what he’s singing, it’s just that his parents and grandparents were already conversos and he’s forgotten all the Hebrew prayers, he never knew them. And all that’s left to him is to chant a song as if he were praying to a God who does not want to save him, and who doesn’t care about his salvation.
Then someone shouts, “We can’t crucify anyone who sings a tango that well.”
Another person shrieks, “But he’s thirty-three, everyone gets crucified at thirty-three, the world belongs to the young.”
The shouting continues.
“Kill all the old people. We don’t want any more old people. They’re a bunch of loafers and freeloaders who we have to support.”
“Kill the young people,” shouts an old woman, “we were here first.”
“She’s right, young people are the new immigrants. All the young will be declared illegal and that’ll solve unemployment. And anyone who reaches fifty, well, we’ll see.”
The converso is still lying on the cross. No one has yet dared to drive the nails into him.
“And we’ve got to kill all the Jews,” shouts another.
“But there are no Jews in this country anymore.”
“Then kill the Muslims, they’re a lot like Jews.”
“Or the Jews in other countries, why should we care which Jews we kill? We’re very liberated that way.”
“I say Muslims. We can kill them here or in Egypt.”
“Let’s kill Muslims. Kill Muslims and kill Jews.”
Waiters emerged from the bars on the plaza, carrying glasses of sangria. “Time to kill the Jews,” sang the Cubans.
The converso eventually got up on his own, very thin, very pale, his skin almost white, he got up and in the hubbub no one noticed, he sneaked down the Calle Mayor, and kept walking, I followed him, keeping an eye on what was happening in the plaza. The converso entered a small bar and I went in after him. He ordered a mini-omelet. “With bread?” the waiter asked. “I bake my own bread, I don’t eat other people’s bread, no bread baked by other people.”
“Like a Jew,” said the waiter in the bar.
“I didn’t know that,” I said.
“But I do want a beer,” said the converso .
Conversos don’t converse. Conversos don’t convert.
He looked at me and said, “Madrid hasn’t changed.”
“Not entirely,” I agreed.
“Nothing changes.”
He ate quickly. He went back outside. Everything seemed quiet. No sounds came from the plaza, but the converso returned to the plaza. We saw it was nearly deserted. It was lunchtime on a very cold day.
“Nothing changes,” he reiterated to himself and disappeared from my life.
27.
An early sunset. On the Calle Mayor, on the terrace of the Sephardic Cultural Center, they lit a giant Chanukah menorah. I was afraid of a terrorist attack. I’m still a frightened Jew. They sang Israeli songs that are actually Eastern European tunes with Hebrew lyrics. What does this Zionist nonsense have to do with Sephardic Jews, with Hispano-Moroccan Jews, as they called us during the introduction? What would Maimonides or Ibn Gabirol think if they could see this? The same thing I thought. That this has nothing to do with Judaism, not the Judaism I know. Judah Halevi would agree. Neo-Judaism, Judeo-Christianism seeps in like a virus to destroy our Judaism and our religion. Maybe it would be better to hear a bomb. Sometimes, as Rafael Guillen says, what you need is an earthquake, the same way sometimes you need to drink. I need an earthquake. Often. I am a great consumer of earthquakes. Where do they sell them? Let them sell me earthquakes. When one of the conference participants, Oro Anahory, asked what I thought of “the situation,” I said I believe that in ten years the world will change completely, and it will be such a shift that we won’t recognize anything. Well, if we’re still alive.
Another participant, Guershon, gave a talk that sought to explain why the Jews left Morocco (did they leave or were they thrown out? I don’t know) and explained that
Then someone shouts, “We can’t crucify anyone who sings a tango that well.”
Another person shrieks, “But he’s thirty-three, everyone gets crucified at thirty-three, the world belongs to the young.”
The shouting continues.
“Kill all the old people. We don’t want any more old people. They’re a bunch of loafers and freeloaders who we have to support.”
“Kill the young people,” shouts an old woman, “we were here first.”
“She’s right, young people are the new immigrants. All the young will be declared illegal and that’ll solve unemployment. And anyone who reaches fifty, well, we’ll see.”
The converso is still lying on the cross. No one has yet dared to drive the nails into him.
“And we’ve got to kill all the Jews,” shouts another.
“But there are no Jews in this country anymore.”
“Then kill the Muslims, they’re a lot like Jews.”
“Or the Jews in other countries, why should we care which Jews we kill? We’re very liberated that way.”
“I say Muslims. We can kill them here or in Egypt.”
“Let’s kill Muslims. Kill Muslims and kill Jews.”
Waiters emerged from the bars on the plaza, carrying glasses of sangria. “Time to kill the Jews,” sang the Cubans.
The converso eventually got up on his own, very thin, very pale, his skin almost white, he got up and in the hubbub no one noticed, he sneaked down the Calle Mayor, and kept walking, I followed him, keeping an eye on what was happening in the plaza. The converso entered a small bar and I went in after him. He ordered a mini-omelet. “With bread?” the waiter asked. “I bake my own bread, I don’t eat other people’s bread, no bread baked by other people.”
“Like a Jew,” said the waiter in the bar.
“I didn’t know that,” I said.
“But I do want a beer,” said the converso .
Conversos don’t converse. Conversos don’t convert.
He looked at me and said, “Madrid hasn’t changed.”
“Not entirely,” I agreed.
“Nothing changes.”
He ate quickly. He went back outside. Everything seemed quiet. No sounds came from the plaza, but the converso returned to the plaza. We saw it was nearly deserted. It was lunchtime on a very cold day.
“Nothing changes,” he reiterated to himself and disappeared from my life.
27.
An early sunset. On the Calle Mayor, on the terrace of the Sephardic Cultural Center, they lit a giant Chanukah menorah. I was afraid of a terrorist attack. I’m still a frightened Jew. They sang Israeli songs that are actually Eastern European tunes with Hebrew lyrics. What does this Zionist nonsense have to do with Sephardic Jews, with Hispano-Moroccan Jews, as they called us during the introduction? What would Maimonides or Ibn Gabirol think if they could see this? The same thing I thought. That this has nothing to do with Judaism, not the Judaism I know. Judah Halevi would agree. Neo-Judaism, Judeo-Christianism seeps in like a virus to destroy our Judaism and our religion. Maybe it would be better to hear a bomb. Sometimes, as Rafael Guillen says, what you need is an earthquake, the same way sometimes you need to drink. I need an earthquake. Often. I am a great consumer of earthquakes. Where do they sell them? Let them sell me earthquakes. When one of the conference participants, Oro Anahory, asked what I thought of “the situation,” I said I believe that in ten years the world will change completely, and it will be such a shift that we won’t recognize anything. Well, if we’re still alive.
Another participant, Guershon, gave a talk that sought to explain why the Jews left Morocco (did they leave or were they thrown out? I don’t know) and explained that
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