A Favorite Son Page 3

  My mother gets up. She is a petite woman, but the snakeskin shoes give her some stature. She throws the remains of the damaged coat back into the chest. Then she pulls out one of her fur hats and sinks her face into it, taking in the smell. “The air of the hunt,” she says, then hands it to me. “Here, put it on.”

  After that, my mother attends to the cooking. I can hear the hiss, the slight hiss of the pot as it comes to a boil. I can smell the aroma. Somewhat bland to my taste—but then again, this is the way my father likes his meat. At any rate, he can barely swallow food nowadays.

  She ladles a steaming hot portion onto a platter and sets it upon a large tray, so I can carry it over there, to his bedside. Then she gives me the slightest of hints. It is all set up. The time is now.

  My arm covered with the hide of a kid, I stand up. Pretending to be that which I am not, I am ready, at long last, to do her bidding. Ready for my defining moment with my father: The old man is on his deathbed. He is waiting for me. Waiting there, in his tent, for his trusty, favorite son.

  Chapter 3

  A Favorite Son

  For the third day in a row, one bird after another flew into my father’s tent and tore into the canvas. On the first day, the maidservants mended the tear. On the second day they let it be, saying that in their opinion, the increased air circulation would do him some good, perhaps even revive him. And on the third day, at the sight of one open tear after another, a whisper spread around the camp, saying that this could be nothing else but an omen. It was on the fourth day that my mother decided to go in and see the old man.

  By now she has sent away the maidservants, dismissed the guard and told me to stand near the entry, where the rope is double knotted over the peg of the tent, and prepare myself. I am itchy. The goatskin sleeve around my arm feels heavy and moist with sweat. It is as hairy as my twin brother Esav, perhaps even hairier.

  “Look at that sleeve,” she tells me. “It is not a costume. This is your skin. Feel it. Smell it. Say to yourself: My name is not Yankle. I am not me. I am bold, fierce, adventurous. I am my father’s favorite son. I am Esav.”

  I fix the fur hat on my head, wipe the sweat off my upper lip and try to tell myself, over and over, that this arm is no longer mine. It is his. I am him. As such, this is to be my lucky day. It has started well: My brother has been out of the way all morning, hunting somewhere up there, in the mountains. Meanwhile, the stew for my father’s meal has been dished into a plate and covered with a lid, ready to be carried in.

  This is more than a meal. It is a token, a love offering from the son he loves. The chosen one. In exchange, the old man is to give his blessing, at which time his power will diminish. And the son, the one he loves, will take his place, and replace him as the head of the family, inheriting all his possessions.

  The plot is ready, and my role, I repeat to myself, is well-rehearsed. Well, as well as can be. According to my mother, there is no time, and no need, really, for any more practice. Trying too hard, as you know, may be the best guaranty for failure.

  “Your father is blind. Fool him,” she says. “But do so, if you can, without resorting to lies.”

  To which I say, “How—”

  “Don’t you know?” she says, teasingly. “Think! What is the best, the most reliable way to deceive? It is this: Pay attention to what he needs, and then confirm that which he wants to believe, as if, Yankle, as if it were true.”

  She gathers her silk skirt, lifts it away from her high heel snakeskin shoes, and steps out of them. Right now she is about to enter the tent barefoot, as a proper show of respect for my father.

  “Remember who you are,” she whispers. “Now listen and learn.”

  ❋

  I can hear her letting out a a sigh.

  “Oh, Isaac,” she sighs. “What will I do without you?”

  She must be extremely sorry to let him go, for her sadness seems as pressing and as urgent as her need for a proper will.

  At first, my father is unmoved. “Oh, Becky,” he says. “Don’t start.”

  “Without you, I will be lost.”

  “Please, not that again.”

  Her voice trembles a little as she carries on, “Please, Isaac: What will become of me?”

  “You have two sons—”

  “Neither one of them will be here to help me, in my hour of need.”

  This gives him pause, after which he says, “What about that gift I gave you, long ago, that goatskin coat? Do you still have it?”

  “Why,” she says, and I know she is a bit startled. “But of course—”

  “You never wear it. I was just wondering.”

  “It has a sleeve that needs mending.”

  “So then, in your hour of need, just put it on the auction block,” he suggests, half-seriously. “It will fetch a small fortune!”

  “Talking about a small fortune,” she counters, “what about your little trunk, full of gold coins?”

  “Being of a sound body and mind,” he says, “I spent it all.”

  “On what, in heaven’s name?”

  “What! On what, Becky? Here I go, heaping all those bracelets, all those nose rings on one woman, and one woman alone, only to find out, in the end, the real extent of her gratitude!”

  “Isaac my dear, you know well enough how grateful I am—”

  “Becky my dear,” he says, with a note of disdain. “What I know is this: Anyone else in my position would have at his disposal at least two or three legally registered wives, not to mention a respectably large harem, full of concubines—”

  Being a practical woman, she decides to ignore that. “Fine, then,” she says. “So now, dear: How about giving me some means of transportation? The rich women, I hear, those in the cities along the coast, in Ashdod and also in Ashkelon, they have started to buy new automobiles. And I, I live here in the desert but still, Isaac, I come from nobility, you know, from one of the richest families in the land.”

  “What kind of transportation?”

  “A camel, for instance,” she says. “Two humps, or more, as well as a driver or two, or more. And four leather saddles, the soft kind, of course. It would be but a small token, a token of prestige—”

  “For goodness sake,” he groans. “It’s a camel you’re talking about—not a Rolls Royce!”

  “I see,” she says. “You don’t love me anymore.”

  For the first time in the conversation, his voice softens. “Don’t cry, Becky,” he pleads. “I love you. I will always love you—”

  I imagine she must be smiling through the tears. “In that case,” she says, “I will always take such good care of you.”

  “I am afraid,” he admits to her, “of dying.”

  “Don’t you worry. You will outlive us all.”

  “I am afraid,” he says, “of leaving you.”

  To which she counters, “Can’t get rid of me—not so fast, Isaac. You have a long life ahead of you. Everyone knows it! But one day,” she adds, now in her playful manner, “I tell you, Isaac, one of these days I will make a complete fool out of you.”

  “I know it,” he says, with a touch of sadness.

  “Meanwhile,” she says, with an entirely different tone, which is quite dry and seemingly resentful, “your son is here.”

  He understands instantly that which she has meant him to understand. “Esav?” he cries, with a voice so warm, so full of glee, that at once my heart starts to ache. “He’s back, so soon?”

  “Talk to him, dear, will you? He should treat me with respect, the way I deserve to be treated.”

  “I will tell him to do just that.”

  “He never listens to what I say,” she complains. “Those girls he brings home every night, they make so much noise! I lie there in bed wide awake thinking, enough already! And the incense they burn, those shiksas, it gives out so much smoke—which is another reason why your eyesight, Isaac, is what it is.”

  “Let him come, Becky, let him in already.”

  I he
ar the slight rustle of her skirt, and her soft voice saying, “Wait, Isaac—” just before it becomes muffled. So sharply, so unexpectedly does it happen, that it makes me giddy with curiosity. And so, I do what I have to do: I lift the flap of the tent, allowing light in, to peek in on them, and what I see leaves me dumbfounded.

  There she is, kneeling down before him amidst ripples of silk. She wraps her arms around his frail shoulders, draws closely and kisses him, long and full, on his mouth. And then, when she rises up, you can see that his face is confused, and his hand is trembling a little.

  Presently my mother comes out, and steps into her shoes. She turns away from me and pulls out a cute, embroidered handkerchief, which she uses now, to dry something in the corner of her eye. I find myself staring at her: if she, who is so cunning, so smart, is that susceptible, if, out of nowhere, she has fallen to emotion—then, what chance do I stand?

  I have to wonder: what was that kiss? Her way to say farewell? Was it inspired by some old memory, some image of their younger days—or else, was it designed to make him vulnerable, make him ready for me, just in time for my entrance? I agonize, I puzzle over that kiss. Was it act of love—or of deceit?

  By now she has walked away. I cross the threshold. The flap falls shut behind me. And in an instant, a change comes upon me. I am deceit. I become the son he wants me to be. His favorite son.

  ❋

  The old man calls my name, and I advance in the darkness in the direction of his voice, bumping against a shelf here, a bench there. First, near the entrance, I touch the cold surface of an hourglass, nearly tipping it over. A leather scroll drops down accidentally and spreads across my path. Meanwhile the wind is flapping, slapping across the canvas, a bird comes squawking overhead, and with every step I can hear a sound that is even higher than all that: my heart, racing wildly.

  At last I reach his bed, above which I can see two open tears in the canvas. Slanting down from there are two long rays, the rays of morning light, the glare of which beams down directly upon his eyes, his odd, blind eyes.

  The eyelids are so fine, the little veins so delicate, so transparent, that in a flash I begin to worry. Can I fool him—or am I making a fool of myself? Can he see, even vaguely? Can he tell, somehow, who I am, perhaps by the slightness of my frame, or the general shape of my shoulders?

  Naturally, I have to test it. So I raise my Esav arm, the one with the hairy sleeve. I raise it with the thought of bringing it down upon him in one fell swoop, right next to his cheek, and stopping just short of a slap. Would he flinch? Would he give a flutter? My hand flies up. I freeze. But then, an incredible thing happens. You would not believe it—I do not believe it myself! I cannot, for the life of me, control it any further.

  At first I figure that the old man must have cast some spell over me. By all accounts, he is a master of scriptures and can recite magical chants in a number of ancient languages. I stand there, with my arm frozen in the air over him, and with my eyes burning in their sockets as if to drill a hole in him. But nothing seems to have changed: he does not squirm, nor does he stir under my gaze. And so, little by little, I grow calmer.

  My muscles start to relax and then, of its own accord, my limb comes down to rest at my side. I lay a hand on him and, quite casually, brush against his skin to make sure he feels me.

  “Esav,” he says. “My dear child.”

  I come close and, quite unlike me, give him a hug. To my surprise, it feels good. He is much smaller than I have expected, less formidable, too. And so, there is no point right now in my usual rebellion. His fingers lift from the blanket. They hang in midair, as though they can sense me, somehow, without even touching. Then he strokes the hair on my goatskin sleeve.

  A big sigh rises from my heart. I nearly let it fly from my lips—but hold back just in time. Blind men, so I heard, can develop an acute sense of hearing, to compensate for the loss of their eyesight. Therefore, I know I should not talk. On the other hand, I should not be completely silent.

  Now, that is unfortunate. Silence, especially the spiteful kind, is something I understand. I have used it often, in my lifelong fight against him. But now, it would not do, because in this conversation, the last one, I have to be not only present, but engaged. So, in place of greeting my father, I do what by instinct I know he may expect to hear: I let out a cough.

  The old man tries to pull up his body, then sinks back into his pillows.

  “You must be heartbroken,” he says, “to see me like this.”

  I cough again.

  “Just close your eyes,” says my father. “Remember me as I was, and in return, I will tell you what your fortune will be.”

  How can he do that, I ask you, when he does not even have a clue who I am?

  He strokes my fur hat and says, “Ah! The air of the hunt! How I love that about you! So rarely have I set foot outside the camp. How I envy you! How I wish you could take me along, out there to the faraway mountains, to see you chase the wild beast!”

  I sit down on his bed with a heaviest thud I can make, and he says, “My big, strong boy! So now, you tell me: how can a hunter become a healer?”

  I have no patience for his strange riddles, and so I shrug.

  “You will have to find a way,” he says, to himself this time. “Yes, you will. I am quite certain. Between my two sons, it must be you.”

  “Aha,” I say, wishing he would hurry up already and bless me, whoever the hell I am.

  “Someday,” he predicts, “my descendants will swear by the name of God, the God of Abraham, the God of Isaac and the God of Esav!”

  “Aha.”

  “Yes,” he insists again, as if to convince himself, “It must be you. Come on now, let me smell that stew.”

  I place the tray at his bedside, lift the lid off the plate and prepare to feed the old man, at which time he sits up and says, “No! What are you doing?”

  I step back, stunned to learn that already I must have made a mistake.

  He pleats his forehead and at once, falls to silence, a tense, hard silence which I dare not break, for fear of being recognized.

  After a while he makes himself relax, and says to me, “Eat, Esav. Go on, my child, I know you must be hungry.”

  I dare not say Aha this time—but all of a sudden I understand the game: I understand the role which my brother has been playing lately. The old man can barely swallow food anymore. Instead, it has been Esav who licks his plate clean for him.

  No one knows this, not even my mother! Clearly, it helps everyone believe that old Isaac, the head of our little clan is still healthy, still strong enough and capable to lead, and it helps my brother, no doubt, into a double helping every single meal.

  I know what has to be done. So I dip the spoon into the stew, and raise it to my lips—but I cannot bring myself to take a bite, not so much because it is too bland—but rather, because my throat is too damn dry. I am too anxious, too uptight, really. So instead, I make a loud swallowing sound which, luckily, satisfies my father, because he leans back, spreads open his thin arms and gives me a big smile.

  “Now, you may not realize it,” he says to me, “but Yankle and I, we are very much alike.”

  My heart skips a beat at the mention of my real name, which forces me to cough up, “How?”

  To which he says, “I love Yankle. Love him more than he knows, more that he can ever imagine. I am a dreamer. So is he. Both of us like to stay within the confines of the tent. It is a sheltered existence that we have both lead.”

  I make a swallowing sound, and he goes on.

  “I am afraid that the future of this family, its survival in this harsh, treacherous land, cannot be entrusted into the hands of someone who, until now, has never been out and about. Never explored a new path. Never been tested by the elements.”

  I hate him for what he has just said, because I know, deep in my heart, that there is truth in it.

  “In all things,” he goes on, “Yankle follows his mother. So you tell me: how
can a follower become a leader?”

  I have to swallow that, too—but feel it is unfair. Whatever. Why should I even bother with his stupid riddles? My character, I figure, is entirely the old man’s fault! He was the one to name me Yankle, which in Hebrew means ‘a follower,’ for no better reason than the fact I was born second, a split second after my twin brother. How can you blame me for that?

  Whatever! I hate that name. Hate my identity. I hate me. Hate my father for naming me—naming me for my weakness, right there at birth.

  Now, all of a sudden, he wants me to change? A little too late for that!

  “May God help me,” he whispers. “May He help us all, if I choose wrong!”

  Oh, God again! I hate him for his faith, hate him for his doubts, too.

  I note the slightly labored breath with which he utters his words. “I have come to the conclusion,” he says, “based on many, many years of experience, that I can expect with perfect certainty, that my advice will be utterly and immediately ignored.”

  Amen to that, I say to myself. But at the same time, I can sense that my fury is waning, that it has left me already. And listening to him, listening to how he inhales and exhales with such difficulty, I start to feel sorry for him.

  Despite his weakness, his voice rises, for a moment, to a boom. “I am the son of Abraham. It was for a life of sacrifice that I was chosen. You can take it from me: beware, my son! Being the favorite son is as much of a curse as being the one rejected.”

  From then on I find myself leaning closer and closer, just so I can hear him. My Esav arm hangs on my Yankle frame just as heavily as before—but somehow I am no longer split between my parts. A great sense of loss comes over me, body and soul, entire.

  Without even looking at the entrance to the tent, without even touching the cold surface of the hourglass, I know: it is nearly empty. The sand is running out. For us, there is no more time. He will never realize who it was standing there by his bedside, overcome and awash with tears.