I feel uncomfortable speaking of money. So I have a question to ask, if you will humor me. How many fish do you think are in this river? I think maybe fifteen hundred. Do you agree?”

“Oh, I think much more than that. I think three thousand at least.”

“That many? That’s a lot of fish.”

“Perhaps. But it’s a wide river.”

Wolf pondered as they walked. “I’ll tell you what. To keep things simple and friendly, we’ll split the difference. We’ll agree that there are twenty-two hundred and fifty fish.”

Meyer stopped and looked at the river, as if he were actually peering into its depths. “It’s been my experience that you never arrive at the correct solution to a problem by splitting the difference.”

“Ah. So it’s some kind of advantage you want? Very well. Twenty-three hundred.”

“Twenty-four.”

“Twenty-four?” The fish were gone with the moon as a passing cloud hid its face. “You would quibble over my daughter for a hundred gulden?”

“Over your Guttle I would not quibble a single kreuzer, Herr Schnapper. Over your hundred gulden, I will quibble.”

They walked again, dragging the tension of their own footsteps, till Wolf stopped. “You drive a hard bargain, Meyer Amschel. I suppose that’s a good quality in a son-in-law.”

Meyer took a deep breath, let it out, smiled, offered his hand. Wolf took it and pumped it vigorously. “Done,” he said.

A gull swept low over the water, broke the surface, came up shaking itself, with a fish in its beak. “Done,” Meyer echoed.

The gull dropped the fish for an instant, caught it in midair, flew off across the river.

“We should go back,” Wolf said. “Our time is almost up.”

Both men breathed audibly as they walked on the promenade against the current of the river, hearing it whisper to the shore; it whispered of the future, a language they did not know. At the gate the guard displayed his pocket watch. “You are five minutes overdue.”

“I suppose you’ll have to shoot us,” Meyer said.

The guard flushed, his eyes narrow with fury. His mouth seemed alive with words he didn’t speak. Stonily, he unlocked the gate. When they had passed through he slammed it closed with a clang that rang through the lane.

“Why did you taunt him? It served no purpose. It was something Guttle would do.”

“Yussel Kahn told me the same thing recently. Perhaps she’s already a part of me.”

The lane was deserted. In some windows the lamps had been turned off as people went to bed. The men walked in thought, undisturbed, exploring the emotions of their new roles: the pride of the father of the bride, the expectancy of the groom, also the bliss of a dealer with a dowry to invest.

“There’s something else I’ve been wanting to ask you,” Wolf said. “Have you heard from the crown Prince about becoming a court agent?”

“As a matter of fact, I received a letter just yesterday.”

“And he said?”

“Meyer Amschel Rothschild is now a court agent to the Crown Prince of Hesse-Hanau. The cabinet maker will be carving a sign for me.”

“That’s a fine thing, Meyer Amschel. I wonder why Guttle didn’t mention it?”

“I haven’t told her. I wanted to surprise her on her birthday.”

“It will be a help to your business.”

“Gott willing. May I be blunt with you, Herr Schnapper?”

“Wolf. From now on you must call me Wolf. Of course you may be blunt. We aren’t strangers anymore.”

“To be truthful, I was surprised by our conversation tonight. I thought you would wait until you knew about the court appointment.”

Wolf smiled with gratification. “To be blunt, you were right. I did know.”

“How could you know?”

“You are not the only one with informants, young man.”

Meyer took a moment to absorb the news. “And if the Crown Prince had refused my request? You would not have offered me Guttle’s hand?”

Wolf stopped walking, and Meyer with him. “Of course I would have offered you her hand. She’s meshuganah in love with you. What kind of father do you think I am?”