I did manage to convince him — barely. But he parted with his money like it was his own skin. Said this would be the last time he helped me out in such a "grand" fashion. And that this time, he expected returns.
I assured him, with wide eyes and a hand on my heart (and a lie in my throat), that I'd never ask him for help again and would, of course, repay him the moment I turned a profit. Which, realistically, would happen sometime between the next Passover and the fall of the Temple.
Little did I know how soon I'd be paying out…
The whole thing collapsed. No matter how much I held it together with prayer and cheap nails. First of all, I was a terrible carpenter. The money Raban lent me only covered the shop and tools.
Hiring extra hands? That came out of my pocket. And I could only afford one worker — and not the easiest fellow to deal with, either.
His name was Avdei. And he could only work at night. Because he couldn't stand sunlight.
I used to joke (badly) that he was the illegitimate son of a shedim (demon) and a tavern wench, but he never took offense. Said the sun burned his skin raw, left him red and in agony.
But you'll be working indoors, under a roof! — I cried out when he first told That may be, — he replied calmly, — but one must first reach the And the streets are no friend to my condition.
It might've worked. Really, it might have — If only the nights in Capernaum weren't so short. You couldn't get much done before the roosters crowed, and by daybreak, it was my turn to wrestle with the logs — and as I've already confessed, I was no craftsman. I always preferred working with my head — charming, negotiating, scheming. All of which, incidentally, had failed spectacularly on Jesh.
So the business began to spiral. Few orders, slow fulfillment. And then came the thunderclap — delivered straight from the frothing mouth of one very irate Raban:
Is. My. Money?! You worm. WORM!
I gave him my best apologetic grin and responded in my smoothest, most oily tone:
My friend, forgive the I told you I'd pay you back as soon as possible — and alas, that time… is still somewhere in the future. Two years, you miserable sack! How long do you expect me to wait? Or were you planning to keep feeding me promises? Because I'm not hungry, friend. And if I ever get hungry — I'll eat a dozen losers like you for breakfast!
I prayed that was a metaphor.
And… yeah. When I said it hadn't been that long, I guess I may have lost track. Turns out, it had been two years. Funny how time flies when you're drowning in unpaid invoices, broken tools, and existential dread. Maybe I was a little optimistic when I said I could handle everything on my own.
Come on, Raban, no need to lose your temper! Just give me a little more time — a couple more months — and I swear, I'll start paying you in installments— Enough! — He barked, cutting off both my pleas and the last breath of a reasonable He switched to a language I knew well: ultimatums. Here's what's going to happen. You're selling this sorry excuse for a business. Immediately. Find a buyer, pull one out of the air, I don't care I won't even bother with the interest — since you clearly don't have a shekel to your pathetic name. But I want my principal back. All of it. But, listen… No — He lifted his chin, all five feet of fury standing on tiptoe for effect. — Either you sell everything and pay up, or I take this matter to people who don't ask twice. You know who my friends are. They can take more from you than just a workshop.
And, regrettably, I did know. His threats were not idle.
Still, I made one final, feeble attempt to appeal to what scraps of friendship we had left:
Raban, buddy! It's me! Why should we let money come between us?
This isn't a quarrel, — he shot back — It's business. Then he spun on his heel and marched off like a man who owned the ground he walked on.
And once again, fate served me a bitter cocktail with a garnish of humiliation. Here I was, thinking I could outmaneuver the system — dodge the officials, skip the permits, avoid the taxes, and deal solely with a friend. I thought I was clever. A rebel with insider knowledge.
Turns out I was just another fool playing merchant in a city built on debts.
So there it was — I'd lost my old job and the sawmill. Maybe my father wasn't entirely wrong, back when he looked at me like that…
I breathed in. Breathed out. Then again, and again, and again. Collected my thoughts. Summoned my courage. And then… sat down. Crossed one leg over the other, and made the solemn decision to wait for Avdei, so I could inform him that he was fired. Though, to be fair — so was I. Tomorrow, I'd begin the search for a buyer. Hopefully someone desperate, blind, or drunk. Preferably all three.
Not that I feared the future — but its smile was full of rotten teeth. I didn't fear it. I just… regarded it with caution.
By dusk, Avdei stood in the doorway, blinking like he'd walked into the wrong life.The workshop door was open. That alone confused him. I stood up, walked over, and gave him a friendly slap on the shoulder.
Shalom aleichem, my Bit of news: we're shutting down.
From his other shoulder, a bundle of tools slipped and hit the floor with a painful clatter. A saw. A chisel. A sigh.
What?! Why?!
I gave him the short version — debts, despair, divine punishment, the usual. Tried to sweeten the bitterness by reminding him I was also out of a job. It didn't help. My silver tongue, once so dependable, was losing its shine. Avdei shook his head, his eyes full of disappointed pity.
Master, you don't understand. Someone else's misfortune brings me no joy. On the contrary — it saddens me deeply. I will be fine. I make excellent pots. I can work from home, sell what I craft, stay indoors during the day. But you… what will you do?
I believe he meant that as comfort. To me, it tasted like vinegar. I muttered:
Glad you're all I'll figure something out.
He clapped his hands together and cried out with childlike certainty:
But why figure anything out, Master? You think you've been cursed — but I say it's just a momentary Don't dwell on it! It's just a small problem in a long string of big successes! How very banal! — I snapped, glaring at him. — Who fed you such drivel? Your little brother when you were fighting over who gets to use the chamber pot? Or had you not sculpted him yet?
He only shook his head, still smiling with baffling sincerity:
Mock me if you must, but don't mock the words of Mori Every one of his words is worth more than everything we've said in our entire lives. Excuse me?! — I stopped mid-sarcasm, the name slamming into me like a thrown — You mean that Jesh? The — Avdei nodded eagerly, his face lit with beatific bliss. — The carpenter's son. The one who's started speaking to crowds. The blasphemer?
He's no such thing! He pressures no one, forces He speaks to people of life, shares his vision. And his words — they are solid. Like stone. I'm telling you — it's inspiring.
I snorted with contempt and turned to gather my things. Over my shoulder, I said:
If his "inspiration" sounds like the nonsense you just said, then I'd rather take business advice from a camel's rear end. Let's lock up, Avdei. As you may have noticed — work is cancelled.
As you say, But think about it. Maybe you too would find value in meeting him.
If he has cash. And wants to buy a sawmill.