The Seventh Heaven (13 page)

“What’s passed has passed. I must look toward tomorrow,” I said in recognition of her allusion to me.

“Your indulgence, my master!” she exclaimed, as though surprised by my presence.

“I came to settle my debts and to look toward tomorrow,” I replied, putting a medium-size envelope in front of her.

“He came to settle his debts and to look toward tomorrow,” she declaimed to her cards.

“Bread and salt have brought us together, and you are the mistress of those who know!”

Sounding straightforward at last, she replied, “Such things happen every day.”

“This is the time for but one request,” I said heatedly.

“Security,” she said quietly.

y
“Security,” I echoed, feeling encouraged. “Whenever I consult a friend on the matter, they always point to just one man.”

Smiling, she replied, “He is the one who is always pointed to these days.”

“As he is known for his hatred of intermediaries, I have not found anyone to intercede for me,” I said with worry. “Yet they tell me that none of the great ever turn you aside.”

“This is true, if they have been my companions,” she admitted with pride.

Not knowing what to say, I simply sighed, when she said in a kindly tone, “You must find your own way.”

“You’re joking,” I said, a sarcastic laugh escaping my lips.

“If only he came one time to his queen, like the others,” she lamented. “Most of the patrons at the Moon Tavern are my minions—except for him.”

“If only this miracle would occur!” I said wistfully.

We stared at each other for quite a while, until her eyes widened with a dawning insight. She giggled, then asked me, “What do you think?”

I gazed at her questioningly.

“You will undertake a mission,” she declared.

“What mission?”

“That you bring him here to me.”

“But how?”

“He leaves the Moon Tavern at midnight,” she said. “Then he cuts through the Garden Passage to the square, where his car is waiting—the passage is the most fitting place for you to meet him.”

“But he doesn’t know me from Adam!”

“Use your manners as a man of good family to approach him,” she said, drowning in laughter, “and whisper to him, ‘Do you crave a tasty glass? A clean, well-hidden house?’”

I scowled as I turned my face away from her, seething with derision.

“My suggestion doesn’t please you?” she asked.

“Mock my predicament all you want!”

Earnestly she rejoined, “I’m quite serious, if security is truly what you seek.”

“How do you imagine I would accomplish that myself?” I bristled in annoyance.

“What is it but a fleeting adventure that flows from the search for what is sought?”

“Don’t you have many who are professionals in that?” I asked, trying to hide my trepidation.

“I do not need any of them,” she said with disdain.

“Yet I would be your first choice?”

“This is only an escapade—don’t you understand?”

“No, I understand nothing.”

“But it is your duty to understand,” she scolded. “There’s no harm if you pick a spot far from the lamplight, so the darkness might embolden you.”

“And what about my dignity?”

“I’m not calling on you to make this your livelihood,” she protested. “It’s a one-time gambit. If you reject it, then you must know another way to reach your goal.”

On my way back, I was so upset that I could scarcely see what was in front of me. I had absolutely no doubt
about the power that woman held over men. Yet, driven by an angry, petulant resolve, I refused to submit, until I imagined that I was no longer obsessed with my quest for security—a person’s last refuge when nothing else remains. It was as though I cared little about having to endure the demon of inflation, the ordeal of survival, the debasement of a time of deprivation. A merciless, ceaseless war broke out in my head. I kept wandering through the cafés and bars in a night that did not want to end. And not long before midnight I found myself standing in the Garden Passage in the furthest place away from the lamplight. What had brought me here? Perhaps I wanted to catch a glimpse from up close of that man whom I had seen only in the newspapers on momentous occasions.

He seemed to move with astral discipline—for at precisely the stroke of midnight his towering frame emerged from the Moon Tavern, tearing the silence with the tread of his heavy footsteps. My heart pounded as I tumbled from my lofty heights, and as he passed before me on his route to the square I took a step toward him. Immediately my mind was shattered by many terrors. I could almost feel the fingers pointed accusingly at me. My memory failed and my tongue froze. Abruptly aware that I was there, the man struck the ground with his cane to scold me for coming too near—so I quickly backed off, while he continued on his way.

All the next day I berated myself brutally.
Why did I go to the Garden Passage? Why did I try to approach that man?
And what kept me from speaking but my mind becoming scattered and falling prey to fears? The truth is
that I am terrified of people—they are the ghosts that relentlessly pursue me. What good would they do me tomorrow, if the struggle to survive and the humiliation should grow even crueler?

I set off with great force to chase the strange things out of my life—and it never occurred to me that I would take up my position in the Garden Passage once again, just before midnight. Determined and confused, I waited until I found the man coming toward me on his course to the square. Drawing close to him, I whispered, “I have a cup and a lovely playmate, and a safe shelter as well!”

Rapidly he turned toward me. Though the darkness stood between us, there is no doubt that he knew my shape.

“A curse upon you,” he said acidly, looking away.

I burned with shyness and shame—though he did not bat an eye. I had sold my most precious possession for nothing. I had accepted degradation, while he displayed only contempt for me.

At next nightfall, I returned to Virgo Star Alley. No sooner had she received me, reclining on her divan, then she called out to me, “Failure is written clearly on your face!”

“We must find another means,” I said, sagging forward in my chair in despair.

When I recounted to her what happened, she chuckled sardonically.

“What a mule you are,” she berated me. “You approached His Honor in such distinguished attire?”

“What else could I have done?” I answered exasperatedly.

“Perhaps he thought you were one of his rivals, trying to trip him up!”

“In any case, that only confirms that we have to find another way.”

“There
is
no other way,” she insisted sternly. “You must correct your technique.”

I stared in disbelief at her comely face.

“You should wear the proper dress for your task,” she declared.

I went home angry with her, as well as with myself, and my demanding desire for security. Days passed while I was absorbed in a mad dialogue with my own mind, until I found myself clad in a
gallabiya
and skullcap, worn-out sandals on my feet, waiting at the same place in the Garden Passage once more. So abased did I feel that it became easy for me—and I no longer let it bother me. When the time came, the man loomed before me with his imposing height. I paused until he was parallel with me, then leapt into action, saying, “I have something for which the eye longs, and for which the soul lusts.”

He raised his walking stick at me till I retreated in fright. Then he asked with scornful irony, “What did you say, Your Majesty?”

I fled again to my home, rebuking my disordered self, immersed in the depths of my accumulated angst. As my resentment redoubled, so did my will to succeed as well. I went to the lady and defiantly told her my story. Though shaking her head in regret, she said, “You really are a mule—you need someone to lead you every step of the way.”

“I slunk up to him just as any derelict would do!”

“And your voice?” she taunted.

“My voice?”

“Did you talk down to him in the same manner you use with your underlings?”

“I don’t think so,” I said with evident misgivings.

“Don’t waste time,” she interrupted. “I’m an expert in these affairs!”

I disappeared for some days, which I spent in anguished contemplation, practicing without any thought of ever giving up. How could I stop trying, when I had sold everything for nothing? When I again took my position in the Garden Passage, patience had depleted me, as well as worry and pain. But then the expected moment came, and I stepped forward nimbly. Lowering my head in humility, I blurted dejectedly, yet with a bitterness that I could not disguise completely, “I have something good for you—in a secure, respectable dwelling.”

He kept on going without acknowledging me. Once again I tried to make him hear me.

“You make it sound like a funeral,” he rebuffed me.

Promptly grasping my blunder, I became enraged at myself for the excessive resentment that had showed in my voice. I confessed everything to the lady, only to endure her ridicule.

“I will not try again,” I said resignedly.

“Have you given up—haven’t you even an inch of patience left?”

“The errors are endless,” I snorted. “I’ve had enough.”

“Think it over for a while, my old friend,” she said in a heartening tone, carefully avoiding any hint of condescension.
“How can you consider yielding to despair when you are so close to succeeding? You imagine that you have used up all your forbearance, but what does forbearance cost compared to your ultimate satisfaction? You had a strong start, and no one can say that you haven’t made good progress so far. Don’t forget that, in the end, you’re trying to catch just one man—and not just
any
man.”

“He doesn’t seem like the kind who would welcome that to me,” I said skeptically.

“But that’s just the kind he is!” she laughed, then continued more soberly, “If I weren’t sure of what I’m saying, then I wouldn’t have urged you to make this effort. I’m not one of those who would betray bread and salt.”

I left her with my spirit revived, the rose once again blooming in my breast. I waited patiently for days, with no other interest but the Garden Passage, until I found myself again at my accustomed station. As I observed him coming with his sublime stature, I waited until he passed directly in front of me. Then I trailed him abjectly, mumbling, “Don’t let the chance of a lifetime elude you!”

When he paid no attention to me, I dogged him obstinately, whining to him softly, “A safe house truly, appropriate for Your Excellency!”

“Where?” he asked abruptly.

With a pleasure I had never before felt in my life, I told him, “In Virgo Star Alley, the third house on the right within.”

When we came close to the square he called out to his driver. As the man scurried up to him, he ordered him loudly, “Hold this creep, and get the police!”

Desperately, I thrust the palm of my hand over the driver’s mouth. “No—wait—I’m not one of
them!”
I implored him. “I’m a respected person!” I panted, my heart racing.

“Respected?”

“Here’s my identification,” I said, still gasping for breath.

He turned the card over, studying it carefully. “You look like an imposter,” he judged.

I plunged headlong into telling him my story with perfect candor, from the time when my need for security made me first beg for it politely—putting all the other demands of life into it—until that day. The driver remained silent, scrutinizing me in the rays of light falling from a lamp in the square.

“Don’t ever show me your face again,” he commanded coldly.

After countless days had passed, I dragged my way back to Virgo Star Alley, as though I were now many years older. As I came within sight of the house’s entrance, an ancient hag hovered in the currents of darkness, blocking my path.

“The lady is in seclusion,” she rasped in a time-ravaged voice.

I knew the owner of this voice, and asked her, “What have you brought me, Mother of Blessings?”

She knew my voice too, and replied, “The lady requests that you avoid all excess, and wait until you are summoned.”

My heart leapt as I pressed her, “Is the lady expecting an important visitor?”

“I have no knowledge of anything,” she said. “May peace be your companion.”

I found no choice but to return. The clouds of obscurity had been raised from hope. She would not have taken this decision if she did not anticipate an auspicious visitation. And why else would she have said, “Wait until you are summoned,” if it bore no relation to my conundrum? The veil of darkness is withdrawn from my dream. My heart pounds with visions. Security beams at me with its luminous face through the last deepening shadows of descending night. There is nothing left but to adorn myself with patience—which yearning turns into genuine torture. The days roll on, as the torment of forbearance erupts ever more fiercely, growing ever more rapacious as time goes by. My sole worry is to remain at the ready.

And all the while, but one question keeps recurring to me:
When will the Messenger come?