It was, I
remember, late in December, many years ago, at the time of day when evening is
coming on but it is still not dark enough for the lights to be lit, that my
husband Roni and I were wandering – as we often did in those early years of our
marriage, before the children came – through the alleyways of old
Jerusalem. At length we came to a short
passageway which opened out into a tiny court.
We looked about us. To left and
right the crumbling frontages of two houses, vaguely oriental in appearance,
eyed each other blankly through grimy uncurtained windows. Then, in one corner, I thought I could detect
an unexpected sight.
"Over
there," I said, "isn't that a bookshop?"
"Ruth my love," said Roni, "you could smell
out a bookshop at a thousand paces blindfolded!
I'll bet you’re right."
"And you,
Roni my darling, could be trusted to take a bet on whether tomorrow will be
Wednesday. Come on, let's go over and
see."
We emerged
from the passageway, and the sounds of the old city faded behind us. As we made our way towards the far corner,
the feeling of remoteness from everyday life was intensified. I was gripped by the strange sensation that
time itself had somehow been suspended.
At length we
stood before the tiny shop front. A
faded façade proclaimed “Labac –
Antiquarian Books". I tried the
door. For a moment it stuck, but then it
gave beneath my pressure.
Both walls
were lined from top to bottom with books, but the shop was so high that the
shelves faded into the shadows. The
effect of books extending into infinity was even stronger as I peered into the
interior, a narrowing cone of booklined darkness.
I looked
about.
"Where do
you think the owner is?"
"I am
over here, madame."
A stooped
figure emerged from the shadows. White‑haired,
with a small goatee beard, and with half‑moon spectacles perched on the end of
his nose, the man seemed to personify the spirit of scholarship.
“Come
in," he said. “And you, sir.”
I closed the
door.
"Thank
you, Mr...?”
"Monsieur Labac,” said the old man. "I prefer 'Monsieur'. My family spent many hundreds of years in France before I made my way to Israel. I am too old now to want to change the
customs of a lifetime."
He peered at
me.
“Forgive an
old man's eccentricities, but I like to know who I am dealing with. Anonymity I hate, above all things."
"I am Ruth Illyon,” I said. "This is my husband, Roni.”
"Enchanté," said the old man. "And now, what can I do for you?"
"My wife
is bewitched by books," said Roni. "She
finds it almost impossible to pass by a bookshop. Philosophers – that's her special
delight."
The old man turned to me.
"My dear,
your husband tells me two things about you.
He tells me that you love books for themselves, and he tells me that you
love what books contain. Believe me, Mrs Illyon, the two do not always go
together."
The old man's
eyes rested on me, and it seemed as if somewhere deep in my mind a key turned
and a door opened.
"I know
what you mean," I said, and suddenly I did. “For some people it is enough to hold an old
book in their hands, to caress the leather covers, to experience the sensual
pleasure of running their fingers over the ancient paper. The words inscribed on those pages are of
minor significance. For others, the
content is all. The mystery, the
excitement, the magic, is that the mind of one individual, long since dead, can
through the medium of the printed page communicate over the centuries with
one's own. Thoughts, ideas, have been
captured and transferred across hundreds of' years, from one mind to another.”
"But for
you, my dear," said Monsieur Labac, "the two mysteries merge and
become one. Am I right?"
"I must
admit it."
"And you,
Mr Illyon, do you share your wife's obsession?"
Roni
grinned.
"Afraid
not, Monsieur Labac. I have my own. I like the occasional gamble."
"These two
books, Monsieur Labac,” I said.
"They seem very ancient."
"One is,
and one is not. As you see, both are
entitled The Book of the Cabal. The original ... this ...
well, this is priceless. In one
of the big auction houses in London or New York it could fetch
millions. But see – a very clever
publisher about a hundred years ago actually reproduced the effect of this
ancient volume and some of the material.
Here…”
It was
skilfully done. The effect of the
original had been cunningly recreated, down to the faded ink, the ragged edges
to the pages, even the worn binding.
"What is
the book?” I asked.
"The
original is connected with one of the most closely guarded aspects of ancient
Jewish philosophy. You know of the Caballah,
Mrs Illyon?"
"Not very
much, " I admitted.
The old man's
delicate hands rested on one of the tomes.
"Locked
into the five sacred books of the Torah is the mystery of the universe. Over the centuries a few gifted and privileged
scholars have given their lives to wrestling with the texts. This volume – and the clever reproduction of
it – records part of that long journey of' discovery."
"The
reproduction," I said. “"It's
so beautiful. Dare I ask how much it
costs?”
Roni groaned.
"Mrs
Illyon,” said the old man, "believe me when I tell you that this is one
book that I would not on any account sell to someone I thought unworthy of
it. You I think worthy. I will sell it to you for ... fifty dollars."
"Then of
course I will take it," I said.
"You will accept a cheque?"
“But of
course."
"Lend me
your pen, Roni.”
"Tell me,
Monsieur Labac,” said Roni, as he handed it over, "does Caballah tackle
human existence?"
"A few caballists
have bent their minds to the question of where the division lies between predicting
and pre‑ordaining events – that is, between discerning what is written on the
page of the future, and actually inscribing a word or two on that page."
"But
surely," I protested, "there's all the difference in the world."
"Not so,
madame. One of the fundamental
principles of humanity's contract with the Almighty is free will. However powerful a caballist may be in
bending future events to his desires, each individual involved will preserve to
the last instant his own freedom of decision – a freedom he can exercise to
frustrate the desired end. The page of
the future is infinitely variable."
He stopped
suddenly.
"There,
I've spoken too much already. And it's
getting late."
And indeed,
close as we stood to him, I had to strain through the gloom to see him as he
hastily wrapped up my book in brown paper, which he tied with string.
He escorted us
down the shop and we walked past him into the tiny square.
"Goodbye,"
said the old man.
He had not
ventured over the threshold so that now, dark as it had become, he seemed, in a
strange way, to be one with the shadows.
We left the
courtyard by the short alley‑way through which we had entered, and almost
immediately we saw ahead a small coffee shop, its front piled high with Arab
sweetmeats, their honey coating glistening under the bare electric bulbs. I was determined to examine my latest
acquisition under the lights, so we went in and ordered Turkish coffee and
cakes. While waiting, I unwrapped my
parcel. The book it contained was not in
my hands for more than thirty seconds before I realised that old Monsieur Labac
had made a terrible mistake.
I look up at
Roni, aghast.
“He's given us
the wrong volume. This isn't the
reproduction ‑ it's the original. He
must have got confused. It was so dark
in that shop. We must go back."
"Ruth, my darling," said Roni, "an old
Latin saying has governed the relations between buyers and sellers for
thousands of years: caveat emptor –
buyer beware. It holds true for sellers,
too. Just think what that book could buy
us – all the things we want."
“Nonsense,"
I said, "it couldn't buy us a family.
And do you think I'm going to steal a book worth millions from that
wonderful old man, simply because he made a mistake? Especially after the way he treated me."
"You're
right, of course," said Roni. “Come
on, we’ll go back. It's only round the
corner."
When we re-emerged
into the courtyard, the tiny shop in the far corner was silent and dark. I rapped on the glass and called out
“Monsieur Labac! Monsieur Labac!”.
A tiny flicker
of light glimmered far away in the recesses of the shop, like a remote star in
the endless void of space. It advanced
towards us, and at length I saw Monsieur Labac approaching, an oil lamp in his
hand.
"Mrs Illyon? Is that you?"
"Yes,
Monsieur Labac," I called. "We
had to come back."
The old man
unlocked the door and pulled it open.
"It's the
book you sold us," I said.
"Take it. Look."
I thrust the
volume into his hands. He put down the
oil lamp and took it.
I don't know
what reaction I had expected – horror, distress, amazement, relief. To me it seemed that his over‑riding emotion
was an immense satisfaction. He hugged
the book to him.
“Mrs
Illyon. The original Book of the
Cabal. You returned it to me, although I
told you it was so valuable."
"It was
the only thing to do."
“Ah, there you
are mistaken," he said. "There
are always choices, always the chance to frustrate those who would foretell the
shape of future events. Others might
have decided differently – you and your husband chose to exercise your free
will in this way."
He took up the
oil lamp and moved slowly off down the shop to the counter, where the other
volume still lay. We followed, and
eventually stood close together in the gloom, the lamp casting a soft glow on
our faces.
“Mrs Illyon,”
he said, as he began wrapping the volume, “you remember what I was saying to
you earlier? I might have predicted that
you would return here with this infinitely precious volume; I could have tried
to ordain it; but I could never have guaranteed it.”
"I
understand that," I said.
"Which is why I am diffident about what I have to
say to you now, my dear Mrs Illyon. If
it teaches us anything, the Cabal
teaches that existence is not purposeless; on the contrary, each life is full
of purpose – often frustrated, of course, because of that free will about which
we have spoken. So when I say I foretell
certain events, I do so because I can distinguish, however obliquely, certain
purposes… And so I say to you, my dear
Mrs Illyon, that one day you and your husband will travel abroad and become the
recipient of a great fortune. This, dear
Mrs Illyon, it is intended that you will use to found a library, here in this
holy city of Jerusalem. It will start as a modest collection, but it
will become a great institution. This is the purpose, you are the chosen
instrument. Because of it your name will
be remembered for hundreds of years after you, and your husband, and I, have
passed away from the earth. Listen, my dear
Mrs Illyon, and remember ...”
We left the
shop, Roni and I, shaken as much by the intensity of the old man's vision as by
his strange words. A week or so later,
walking again through the old city, I tried to find the short alleyway and the
tiny court, but never again did I set eyes upon that little courtyard with the
bookshop in one corner.
So why has old
Monsieur Labac been so much in my mind these last few days? The reason is
quickly told.
For several
years after our little adventure, Roni and I were too tied up with starting our
small family and getting established in business to take a holiday abroad. Later, the truth is that we were scared –
scared in case the old man's prophecy was not fulfilled, and scared in case it
was. So we put off going, time and
again.
Eventually,
the illness of a very dear member of our family forced us to put all
reservations to one side and fly quickly to the States. Fortunately our relative
made a reasonable recovery, but while we were there Roni succumbed to the temptations
of the Mega Millions lottery. In the week we arrived the rollover for the
following draw exceeded one billion dollars.
We bought our ticket on Monday; on Tuesday we flew back to Israel. Think of us – picture our state of mind this
weekend – as we sit glued to the computer screen, awaiting the result of the
draw.
Monsieur
Labac, where are you? Who are you? It was
only yesterday, as I was idly writing your name again and again on a scrap of
paper, that I realised just what your name spells – backwards.
