Last Judgment
by Robert Whitehill-Bashan
translated from the Hebrew by Michael Weingrad
I sat with Shabbatai Zvi in a Paris café.
He told me amusing stories in Ladino.
I laughed at them, despite my weakness in that language.
His stories amused him too.
I spoke to him in Mexican Spanish, and with some nods and some smiles, pretended to understand everything.
That always seems to work.
We sipped thick wine—kosher amontillado—I didn’t know there was such a thing–
Shabbatai Zvi whispered in a sort of mock fear:
“For the love of god, Montresor!”
The wine was extremely
Not bad, but it was mid-morning, with that strong coffee, all in all an overdose of acidity.
Jo Goldenberg would come up every now and then and pour us refills.
“Just like in the USA,” said Shabbatai Zvi.
I should have asked him to expand on that statement.
But I kept quiet. Wish I hadn’t. And then: the nausea.
My stomach did somersaults. I threw up on the table and on him.
Not such a wise career move, I thought, as he took the cloth napkin and wiped his embroidered gown that fit him like an old bathrobe or like a dress on a slovenly (and bearded) woman.
Maybe we try some salt, I suggested. It always does the trick with wine.
All kinds of uncomfortable thoughts crept into my mind.
What if, after all is said and done, this weirdo is in fact the Messiah?
Would a Christian, for example, dare vomit on Jesus?
What would be the fate of our unfortunate Christian, in the worse possible scenario, at the Last Judgment?
I commiserated with Biagio da Cesena, and how he stands there painted onto the wall of the Sistine Chapel, forever damned to remain on the county line of Hell, as donkey ears sprout from his head and a big snake wraps itself around his loins and takes a never-ending bite out of his private parts.
Such is the fate of those who dare insult Michelangelo and Jesus, who happens to be standing naked high on the wall next to his mother/consort.
This sad accident must have caused Shabbatai Zvi some consternation, or so I gathered from the preaching that he started directing toward me as he lay the soiled napkin on my poetry journal.
He spoke decisively, but also in a tone that was cheerful, and in easily digestible portions.
I thought: He has all the trappings of a graduate of one of the Tony Robbins or Dale Carnegie seminars.
Shabbatai Zvi gets that that humor plays a vital role in effective public speaking.
He must have been reading my mind, because he blurted out: “Not Tony Robbins and not Dale Carnegie! Would you believe: Dame Edna?”
He continued speaking for another fifteen minutes interspersing his comments with jokes.
I partly recall one of them:
“Jesus, Madonna and Shabbatai Zvi [he referred to himself as ‘moi, your humble Messiah’] walk into a bar…”
He also revealed the whereabouts of the Lost Imam.
“Would you believe: Philadelphia?”
Then suddenly he ended his speech. He smiled and said:
“Sorry. I’ve got to go over to City Hall right now and deal with a parking ticket.”
He got up and continued:
“But tell me. They’ve done this to me because I’m Jewish?
Or because I’m Muslim?
Or because I’m Sephardic?
Or because I’m from Turkey?
Or because I go around in a dress?”
Then he turned and left.
That was the first and last time that I saw him.
Such was my messianic banquet in the City of Lights.
I saw it all but didn’t really take it in.
I forgot to ask him for his cell phone number and email address.
I screwed up.
Big time.
