The Blogs: The Eternal Jew’s Tale, #128, Things Fall Apart, 2

In this episode… what’s eating Batkol?
…And she didn’t come home til long after dark….

The Eternal Jew’s Tale
Eighteenth Era, Part 4, ~1425 C.E., Genoa

Slept on nettles; prickly all day. I avoided Batkol and her grumbly sighs, and Daniyel and his toady friends. Haggled with the woman sellin’ greens, and argued with the Lor all thru Maariv*. Unfaithful Jews, unreliable wives, intolerable world, unfathomable God. Life out of balance. I stumble along.
* evening prayers

Night. A watery fishbone stew. I slurp its broth while Batkol broods.
“I know you don’t need this, but I have to say… things happen… not what we choose… oh, maybe we choose, but don’t know where it leads… all unexpected, things change shape, become what they don’t appear to be… and what you feel when you go inside, be felt all different when you come back out…”

She stops. I guess she’s waitin’ on me. But distrust and anger still chokin’ me. All I can say is,
“Well, maybe, but still…”
And we sits like that for a long while. Finally, I tries to lighten the gloom that tangles us in such turbulent moods, all stretched and wrinkled and lackin’ shape.
“Listen. I knows I’m quick to judge before I walk down that rocky road, unknowin’ what sorrows and struggles and scars, and what allurements been dangled ahead that made them Castilians abandon their faith. It’s just that…”

“Saadia, that’s not my concern. I mean, it’s true, you judge too fast. You been like that forever now. But this world is a mask on us, klipas* layin’ over our eyes. Tear one off and everything takes on a new appearance. Look at me. You think you know who I am and what I feel. Like a farmer who looks out on his lands, sees the crops growin’ there, its soil squishin’ between his toes. He cut each furrow, threw each seed, smelt its bloom, felt its leaf. But all unseen the vermin teemin’ in the roots, which stalks will wilt, the locust just beyond the hill. Oh, Saadia, everything’s all wrong.”
* husks of untruth; cosmic ages

And now again, her sobbin’ tears. My words been worse than babblin’; vexin’, witless, oblivious. And we gone to bed, nothin’ more said.

Batkol been busy all next day and I avoided the studio. Grindin’ charcoal and scrapin’ soot from blackened lamps to make new ink. And boilin’ fishbones into glue to size* the paper for our maps. Tomorrow, probably them two will be gone.
* to coat with glue/gelatin

Seein’ as Minchah* were comin’ on, and I still ain’t gone to the studio, Batkol muses, as if to herself,
“I wonder when he’ll talk to them two, to hear what made them leave our ways?”
* afternoon prayers
And when I snaps,
“Not my concern,”
She just keeps on busying herself, bundlin’ herbs and grindin’ roots, nor says a word, nor seems to care. Was it me, mis-hearin’ her?

Morning drizzle. Sky still dark. A pot of glue and a pot of ink each in a hand. I come to the door of the studio but the bolt ain’t locked. Locked from the inside. I can’t get in. Has Daniyel sussed my angry thoughts and decided he don’t want me workin’ there? Stunned, I stands there, all dismayed, when the inside bolt scrapes and grinds and the door groans open and there in a cap and a rumpled nightshirt, Daniyel’s friend, groggy eyed and rumpled thoughts.

I stammers,
“Sorry… I didn’t know you was here… you was asleep here in this place… didn’t think…”
“Trouble not. Morning has come and time for labor. Come inside. Juan de Vallseca is my name. And this is my son, Gabriel. Daniyel showed me some of your work, but apologies, what is your name? He said, many times, but I’m poor with names.”
“Saadia,”
I murmurs as I steps inside.

~~~~~~~~~~

In the next episode, slip slidin’ down that slippery slope…

The Eternal Jew’s Tale Eighteenth Era, Part 4, ~1425 C.E., Genoa

The Eternal Jew’s Tale
Eighteenth Era, Part 4, ~1425 C.E., Genoa