The Last Supper (Part 7) - Act XIII
seven
When it was said that a troublemaker had been brought to the copyist's room by Nuk, Schumacher had already been studying contracts and tax bills at his desk for quite some time. The Jewish tax collector moved his hand mirror aside and squinted at the man.
"...Who are you?" Schumacher put his hands behind his back. "You recognize me?"
The newcomer wore a simple woolen sweater, his eyebrows were thick and bushy, and his beard was so long that his mouth was obscured. Saracens were generally dark-skinned, but his face was clearly weathered and tanned by years of wind and sun, with charcoal-gray eyeliner under his eyes. “Of course I recognize you,” he said, pointing to Schumacher’s eyes. “You used to work for a noble spice merchant in Constantinople.” He continued, “You were blind then! God, how well you have recovered?”
Schumer's gaze swept around the room, finally settling on the heavy bundle on the man's back. He coughed lightly. "...What's your name? Please state it again?"
“Azad ibn Ali Yusuf ibn Faraj Isfahan Al-Fahhim.” The man crossed his arms impatiently. “Don’t you remember me?”
"Sarasan names are all so long, who could remember them all?" Schumer thought to himself—but in his hazy memory, something seemed to be peeking out. "What did you bring?" he asked, stroking his mustache and tilting his head back. "What are you doing in Lud?"
"I'm just passing through and would like to ask for lodging," the person opposite said shamelessly. "I'm a traveler."
A traveler? Schumacher thought, why not find a tavern to stay in? He watched with a stern face as the traveler pulled his belongings out of his bag one by one: a worn and simple oud, a huge map covered with markings and wrapped in a large stack of parchment, and a novel and exquisite disc instrument. As soon as this was presented, all the monks at their scribbling tables turned to look, forgetting even the ink spilled on their fingers.
“…I remember now!” Nuk, who was standing next to them, suddenly had a bright look in his eyes. “This is a water compass. Daoud showed it to me! You are that strange man who came to Constantinople with Lord Yakov’s ship four years ago!”
The blurry thing finally emerged, dripping wet, from Schumacher's dim sea of memories. He suddenly realized, and stood there dumbfounded, speechless.
"So it's you!" The tax official was about to smile, but immediately turned serious, adopting an unapproachable demeanor. "...Unless you pay the post station tax and lodging tax, you cannot stay in the city. You are a [illegible], and given the tense situation, these taxes must be paid!"
"I have no money." But Azad calmly pulled out his empty pockets. "Otherwise, how would I be here?"
"Then please move to the countryside."
"What if my map, notes, and compass have been stolen?" The traveler's thick black eyebrows twitched. "You two have already recognized me! Such a wonderful coincidence, are you not even allowed to stay the night?"
Schumer glanced at Nuk with a troubled expression, then pretended to close his eyes. "This is a difficult matter to negotiate right now, and I can't bring myself to speak up." He opened one eye again, squinting at Azad, "...It's really inconvenient, you'll have to spend the night by the city walls."
Azad let out a long, forced, and helpless sigh. "It's really not peaceful anywhere." He shook his head. "Time waits for no one."
The traveler packed his bags and stumbled toward the door. Schumeer, however, grabbed Nuk's wrist, shielding the slave's ear before whispering, "Call Judith for me," he said. "Don't let Yakov see her."
“I understand.” Nuk nodded knowingly. “Lord Yakov has gone to Karak and is not in the city.”
"That's good, go ahead, go ahead." Schumeer patted him on the shoulder, "Be careful!"
Before curfew at dusk, Schumacher left the copyist's room earlier than usual. Since Judith's arrival, he had asked Yubi to move his lodgings elsewhere in the city so he could live independently. He bought some unleavened bread and figs from a street stall, along with eggplants, lentils, and leeks, intending to have Judith make a stew—how should a Jew entertain a bastard in a Christian city? The safest approach, of course, would be to serve no meat or wine, but that would be too meager—Schumacher thought for a moment, then went to the pastry stall and bought honey cake and date cake, and then went to the fish stall and got a fresh 'St. Peter's fish'.
As he pushed open the door, he was sure to hear his younger sister's shrill voice. "You bought so much stuff, what are you going to do with it if he doesn't eat it?" Judith glared at him and spoke in Hebrew, which the guests couldn't understand. "We're not the city lords, how can we afford such extravagance?"
"It's just one night, sigh, don't be so fussy!" Schumer was too lazy to argue with her, so he just stuffed the food into her arms and pushed her to the kitchen. "If the guest doesn't eat it, leave it for Joseph!"
A mischievous, dark-skinned boy burst out of the room with a charcoal pencil, his fingers staining Schumacher's robe. "What will you give me to eat?" he asked, his beautiful, long-lashed eyes captivating. "What did you bring back?"
"Go back first, the master needs to discuss some matters!" Schumer glanced at the guest in the wool coat with a subtle expression in the hall, awkwardly switching to Arabic, "Please excuse my rudeness..."
The boy obediently ran back to the corridor, while Judith stormed into the kitchen. Schumeer, having returned exhausted, was finally able to sit on the tatami mat and offer warm water and dried mint leaves to the travelers who had come from afar.
"...Your wife and children?" Azad asked meaningfully. "This child doesn't look Jewish."
Schumacher gave a dry laugh. “My sister, and my adopted son.”
“I’m so sorry to offend you.” Azad stood up and bowed. “Thank you, kind person. If you hadn’t taken me in today, I would probably be sleeping on the streets.”
“It was no trouble at all.” Schumer accepted the gesture readily. “I can help you in Lud, but once you leave the city and reach Damascus or Aleppo, you’ll have to find another settlement for the Jews or the Khmer.”
“I had assumed that a city with a Jewish tax collector would have more lenient laws than other places.”
“Haha, even though I’m a tax collector, I still have to pay my own taxes.” Schumer counted on his fingers himself, Judith, and Joseph. “The accommodation tax for the three of us, plus the land tax for this house, will be double what the Christians pay.”
Azad clicked his tongue in amazement, then shook his head and sighed. "This is the second time I've passed through here. Five years ago, pilgrims and travelers didn't have to pay so many taxes. On the return trip, the taxes alone drained my savings..."
Schumacher thought it would be nice to donate a bag of money to him—but he glanced at his busy younger sister in the kitchen and didn't bother to bring it up. "If you're really in trouble, my sister can take you to the monastery tomorrow morning. The lord there often gives alms and relief," he said with a smile. "The lord here is very generous. Whether you're a Christian, a Muslim, or a Jew, you can get some emergency money."
“I appreciate his kindness,” Azad shrugged, “but it’s just a drop in the ocean.”
Schumacher offered no further advice. He silently picked up a glass of warm water and slowly took a sip.
"May I know your name?" Azad took out paper and pen from his bag. "I should record your good deeds in my notebook."
"Then let's skip it!"
"You deserve something in return!"
Schumeer waved his hand, sleeves tucked up. "No need."
"Then I'll definitely write your name down!"
The former painter turned his gaze to the traveler's baggage—a huge, weathered map, interspersed with old and new parchment, densely packed with Arabic script, almost overflowing—"If you really want to repay me, tell me about your experiences on the road," Schumer suggested, half out of curiosity and half out of perfunctoriness. "We can talk about it at dinner."
Schumacher had intended to keep the candle lit all night for a long talk, but Judith couldn't bear to part with the candle and insisted he extinguish it. So the two of them, under the moonlight, caressed the map, becoming solitary observers in the slumbering city. They first spoke of the mosques of Baghdad and Mecca, the Sultan of Cairo, the markets and ironware of Damascus; "I went to Constantinople from Jaffa on a Knights Templar ship, and that was the first time we met." Azad's dark, cracked fingertips traced an arc on the dark sea, "Then I went north, across the Black Sea, to Rus'. The snow there was ten times thicker than in Constantinople!"
“You’re probably not the first person to have been there!” Schumeer exclaimed. “What a feat!”
“You flatter me; there were many predecessors before me,” Azad continued, his finger moving westward across the marked map, traversing Holy Rome and France. He recounted the astonishment of the lords upon seeing him, a turbaned infidel, described the legends of bandits and knights-errant along the way, and the lives of peasants and artisans, then pretentiously played the tunes he had heard there on his oud. “Then I went south, across the Alps, to Italy.”
"Did you go to Venice?" Schumacher's eyes brightened with tears.
“Venice, Pisa, Genoa, I visited them all. The Jews there were mostly as friendly as you, but everything was outrageously expensive…” Azad pulled a delicate stained-glass ornament from his bundle and placed it in Schumacher’s hand. He continued to extend the winding, long route: from Florence to Naples, and then to Sicily. “The ship departed from Palermo for Tunisia. From there, most of the cities were again under the rule of the □ (likely referring to a foreign power or government)—but they didn’t speak Arabic, but rather Berber.” He traced the westward coastline, “From Tunisia I traveled by camel to Morocco, then crossed the strait to Iberia. My final destination was Córdoba. There, I gazed into the silence of God and saw my soul.”
"...Have you gained some insights?"
“I’ve had an epiphany.” Azad closed his eyes contentedly. “The whole world is a dream.”
"A dream?"
“A dream of God.” The traveler nodded. “We are but a tiny speck in the dream, fleeting and transient. All troubles are illusions, all sufferings are mirages. When the dream ends and death comes, we will return to God’s will and become a part of God.”
Schumacher frowned, but then laughed. "Haha, if only that were true." He rubbed his mustache until it curled up. "If that were true, you wouldn't have to worry about taxes."
“This kind of distress is also part of the dream,” Azad disagreed. “My journey is also part of the dream.”
"You've witnessed so much real suffering and joy, do you dare say it's all an illusion?" Schumacher challenged. "Whether it's communists, Jews, Christians, or everyone in the world, is everyone's life all an illusion?"
“This has nothing to do with faith. Whether you believe it or not, this is the truth.” Azad smiled as he watched him pry into the matter. “Once you understand it, you can gain absolute freedom.”
Absolute freedom? Schumacher gave a wry smile, too lazy to argue further. "In my opinion, you simply haven't yet encountered the true truth." The Jew's hand quietly touched his heart. "Go on, tell me. How did you return from the ends of the earth to the Holy Land?"
Azad withdrew his hand from the map and sighed deeply. "The return journey was not smooth. I intended to take a boat directly across the Mediterranean to Jaffa. But the boat veered off course and was stranded on Corfu by the waves."
Corfu. The mere mention of the place reminded Schumacher of the joke about the Roman emperors' dark skin. "And then?" he asked with concern, "what happened then?"
“Alas, the situation is not good now.” Azad helplessly put his hands into his sleeves. “As soon as we got off the ship, everyone was arrested and imprisoned, and all their property was confiscated. Those Greeks only allowed their own people to move freely. Not to mention infidels like me, even Latin merchants were not spared. They were all falsely accused of being spies. I heard in prison that it was because their emperor died and the capital was in turmoil that this happened.”
Schumacher's previously pleasant mood gradually tightened. "...So how did you get here?"
"The Normans of Sicily attacked there and rescued many people." The traveler clasped his hands together in gratitude to his God. "Not only me, but also the Spanish and Italian merchants. Even red-haired nobles walked out of prison."
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