Nømädnêss: The Gospel According to Wanda B. Lazarus A novel by Lynn M. Joffe As part of the requirement for a dissertation for the degree of Master of Arts by Research (Creative Writing) submitted to the Faculty of Arts, School of Literature, Language and Media, University of the Witwatersrand, Johannesburg. © Lynn M. Joffe. Johannesburg, 2017. Student # 1305057 - 1 - Contents Book Header Page I ‘Tummel in the Temple’ Jerusalem 33 CE 3 II ‘Zenobia in Chains’ Palmyra 272 CE 38 III ‘The Gopi Bat Mitzvah’ Cochin 666 CE 65 IV ‘To Live or Die in Magao’ Dunguang Caves 1054 CE 84 V ‘Ballad of the Occitan’ Albi 1229 CE 104 VI ‘The Wandering Years’ Europe 1229-1234 CE 121 VII ‘The Odalisque of Swing’ Istanbul 1558 CE 134 VIII ‘Commedia in Cremona’ Italy 1689 CE 152 IX ‘Terpsichore’s Plectrum’ London 1842 CE 177 X ‘Razzie and the Romany Creams’ St. Petersburg 1916 204 XI ‘Made in Manhattan’ New Canaan 1942 226 XII ‘The Land of the Lemba’ Johannesburg 1999 254 XIII ‘Aurora Nights’ Geilo 2016 CE 278 - 2 - Book I: ‘Tummel in the Temple’ Jerusalem 33 CE i If we hadn’t been following Hadassah’s pomegranate all over the known world, we’d never have wound up in Bethany. Carta would still be alive. And I’d be mortal. But that’s not how things panned out. A Painted Lady flaps her wings and all that jazz. The Lembas remember it differently, but they were always going to write their own version anyway. I was there. I saw it all. Not in my present incarnation, but who am I to split sheitel hairs? The beitzim started to roll when Rov Yossi and his boychicks were invited over for that last supper. It was a double whammy, actually – Pesach and Shabbos rolled into one. Martha and I were helping Hadassah boil ’n bake a veritable Reed Sea of latkes and gefilte fish. Lazzie was playing tag the teigel with the chickens in the inner courtyard, hiding the syrupy donuts from the gaggle of peckers and giggling heartily when their beaks got stuck in the sticky. I was never much for domestic activity and did all I could to wheedle out of the chores. Normally the servants would clean up after us. But on Pesach, Hadassah was having no shirking. Scour the scullery. Polish the porcelain. Seek and destroy any vestige of chametz – no wheat, no rice, no leftover showbread, it all had to go. On Pesach we’re forbidden to put anything in our mouth that rises. Then there’s the matter of changing the dishes – one set milchedik, another vleishedik. All in all, a huge schlep. Twelve extra mouths to feed was no mean feast. Our third step-daddy, Qumran Qumran, had done well in the buildup to the festival; he knew how to supply the needs of the flocking pilgrims and set up fruit stands all along the road to Damascus. Palm dates did very well that season. Figs were at a premium. He tripled the cost of olives. But he liked a flutter on the camels did Qumran Qumran, and often returned home in his flagons with no more than a handful of copper Leptons and a mild dose of the clap. Still, Hadassah was a social climber and having the chevras over would up her Quarter cred by a quite a few notches. Nu, we improvised ways to stretch her meagre allowance to feed the holy horde. Rolled the matzo balls smaller. Watered down the wine. Then she passed it off as a miracle. From her mouth to Yahweh’s ears. Just as we were dipping the first fishy batch into the boiling schmaltz, Philemon, our ancient camel driver, knocked timidly at the kitchen door. I smelled him before I saw him. The reek of dromedary is very hard to eradicate. - 3 - ‘Slicha, Madam Laz, but the small boss Lazzie, he is having the big body shakings.’ ‘Oy,’ sighed Hadassah, ‘not another fit. He’s going to mess all over his tallis.’ I threw her a faecal look and dashed outside, matzo meal and egg yolk coagulating between my fingers. Lazzie was lying in the henpecked courtyard, teeth clenched, eyes rolled back to the whites. His body arched as if a great cord was pulling him up to heaven by his wishbone and then dashing him mercilessly to the ground. ‘Bring a spoon!’ I screamed at my sister. ‘Milk or meat?’ Martha asked. ‘It doesn’t matter, he’s swallowing his tongue. Make it snappy.’ Martha flung a kneidlach ladle through the doorway and I wrestled it between my brother’s gritted teeth. Matzo meal and blood began to bubble into a foamy paste at the corners of his mouth. Hadassah stood behind the kitchen curtain, immobile. ‘Ma! Help!’ I yelled. Hadassah turned her head towards the stove. ‘Martha, get the ’nard!’ I screamed to my sister. I always had some handy for Lazzie’s fits. Its roots, crushed to powder and dissolved in boiled water calmed his convulsions and my own nerves. Too much was fatal. Too little was ineffective. You had to get the dose just right. ‘You gave it to the Rov, remember?’ Martha chided. ‘You got the resin all over your hair?’ ‘Alright already, bring me the Ash gourd juice.’ ‘It’s in the chametz basket. It’s not Kosher l’Pesach.’ ‘For fig’s sake, Martha, just get over here.’ Martha stepped into the courtyard, gingerly rolled up her simlah and straddled Lazzie’s puny chest. I cradled his head, attempted to prise open his jaw and received a couple of savage bites to the thumb. It took both of us to hold him to the ground, or he surely would have snapped himself in two. The fringes of his tallis were covered in flecks of bloody matzo as he arched and arched again. Suddenly, he froze in mid-climax and slumped to the courtyard cobbles, lifeless, the wooden spoon slack between his foamy jaws. Martha wept. Hadassah stood like a statue at the window. I pulled myself together and addressed Philemon, who stood to one side, twiddling his camel bridle. ‘Phil, you’ve got to take me and Lazzie to Jerusalem.’ ‘I can’t put boss Lazzie in the cart, Miss Mary. ‘The dead are unclean.’ - 4 - ‘He’s not dead, he’s just very ill, Phil. And please don’t call me Mary.’ I ripped off Lazzie’s tiny tallis and put my lips to his cleft. He threw up what was left in his stomach, a sticky teiglach and chicken feed mix. ‘If he passes to Yahweh on the way, I will be the one to take the blame.’ ‘He’s got to get that ’nard or he won’t recover.’ ‘We’ve still got some Grains of Paradise and a titch of Skullcap,’ offered Martha. ‘We’ve tried that combination before,’ I said. ‘We have to have consecrated spikenard.’ ‘You can’t take Laz anywhere in this condition,’ Martha said. ‘The ride will kill him.’ ‘Then I’ll go and fetch it myself. Philemon, give me that bridle.’ ‘You can’t, sister,’ howled Martha. ‘You don’t even have a camel license.’ ‘I’m going to find Yossi and I’m going to get that ’nard for Laz. Now get out of my way.’ And before anyone could say ma nish’ta’na, I scraped the step ladder from the side of the house, propped it against Sal, our family camel, mounted her hump and kicked her into gear. ‘You can’t take the camel without the carriage!’ Martha screamed. ‘You’ll rupture yourself!’ ‘Wrap Lazzie in those linen strips like we did last time,’ I shouted. ‘Powder some horseradish seeds and sprinkle one pinch in each nostril. Put him in a cool place. And keep his lips moist with melon.’ ‘Come back here this minute,’ Hadassah screamed from the kitchen door. ‘You’re not going out dressed like that.’ ‘It’s a matter of life and death, Ma,’ I squawked from my perch. ‘I’ll be back by sunset.’ ‘Cover your head,’ she shouted after me. My fingers fluttered to my neck where I always kept my loosened tichel. It was wet with Lazzie’s blood and gore. I twirled it above my head like a standard bearer at a gladiator match. Lazzie’s precious bodily fluids dried instantly in the hot hamsin and flaked to the ground like dandruff manna. At least I’d be able to find my way home. Little did I know I would never return in this life. ii I’d met him before, Rov Yossi; he’d visited Bethany a few times to see to the lepers and attend to Lazzie’s fits. He and his chevras had a fair way to walk across the city, past the Temple and over the Mount of Olives, but the view was breathtaking and the company worth the climb. We - 5 - Pharisees had a particularly sweet tooth; we mixed honey in our yams and carrots in our jams. The Galileans salivated to a more Mediterranean fare – hummus, falafel, chatzilim. The combination was heady when the chevras came over. Once, after Martha had served them a trolley of tea and teiglach, I sat at Yossi’s feet, marvelling at their contrasts, blue-veined alabaster on top, blistered calluses on bottom. I noticed that he winced as he stood up to refill his glass. Martha retired meekly to do the dishes, motioning me in a series of head jerks to do the same. Fat chance.