The last person I expected to meet in Fink’s Bar was the messiah. But
then I may have been the last person that he expected to find there. On the
other hand, if he was the messiah, he probably knew I was there. True, the
messiah is not God; nevertheless, he isn’t your average man, either.
The reader will ask how did I know that he was the messiah? The
simple truth is that he told me so. (Incidentally, I use a small “m” in
“messiah,” only God’s name do I capitalize. Admittedly, I would prefer a
semi-capitalized messiah to reflect his relative status, but the language
does not provide for it. This is written in English; Hebrew blessedly lacks
capitals and thus avoids a lot of earthly polemics.)
I was skeptical at first, I admit. These days in Jerusalem there are
plenty of people who will tell you they are the messiah. Therefore, I waved
him off (mentally), politely not saying anything, faithful to my doctrine
that answering these types, even negatively, simply provokes them to bend
your ear more.
Finally, his persistent preaching of his messiahship got on my nerves.
“Show me, “ I said, folding my arms. “Prove to me that you are the
messiah. Hit me with a minor miracle.” I made my request in a low voice,
partly in deference to his claim, but mostly because I didn’t want Fink’s
regulars to hear me debating a subject like that out loud. There is not a bar
in the world so ready as Fink’s to declare a man persona non grata.
His face registered disappointment. He sighed, “You give me little
choice.”
He said this in a tone of such sadness that I regretted my denial (while
still, inwardly, convinced of its truth).
He pointed to my glass of beer, which had remained half-emptied
since he had first made his messiah claim. To continue drinking in the face
of such a claim seemed to me the height of impertinence. I may have been
a doubter, but I did not consider myself an oaf.
Immediately with his pointing at it, the beer turned a ruddy color. I
couldn’t help thinking of Jesus’ changing the water into wine. He must
have read my mind. “Changing water into wine isn’t so hard – beer into
wine requires real skill at working miracles.”
I scrutinized him in order to figure out if he was serious. I discerned
that he was – although the concept of a droll messiah fitted my approach
to Judaism, a religion which had always contained an element of the
metaphysically humorously absurd to go along with its very serious and
detailed cosmic formulations, unlike, for example, Christianity which was
totally serious.
“Well done,” I said, for lack of anything to say.
“Nu, taste it. you still doubt. I don’t work with colored liquids.”
I sipped it. It was wine. And delicious wine. “Is it from the wonderful
wine reserved for the righteous to drink in paradise?”
“It’s not a bad vintage, but it doesn’t compare to that wine,” he assured
me.
I wondered if I would be destined to drink the real thing someday, but
feared to ask him. I had forgotten that this messiah was a mind reader. “I
can’t tell you,” he said, “that contravenes the rules of the game. Besides,
you have some more years yet – before you are judged.”
I tried to fathom if this was an optimistic or a pessimistic assessment
of my chances. He clearly knew that I was thinking this, but he kept his
messianic cards close to his chest. I reasoned that if I accepted him as the
messiah, my chances might improve.
This weighing of my interests brought forth from him a robust laugh
that caused the patrons of Fink’s to look over in our direction. I was a bit
embarrassed, but then thought why concern myself with what these small fry thought – they’re not sitting with the messiah (as I believed him now
to be – you would believe, too, if you had tasted that wine, that wasn’t Uri
Geller’s hocus pocus at work). I even started to bask in my new role as
confident to the messiah.
The messiah caught it at once. He raised a warning finger and the
words “Pride goes before a fall” jumped into my mind. I could not recall if
they came from the Old or New Testaments, but in any event my attention
was drawn to his surprisingly manicured finger (my messiah had always
visually been modeled on Jeremiah or John the Baptist, hair-shirted and
dirty-nailed). Apparently, the messiah was less interested in warning me
of my failures or in appreciating my scriptural erudition – both of which
reactions on my part (he had read my thoughts, remember) he may have
taken, perhaps correctly, as attempts to limit my role to that of confidant,
and nothing more demanding, because he immediately tuFrned to tachlis.
“The point is that I need not simply recognition, but a disciple, a hasid. I
need you.” Here, his finger pointed at me, and I recalled the pointing finger
from an old army recruiting poster which merged with the finger of God
which almost touched the finger of Adam in the painting “the Creation” on
the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.
I started to shiver all over. Being a disciple for the messiah wasn’t
exactly my cup of tea, especially in these days of doubting messiahship.
“Why me?” I asked weakly.
“You possess the prerequisites.”
“Not that I can see.”
“We don’t see things through your eyes.”
“We?” I wondered – “you and Him?”
He nodded.
“What do I have to do?” I asked, weak-voiced.
“First of all, finish your drink. It will strengthen you for your task.
Then I’ll enumerate.”
I felt frightened, I admit.
“Don’t worry,” he said reassuringly. “And remember, if you
succeed in your task, thus helping me succeed in mine, you will not go unrecompensed.” He pointed to my glass of wine that seemed to suddenly glow an infinitely rich ruby red such as I had never seen in my life, and
which seemed to emanate from the world-to-come.
I stretched forth a hand to seize the glass, eager to down this treasure.
But he was quicker. Before I could drink, the liquid reverted to its previous
color. “Don’t jump above your belly-button,” he admonished me, invoking
the familiar saying that I myself liked to use; obviously he knew this. “Now
down the hatch, we have work to do.”
I complied. You don’t wait to be told twice, this wasn’t my sergeant in
the army, we’re talking messiah!
As we left Fink’s, I turned back (like Lot’s wife) in order to take one last
look at the place; I had the unmistakable feeling that I was no longer one
of Fink’s “regulars.” Yet I was comforted by the thought of the wonderful
wine that possibly (ultimately) awaited me. Nothing on Fink’s admittedly
superb wine-list stood a chance of coming close.