Prologue
“He made the letter Alef king over breath And He bound a crown to it And He combined them one with another And with them He formed Air in the universe The temperate in the year And the chest in the soul The male with Alef-Mem-Shin The female with Alef-Shin-Mem”
The Book of Creation (GRA version) 3:7
It started the day I read somewhere that God’s creation of the world was incomplete, that it was up to man to complete it. That’s what gave me the idea. That’s when I realized that we do have the power to control our fate. But if I hadn’t been at the auction I certainly wouldn’t be here, on this plane, on my way to a small city on a hillside in Northern Israel.
The auction was held in New York, at Martins & Walters, an auction house on 6th Avenue that dealt primarily in Jewish owned estates. Yosef Katz, whose estate was on the block, was an orthodox Jew, a cabalist. He had a magnificent collection, but he had never agreed to sell.
Over the past few years I had offered Katz outrageous sums of money for a certain manuscript, but he would just shrug his shoulders. “Not for sale,” he would say in his sing-song accent. Money didn’t impress him, only his God impressed him. His manuscripts belonged to his ‘tradition’, he would tell me, our tradition he would stress knowing my past and ignoring my present. I guess I was lucky that he spoke to me at all.
You see, I was once a Jew, an orthodox one. I wore the long coat, covered my head with the yarmulke and prayed three times a day. I studied tractates of the Gemara, blessed God both before and after I ate, and asked Him to protect me and the rest of Israel before I slept. These are habits to some, actions to follow, but it wasn’t like that for me. I wanted to thank him, I believed that He would protect us. But like I said, that was before.
After, I found myself in the position of having learned the inside rules of the team, and then having defected to the other side, and I knew that I had the advantage. One that should send my Hebraic ancestry into a panic, and even that newer offshoot of my old religion, Christianity, as well. I am no longer a Jew, I am a Gnostic, that is, I now know the difference between the truth and the lies.
Some people from my old circle have labeled me a blasphemer and pretend that I don’t exist. So be it. If my mother were alive today she surely would not be able to bear such heresy from her own son and she would be torn between her love for God and her love for me. I tell myself that she would choose me but it really doesn’t matter, she isn’t alive and I most likely would never have spoken to her this way if she were. The strength of my love for her had inspired my love for Him and therefore would have blinded me from the truth anyway. So I don’t fault those who can’t see the truth, I understand all too well the many reasons to believe the lies, but once exposed to the truth I can’t turn away from it. If anything, my religious training taught me that, to search for the truth and to act upon it, which is exactly what I’ve done.
So what is the truth? The truth is that there is no justice and no paradise. That there is a heaven for the good or hell for the wicked is the lie. I stopped believing in happy endings a long time ago. Prayers are about as useful as wishing upon a star. That there is a God, I had no doubt, but what kind of God? Certainly not the kind I had been fool enough to believe in during my innocent youth, not the kind people yearn for and heedlessly believe in. The truth, as I’ve been unfortunate enough to stumble onto it, is that we have been imprisoned, trapped by a tyrant, and I suspect that deep down everybody knows it whether they can admit it or not. It took me long enough to admit it myself. But now that I do know, my ‘eye for an eye’ upbringing has taken on a whole new meaning.
The auction house was crowded which surprised me since Katz kept his hoard secret. Mary Walters, who ran the house, should’ve told me that she had invited so many people, I have a problem with small or crowded spaces and I could have better prepared myself. I had never actually met Mary before, but we have dealt with one another on the telephone many times. I asked the doorman to tell her I was there. The lobby was packed and I had to go into the auction hall itself to find an empty chair on which to wait.
Katz’ collection was ancient, mostly cabalistic, handwritten and almost all the manuscripts were never before published. But there was only the one that I needed. I admit that I had even begun to consider having it stolen, but conveniently his God intervened, Katz finally died.
Looking around I saw that there were the usual dealer types, talking on their cell phones. There were also religious Jews and even a clergyman. I wondered which of them was here for the same piece that I wanted. And I wondered which of them, if any, knew of its secret. I knew that some of them might. I had learned once that even the Psalms, those tranquil poems, have a secret function - as a weapon. The firearm of choice for the holy in the final battle of Armageddon. The words, endowed with the powers of purification and destruction, can be used to destroy the powers of evil. Leaving the only meaningful question; who determines what is evil? There was a time when I would have agreed with those who would point at anything ungodly, but now I know that it is the opposite that is true. Whoever it is that holds the power to destroy evil, as far as I’m concerned, is of the utmost importance. I was at that auction to make sure it was me.
A woman came through a doorway at the far end of the hall and headed straight for me. As she closed in on me she reached out with both hands to take mine and applied just the correct amount of pressure that would be expected of one when greeting a good customer. She smiled warmly and told me how pleasant it was to finally meet me.
During my Gnostic training I decided it was best to refrain from human contact, and during my youth as a young religious man I had learned not to touch women. Together, I was left with a certain discomfort during moments such as these, moments where the unwanted was inevitable, but it can’t always be avoided.
“Yes,” I told her, “It’s about time we met.” It was the appropriate thing to say, there was no point in being rude. I commented on the size of the crowd.
“I know, I’m surprised,” she said. “His kids must’ve spread the word around. Would you like to meet them?”
I told her that I did not. She said that she’d point them out to me. I hadn’t even thought about Katz having kids. I guess I should have, most ultra orthodox Jews have lots of them. Mary put her arm through mine and led me into the hall.
“So what brings you here personally?” she said. “Usually you send someone.”
I disentangled myself from her and explained that I wanted the manuscript right away. I didn’t want to wait.
“I understand,” she said nodding as if she and I shared secrets. But there was no way she could really understand. It’s taken me years of study, searching for a key to The Mysteries, and still, I’m not a hundred percent sure I’ll even know how to use the tool I came for. How does one pinpoint God’s Achilles heel?
Mary led me to the front row, but I explained that I’d rather not do the bidding myself. I didn’t want to be the center of attention, the ‘highest bidder’, I just wanted to get the book and be on my way. She said that she’d take care of it. How high did I want to go? As high as it takes, I told her. We parted company and I took a place against a side wall, in full view of the hall and its inhabitants.
I saw the two men on the opposite wall that Mary had pointed out as Katz’s sons. Interesting, the traditional garb was missing. I could see no trace of their religious upbringing. They looked like businessmen, they looked greedy, ready to cash in on their father’s beliefs. A betrayal of the father by the sons. But why not? Fathers betray their sons all the time. Isn’t that why I’m here? Didn’t He betray us all?
I looked at my watch and tried not to feel impatient. The nearer I came to owning this manuscript, the harder it was to be patient. I had to work on that, today is an opportunity to. I repeated to myself my Gnostic teachings, that the demands of the body and mind are false, that I must act against everything I think I am. The demands of the body and mind make us forget what we truly are. I concentrated on these words until the auctioneer finally called for lot fourteen, my lot.
It was only one chapter of a book called the Kuzari, handwritten by the author himself, Yehuda Halevi, during the 11th century. Although Katz had never advertised that he owned it, I had learned of its existence from an uncle of mine. There are benefits to having been part of the orthodox community. They tend to share their secrets among their own. My uncle had introduced me to Katz, but Katz wouldn’t actually show it to me, probably because I didn’t look the part. No more side curls, no long coat.
The bidding started at $3,000, and quickly rose to over $20,000. It slowed down then and an agent, bidding for me, was having a bidding war with one of the religious Jews. I saw that this hassid kept conferring by phone with someone, maybe his Rebbe, or maybe he was just an agent by profession, who knows. My insides became a knot, not because of the money, I had plenty of that, but because of the determination. The religious become unreasonable when it comes to religious artifacts.
When the price reached $50,000 my agent glanced over at me. I nodded for him to continue. Whatever it takes, I had said and I meant it. This text was only 12 pages long, but within its obscure words lies the blueprint with which God created the world. In so many of the other manuscripts the text has been corrupted to keep the secret, but maybe, this is the one. Whatever it takes.
It didn’t take much more. The bidding ended at $72,500, actually, it was a bargain. When the gavel fell, announcing my win I allowed myself to feel pleased. I got up to make the financial arrangements with Mary. I noticed several other people leaving the hall too, among them the hassid who had bid against me and I readied myself for him to come over to me and try to get me to sell it to him, to try and convince me. Generations of studying the Gemara made these people great persuaders, they shouldn’t be underestimated. When he merely walked by me in a huff I relaxed.
I was looking for Mary in the lobby when I felt a tap on my shoulder. Why do people insist on touching when a simple ‘excuse me’ would do? I turned to see a young woman. She hesitated for just a second and then said rather bluntly that what I had just purchased was a fake.
“You think so?” I said, looking over her shoulder for Mary. I wasn’t concerned. I knew what I was getting.
“Of course I could be wrong,” she said, “but I don’t think so. I came here for the same piece, so I examined it before the auction started.”
“And?” Mary was nowhere in sight.
“And well it seems to me that the handwriting and the ink can’t have been from the 11th century, that’s all.”
I’m sure Katz wasn’t an expert in handwriting or ink, but he didn’t have to be. He relied on his families lineage, and knowing first hand how exacting orthodox Jews are when it comes to things of this nature, I wasn’t worried. I thanked her for her gesture and told her that I’d certainly have the piece checked out. I thought I might re-enter the hall, maybe Mary was in there.
“I just feel bad that you spent all that money-”
“You knew it was me?”
“I have eyes, you know,” she said. “The price was so out of my range that I had nothing left to do but watch what was going on. Anyway, like I was saying, you went and spent so much money and I was sitting there, knowing that it wasn’t authentic. I feel responsible that I didn’t come forward before. I just wasn’t sure of what to do, if I should tell someone, I mean, why should they believe me.”
Looking her over I could see that she was probably right. She looked young and the motorcycle jacket and helmet didn’t help either.
“Besides, those idiots in there don’t know their ass from their elbow.”
I suppose that made me one of the idiots.
“Then you went and made such a large bid and now, I sorta, I don’t know, thought I should tell you.”
I nodded.
“You don’t talk much, do you,” she said.
Realizing it wasn’t going to end until I engaged in the conversation, I asked her how she knew all this.
“I’m a rare book dealer,” she said.
“And you were able to date the handwriting and ink, just like that?”
“I’m also a Paleographer.”
I nodded, doubtful.
“And you?” she asked.
