The Spinoza Problem (39 page)

“Your father was a wise man. Something big? What do you think?”

“Without a doubt it is related to my appearance and my enthusiasm for my Jewish education. I’m assuming that this has unsettled you and you don’t know what to say.”

“Yes, there is truth in your words. But . . . uh . . . I’m uncertain what to—”

“Bento, I am unaccustomed to hear you fumble with words. If I may speak for you, I think the ‘something big’ is your disapproval of my course of studies, and yet, at the same time, your heart cares for me, and you wish to respect my decision and say nothing that will cause me discomfort.”

“Well put, Franco. I couldn’t find the right words. You know you are uncommonly good at this.”

“This?”

“I mean at understanding the nuances of what is said and what is unsaid between people. You startle me with your acuity.”

Franco bowed his head. “Thank you, Bento. It is a gift from my blessed father. I learned at his knee.”

Again a silence.

“Please, Bento, try to share your thoughts about our meeting today so far.”

“I’ll try. I agree, something
is
different today. We’ve changed, and I am uncommonly awkward in coping with that. You have to help me sort it out.”

“Best just to talk about how we’ve changed. From your perspective, I mean.”

“Before, it was
I
who was the teacher and
you
the student who agreed with my views and wanted to spend his life in exile with me. Now it’s all changed.”

“Because I have entered into a study of Torah and Talmud?”

Bento shook his head. “It is more than study: your words were ‘joyous study.’ And you were correct in your diagnosis of my heart. I did fear offending you or lessening your joy.”

“You think our ways are parting?”

“Are they not? Surely, now, even if unencumbered by family, would you still choose to go my way with me?”

Franco hesitated and thought long before answering. “My answer, Bento, is yes and no. I think I would
not
go your way in life. Yet, even so, our ways have
not
parted.”

“How can that be? Explain.”

“I still fully embrace all the critiques of religious superstition you offered in those talks with Jacob and me. In that I am one with you.”

“Yet now you obtain great joy in your studies of superstitious texts?”

“No, that is not correct. I have joy in the
process
of studying, not always the
content
of what I study. You know, teacher, there is a difference between the two.”

“Please, teacher, explain.” Bento, now much relieved, smiled broadly and reached out to tousle Franco’s hair.

Franco smiled in return, paused for a moment to enjoy Bento’s touch, and continued. “By ‘process’ I mean that I love to be engaged in intellectual study. I relish the study of Hebrew and take delight in the whole ancient world opening up to me. My Talmud studies class is far more interesting than I had imagined. Just the other day we discussed the story of Rabbi Yohanon—”

“Which story about him?”

“The story of his curing another rabbi by giving his hand to him, and then when he himself fell ill, he was visited by another rabbi, who asked, ‘Are these sufferings acceptable to you?’ And Rabbi Yohanon responded, ‘No, neither they nor their reward.’ The other rabbi then cured Rabbi Yohanon by giving him his hand.”

“Yes, I know that story. And in which way did you find this interesting?”

“In our discussion we raised many questions. For example, why didn’t Rabbi Yohanon simply cure himself?”

“And of course the class discussed the point that the prisoner cannot free himself and that the reward of suffering lies in the world to come.”

“Yes, I know that is very familiar, perhaps tiresome to you, but for someone like me, such discussions are exhilarating. Where else would I have the opportunity for such soul-searching conversations? Some of my class said one thing, others disagreed, others wondered why certain words were used when another word might have had greater clarity. Our teacher encourages us to examine every little scrap of information in the text.

“And to take another example,” Franco continued, “last week we discussed a story about a famous rabbi who lingered near death, suffering great agony, but was kept alive by the prayers of his students and fellow rabbis. His handmaiden took pity on him and threw a jar from the rooftop that shattered with such a great din that they were startled and stopped praying. At that very moment, the rabbi died.”

“Ah, yes—Rabbi Yehudah haNasi. And I am certain you discussed such things as whether the handmaid did the correct thing or whether she was guilty of homicide and also whether the other rabbis lacked mercy in keeping him alive and delaying his arrival in the joyous world to come.”

“I can imagine your response to this, Bento. I remember all too well your attitude toward belief in an afterlife.”

“Exactly. The fundamental premise of a world to come is flawed. Yet your class was not open to questioning that premise.”

“Yes, I agree, these are limitations. But even so, it is a privilege, a joy, to sit with others for hours and discuss such weighty matters. And our teacher instructs us how to argue. If a point seems overly obvious, we are taught to question why the writer even said it—perhaps there was a deeper point lurking beneath the words. When we are fully satisfied in our understanding, then we are taught to ferret out the underlying general principle. If some point is irrelevant, then we learn to question why the author included it. In short, Bento, Talmudic study is teaching me how to think, and I believe that may have been true for you as well. Maybe it was your Talmud study that honed your mind so keenly.”

Bento nodded. “I cannot deny there is merit in that, Franco. In retrospect I would have preferred a less circuitous, more rational route. Euclid, for example, gets right to the point and doesn’t muddy the waters with enigmatic and often self-contradictory stories.”

“Euclid? The inventor of geometry?”

Bento nodded.

“Euclid is for my next, my worldly education. But, for now, the Talmud is doing the job. For one thing, I
like
stories. They add life and depth to the lessons. Everyone loves stories.”

“No, Franco, not everyone! Consider your evidence for that statement. It is an unwarranted conclusion that I personally know to be false.”

“Ah, you don’t like stories. Not even as a child?”

Bento closed his eyes and recited, “‘When I was a child, I talked like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child—’”

Franco interrupted and continued in the same tone. “‘When I became a man, I put childish ways behind me.’ Paul, Corinthians 1.”

“Astonishing! You are now so quick, Franco, so self-confident. So different from that disheveled, uneducated young man just off the boat from Portugal.”

“Uneducated in Jewish matters. But don’t forget we conversos had a forced but full Catholic education. I read every word of the New Testament.”

“I
had
forgotten that. That means you’ve already started some of your second education. That’s good. There is much wisdom in both the Old and the New Testament. Especially in Paul. Just a couple of lines earlier he expresses my exact view toward stories: ‘when the perfect comes, the partial will be done away.’”

Franco paused, repeating to himself, “‘Partial’? ‘Perfect’?”

“The ‘perfect,’” Bento said, “is the moral truth. The ‘partial’ is the wrapping—in this case the story that is no longer necessary once the truth is delivered.”

“I’m not sure I accept Paul as a model for living. His life, as it is taught, seems out of balance. So severe, so fanatic, so joyless, so damning of all worldly pleasures. Bento, you are so hard on yourself. Why forsake the pleasure of a good story, a pleasure that seems so benign, so universal? What culture doesn’t have stories?”

“I remember a young man who railed against stories of miracles and prophecies. I remember an agitated and volatile and rebellious young man who pushed back so hard against Jacob’s orthodoxy. I remember his reactions to the synagogue service. Though he had no Hebrew, he followed the Portuguese translation of the Torah and was outraged at the stories in the Torah and referred to the madness and the nonsense of both the Jewish and the Catholic service. I remember him asking, ‘Why is the season of miracles over? Why didn’t God perform a miracle and save my father?’ And the same young man agonized that his father gave up his life for a Torah riddled with superstitious beliefs in miracles and prophecies.”

“Yes, all that is so. I remember.”

“And so where are those feelings now, Franco? You speak now only of joy in your studies of Torah and Talmud. And yet you say you still fully embrace my critique of superstition. How can that be?”

“Bento, it’s the same answer—it’s the
process
of study that gives me joy. I don’t take the content very seriously. I like the stories, but I don’t take them for historical truth. I attend to the morality, to the messages in the scriptures about love and charity and kindness and ethical behavior. And I put the rest out of mind. Plus, there are stories, and there are stories. Some stories of miracles are, as you say, the enemy of reason. But other stories elicit the student’s attention, and that I find useful in my studies and in the teaching I am starting to undertake. One thing I know for sure—students will always be interested in stories, whereas there will never be a long line of students eager to learn about Euclid and geometry. And, oh, my mentioning my teaching causes me to remember something I’ve been eager to tell you! I’m starting to teach the elements of Hebrew, and guess who one of my students is. Be prepared for a shock—your would-be assassin!”

“Oh! My assassin! A shock indeed! You, my assassin’s teacher! What can you tell me?”

“His name is Isaac Ramirez, and your guess about his circumstances was entirely correct. His family was terrorized by the Inquisition, his parents were killed, and he was maddened with grief. It was the very fact that his story is so similar to mine that prompted me to volunteer to teach him, and so far it is working out well. You gave me some strong advice about how I should regard him that I’ve never forgotten. Do you remember?”

“I remember telling you not to tell the police where he was.”

“Yes, but then you said something else. You said, ‘Take a religious path.’ Remember? That puzzled me.”

“Perhaps I haven’t been clear. I love religion, but I hate superstition.”

Franco nodded. “Yes, that was how I understood you—that I should show understanding and compassion and forgiveness. Right?”

Bento nodded.

“So that, too, a moral code of behavior, not only stories of miracles, is in the Torah.”

“Without question that is so, Franco. My favorite Talmud story is the one about a heathen approaching Rabbi Hillel and offering to convert to Judaism if the rabbi could teach him the entire Torah while he stood on one foot. Hillel replied, ‘What is hateful to you, do not do to your neighbor. That is the whole Torah—all the rest is commentary. Go and study it.’”

“You see you
do
like stories—”

Bento started to respond, but Franco quickly corrected himself: “—or at least
one
story. Stories can act as a memory device. For many, more effectively than bare geometry.”

“I see your point, Franco, and I do not doubt that your studies
are
sharpening your mind. You’re turning into a formidable debate opponent. It is obvious why Rabbi Mortera selected you. Tonight I discuss some of my writing with Collegiant members of a philosophy club, and how I wish the world were such that you could be there. I would attend more to your critique than to that of anyone else.”

“I would be honored to read anything of yours. In what language do you write? My Dutch is improving.”

“In Latin, alas. Let us hope that will be part of your second education, for I doubt it will ever see a Dutch translation.”

“I learned the rudiments of Latin in my Catholic training.”

“Aim toward a full Latin education. Rabbi Menasseh and Rabbi Mortera are well trained in Latin and may permit it, perhaps encourage you.”

“Rabbi Menasseh died last year, and I’m afraid Rabbi Mortera is failing quickly.”

“Ah, sad news. But even so you will find others to encourage you. Perhaps there is a way you could spend a year in the Venetian Yeshibah. It is important: Latin opens up a whole new—”

Franco stood up suddenly and rushed to the window for a closer look at the retreating figures of three men who had passed. He turned back. “Sorry, Bento—I thought I saw someone from the congregation. I am more than a bit nervous at being seen here.”

“Yes, we never got to my question about the risk. Tell me, how great is your risk, Franco?”

Franco bowed his head. “It is very great—so great it is the one thing I cannot share with my wife. I cannot tell her that I put at risk everything we have struggled to build in this new world. It is a risk I take only for you, not for anyone else walking this earth. And I shall have to leave soon. I have no reason to give my wife or my rabbis for my absence. I’ve been scheming that, if I were seen, I could lie and say that Simon approached me for Hebrew lessons.”

“Yes, I thought of that, too. But don’t use Simon’s name. My connection with him is known, at least in the Gentile world. Better to give a name of
someone else that you could have met here, perhaps Peter Dyke, a member of the Philosophy Club.”

Franco sighed. “Sad to be entering the land of lies. It is a terrain I have not trod since my betrayal of you, Bento. But before I leave, please share something of your philosophical progress. Once I learn Latin, perhaps Simon may make your work available to me. But for now, today, all I will have is your spoken word. Your thoughts intrigue me. I still puzzle about things you said to Jacob and me.”