Two

Yet the twin boys who were fishermen--one could smell them as they walked by by morning and night--were happy; at least they looked to be. They seemed so proud of their pathetic little pails of squirming fish, and talked in a friendly way to each other, completely ignoring the rich idler looking on from the fig tree.

How much longer this would go on, he knew not. He was fourteen, officially a man for a year, and already almost taller than his father, and his father was now making it perfectly clear--as he did everything else--that it was time for him to begin doing something with his life, taking on the responsibilities of a man, and contributing to the family instead of simply taking, taking, taking, as if money grew on trees.

Responsibilities. The thought of actually having real "have-to's" like his father's made him break out anew in a sweat. He closed his eyes in pain, and then opened them again to see the irresponsible clouds, just drifting, and wished that he could continue to drift as they did, with no have-to's pushing them. Thank God no one knew where he was! He felt safe here; no one could see him.

Except Ezra, but he was a slave.

"Ezra," he said. The slave moved to be more in his field of vision.

"Yes, Master?"

"Why do you stand in the sun thus? Would you not enjoy the shade more?"

"No, Master. I like the feel of the sun on my skin." "But it makes you even blacker. You know, you almost disappear in the shade now."

He smiled, his teeth a dazzling white against his shiny dark face. "That is why I wear light-colored tunics. In the light one sees my skin, and in the dark, my clothes."

Nathanael replied, "Of course, in the dark you could also smile, and that would light up the whole area." Ezra made no reply, and Nathanael wondered for a moment whether he might have insulted him, calling attention to his complexion--and then promptly forgot about it. One cannot insult a slave.

At this point, the two young fishermen walked by again, and Nathanael wondered how their parents could tell which twin was which. Anything to distract him from thinking about have-to's. To Nathanael's surprise, one of them hung back a bit and nodded to Nathanael as he passed the tree. Nathanael nodded also, and he stopped. His brother kept going, glancing at Nathanael with contempt. "Not much today, I observe," said Nathanael, for the sake of saying something. The boy seemed to want to start a conversation, but did not know how. He must have been a year, maybe two, younger than Nathanael. The thought occurred to Nathanael that his father would not approve of his talking to one from a different class of society, but his father did not know where he was or what he was doing.

"No," answered the lad, "they all decided that they did not like this part of the sea today. They went to visit their relatives on the other side."

"It looks like back-breaking work, what you do," remarked Nathanael, as his twin disappeared by himself toward the house, carrying the pail with the pathetic catch.

"It is hard enough," he answered, "but it keeps one strong." He certainly looked strong.

"I marvel at people like you," he said, and picked a blade of grass and put it in his mouth.

"What do you do with yourself all day?" asked the boy. "I see you here in the morning, and also at night when we come home."

Nathanael looked up at him. "Oh, I read sometimes, but mostly I watch the sky and the birds, and the people who go by. I see them all so concentrated on what they are doing, and wonder how they can care so much for--for fish, for instance."

"I care little for fish, myself," said the boy. "But one must eat, you know. My name is Thomas."

"Oh, I know, and I am grateful for people like you; without you I would probably starve. My name, by the way, is Nathanael."

"You need not work, then--Nathanael." It was obvious he was trying to memorize the name.

What was his? Ah, Thomas."No, thank the Master. I suppose one of these days I will find something to do to justify my existence, but I have not yet discovered anything that suits me as yet. Since I began to learn to read, the thought occurred to me that perhaps I will wind up as a scribe--or, who knows, a famous writer like Qoheleth or someone."

"Qoheleth?"

"Know you not? 'Vanity of vanities, and all is vanity.'"

"Oh, that. I think I heard it once."

"I rather think that if anything is true, that is. At least, based on my own experience."

"I really know nothing about it. Where do you live?"

"That big house far up on the hill back there. I come here mainly to escape it."

"That house? What could it have that makes one wish to escape it?"

"You would be surprised. It is not what it is, but who lives there."

He did not seem disposed to elaborate, and so Thomas said, "Then you must be rich. They tell me that that family has enormous amounts of money. Is that why--" and he looked over at Ezra.

"Is Ezra my slave, do you mean? Yes, my father made a trip to Ethiopia some years ago and bought him for me, as a kind of curiosity. I call him my shadow."

Thomas appeared a little shocked, and probably had never even heard of Ethiopia. Nathanael wondered whether he was surprised at Ezra's blackness or at the fact that he was a slave.

"Is he--is he one of us?" asked Thomas.

"You mean, is he a Judean? Oh, yes. That is, an Israelite. He seems to think his ancestors belonged to the tribe of Dan and went into Egypt and then up the Nile River to Ethiopia to escape the wars when Israel broke from Judah, I think it was. I suppose they intermarried, at least some of them, with the people around them, and got the black skin from them. My father tells me that everyone there is black. But he is even more observant of the Law than I am."

"What does he do?"

"Nothing much, actually, since I do nothing much. Occasionally I send him to the house to fetch me a scroll in case I feel like reading; but mostly he simply stands there in case I require anything--which I never do. And as Qoheleth said, 'This too is vanity.'"

"I would not know, myself. We work hard for what we have, which is little enough. Though we cannot really complain. They give me some money of my own now, and I almost know not how to spend it."

"Then you and I are in the same situation. I cannot understand those people who must have more and more of things they cannot use. I can have whatever I want, but I find that I want very little--the opportunity to sit here and look at the sky and what passes. And that cannot be bought. Books can, of course, and I am grateful to have them when I want them."

Thomas looked up at the now darkening sky and said that he must be getting home, because it was nearly time to eat. Nathanael waved a hand, as if to give him permission to leave, and they parted.

"Thomas," said Nathanael to himself, and thought, "Someone who actually wanted merely to speak to me." It was a novelty. All those up to now who spoke to Nathanael had something for him to do. But it was beginning to grow dark, and he would have to face his father and mother again before he could find solace in sleep. Vanity. Everything was vanity, and a chase after wind.

The very next day, another conversation partner appeared; this one a bit more perilous for Nathanael's remaining hidden from his parents. It turned out that Philip, the son of the wine-merchant his father dealt with, happened to see Nathanael going down the hill from the house and, not having to help his father that day, he followed him out of curiosity, and came up and greeted him as he settled himself under the fig-tree.

Nathanael started. "I did not see you!" he exclaimed. "How came you here?"

"Oh, I wondered where you were going, and when you sat down, I thought I would join you for a bit."

"Philip," said Nathanael in a warning voice. The young man, about Thomas's age, was considerably younger mentally than his actual age, and though he was not exactly a fool, he was naive enough to blurt out everything about Nathanael to anyone he saw. This must not happen.

"Yes?" he answered.

"You did not see me here, Philip."

"Yes I did. I see you now."

"I mean, I do not wish you to tell anyone about seeing me, and about where I am."

"Why not?"

"Because--because I wish to keep this place private. Only Ezra and I--and God--know where I am."

"But anyone who passes here can see you. You are not hidden, you know."

"I am not hiding, exactly. But no one in my family would ever pass here."

"Ah, you do not wish your family to know where you are."

"Exactly."

"Why?"

"Let us just say that I do not wish it."

"Well, it seems silly to me. But you do not wish me to mention it to your father if I see him. Very well."

"Or to your father; he might tell my father. Or to your mother, for that matter, since she might mention it to your father."

He shrugged.

"Agreed?" said Nathanael.

"I suppose so."

"Otherwise, I must find a different place, a place that you know not."

"No, I will be quiet about it, if you wish. I do not see the point, but if you wish it, so be it."

"Not that I do not like to see you, Philip, you know. But I thought at the outset that we should make it clear that this is my secret place, as it were--a kind of refuge."

And they engaged in chitchat for an hour or two, until Philip grew bored and said, "I must go back; my father wishes me to begin my studies again today, and later I must watch the wine-shop."

"It was a pleasure to have you. Come when you can." It was not a complete pleasure, but Philip's ingenuousness was something Nathanael, with his cynical view of life, rather enjoyed listening to. It was only when one wished to make a serious point that Philip's taking everything literally got in the way.

Thomas and his twin passed by that day, and when he saw Nathanael talking to someone else, he did not stop--a bit to Nathanael's disappointment. Thomas seemed rather bright, and might turn out to be an interesting companion. Nathanael hoped that he had not said anything which had offended him somehow.

But the next day, he nodded at Nathanael on his way home (Philip had not reappeared), and they passed a word or two in a friendly way. Nathanael had a suspicion that Thomas had something on his mind, and his cultivating him was not totally disinterested. He hoped it would not involve anything like giving him money or soliciting some favor that would involve doing something. Whatever it might be, Nathanael was convinced beforehand that he would not be able to do it; he never succeeded in anything he undertook.

But he could always refuse--and lose what might be a friend, and someone he might someday be able to relieve his overburdened heart to. But that was not to be imagined. It was part of the vanity of existence. How could he tell him about his mother? And especially about that horrible night? What would it mean to him? No, it was absurd. No, he was just someone to talk to about nothing, like Philip, but perhaps more intelligently. Well, he would see.

The second day, Philip came when Thomas went by, and as Thomas looked at them, Nathanael gave him a glance that he might join them, and introduced Philip, who said that his name was Greek "and it means 'lover of horses,' though why I am supposed to be a horse-lover I cannot imagine; I have never yet been on one, and, truth be told, they rather frighten me, they are so huge."

Nathanael remembered his own experience with a horse, and sympathized. He observed, "Clearly you, like the Caesarea up north were named for the tetrarch Philip, who in turn was named after Philip of Macedon, the father of Alexander, whom we all know and love. It has nothing to do with horses."

Thomas looked puzzled, evidently with no idea who this "Alexander" was. No one could think of a reply, and Philip fidgeted a bit.

Shortly, for the sake of saying something, Philip sniffed and said, "Ah, you fish! Do you know Andrew and Simon, sons of Jonah?"

"I have not met them, but I have heard the names," answered Thomas.

"They fish also, you know, and live in my town of Bethsaida. Also James and John, sons of Zebedee; they are partners."

"Yes, my father says they have quite a business, with a number of hired hands. They are our rivals, and we do not have much to do with them."

"A pity. They are very interesting people. John's father is about to send him away to Jerusalem to study to be a rabbi or something. It seems they know the high priest's family, and they can make it easy for him to enter the rabbinic circle."

"You see? They are not of our class. We would have no contact with such as they."

"They are certainly not proud. They put up with me, for instance--as does Nathanael here."

"Good heavens!" exclaimed Nathanael. "Put up with you! Why should I not 'put up with you?' I find you refreshing, among other things." Thomas looked at him for a moment almost with awe; it had evidently just occurred to him that he (and perhaps Philip also) had leaped over a considerable social gap in having Nathanael speak to them.

In some confusion, Thomas blurted, "Well, I must go home and wash for the evening meal."

"I suppose we must all do so," replied Nathanael, looking up at the sky, oblivious to any consternation he may have noticed in Thomas. Ezra immediately stirred behind them. "Until tomorrow, then, both of you."

"I will not be here tomorrow," answered Philip. "I must work."

When Thomas had left, and Philip was turning to go, Nathanael said, "Oh, Philip."

"Yes?"

"Philip, it might not be well to mention to someone like Thomas that he smells of fish."

"But he does."

"I know he does. But he might be sensitive about it."

"Why should he be? If he is a fisherman, then why would he not smell of fish?"

Nathanael sighed. "He might think--he probably does think--that people might find the odor offensive. He does not smell it, because he is so used to it."

"Do you find it offensive?"

"Not offensive, exactly, no; but I will admit, it is not my favorite perfume."

"Whoever heard of fish perfume?"

"Philip, let us just say that it is better not to mention the way a person smells, even if he is wearing spikenard or myrrh."

"If you say so. You mean it is just one of those things that polite people do not say."

"Exactly."

"Then I should not tell you how pleasant you smell."

"You definitely should not, unless I ask you. --And, as long as you have brought it up, do you find the smell very strong?"

"No, I can barely detect it."

"Very well, that is as it should be. It is myrrh, in case you are curious. I like it. But if ever you find it too strong, you would be doing me a favor if you would--quietly and privately--let me know. As I say, when one is constantly with an odor, one cannot smell it oneself."

"I thought I was not to speak of it."

"Only to me, and only privately, if it is overstrong. Ezra might not be in a position to notice it."

"But other people's smells, I do not mention, even to them."

"There you have it."

"Very well. Peace, then."

"Peace." Philip was a good-hearted soul, but could be a bit of a chore. But so far, apparently, he had said nothing about Nathanael's whereabouts, and so presumably was trustworthy, if one could penetrate into his skull.