Mr Jacob Israel
was sitting at home. It was a good chair, he had always liked that chair – it
had cost him but he loved it. And he had it set up just beside the wood-burner,
so that on the long winter evenings he could sit comfortably on his chair, in
the warmth of the fire. Sometimes he would have a sense of gratitude – of oh
my, this is the life, how did I come to be so gloriously comfortable? – but
quickly he would answer himself, he had slaved away at the factory for hour
after tedious hour to get here. Oh, he had made sacrifices for this alright.
All those years on the factory floor – the dripping fat, the thick, sickening
haze of scent – he remembered once
dropping his wallet into pool of liquid fat. Soaked right through. Saturated –
like a Big Mac. But he was passed all that now - the big break-through had been
when the regional manager had come round for lunch. Jo Malone cane-sugar fragrance,
Marks and Spencer’s canapés, and he had cooked that roast lamb to perfection. Of
course Malorie would have done it better. But - it had worked. No more slaving
for him anymore. And now the next step was coming – the new boss was bringing
his wife round for dinner on Sunday. It could be a big moment – Mr Mammonson
was a pretty powerful man.
Jacob was roused
from his reverie by a knock at the door. A wave of panic ran through him as he
half imagined that Sunday had come already and it was Mr Mammonson. Hurriedly
he shook himself into alertness, realised that it was still Friday night, crossed
the room, and opened the door with a tired smile on his face. The smile
disappeared at the sight of the man on the doormat. He was, well, he just
wasn’t quite what you expected. It certainly wasn’t Mr Mammonson. This man
looked poor – at first Jacob struggled to pick out a reason for this – but he
thought perhaps it was all the scratches and scars on the man’s skin, or the
strange simplicity of his clothing. Nevertheless the man was looking at him. He
had a truly arresting gaze; Jacob was a little disconcerted by the affection he
saw in those eyes, and there was something else in them that worried him which
he couldn’t put a finger on.
He realised they
had been standing looking at one another in silence for an inappropriate length
of time. He said, rather more sharply than he’d intended, “What do you want?”
The strange
man’s brow furrowed slightly and he asked, “Did you not call for me?”
“No I didn’t! I
don’t even know who you are!”
“Well yes,” said
the man, “That’s actually what I wanted to talk to you about.”
And he came in
and sat down on the floor opposite Jacob’s chair. Jacob, surprised and feeling
slightly threatened, walked over towards the man and the fire, trying to look
taller than he was. Somehow the man looked taller now he was sitting on the
floor. Another thing that worried Jacob.
After a short
pause in which Jacob tried, and failed to think of anything to say, the man
spoke again.
“It is not upon
me that you have called, Jacob, rather you have tired of me, Israel. Not to me
have you brought lambs as your burnt offerings, and with your sacrifices you
have not honoured me.”
“What? Of course
I haven’t... Why would make sacrifices for you?”
“Indeed. I did
not make slave of you through offerings, nor tire you out through incense. Not
for me did you buy fragrant cane at a price, and with the fat of your
sacrifices you have not saturated me.”
“Wait, how did
you know...”
Jacob’s voice
trailed off into silence as the man got up and walked towards him. Jacob opened
his mouth to speak and almost raised a hand but before he could react the man
stopped and knelt down at his feet.
“You have,
however, made a slave of me by your sins, tired me out by your iniquities.”
Jacob looked at
him, motionless. “Who are you?” he asked.
“I – I am the
one who wipes clean your rebellions, for my own sake, and your sins I do not
remember.”
There was a
pause, as the man waited for Jacob to reluctantly meet his gaze. Then, looking
up at him from the floor with that same arresting gaze he said,
“Remind me.”
“Sorry?”
“Let us reach a
judgement together. Give an account of yourself so that you may be acquitted.”
Jacob felt a
strange sense of compulsion, of necessity, and he found himself asking, “Where
should I begin?”
“Where did it begin?”
And he knew
where it began. So he began to speak, and suddenly words were tumbling forth
like a torrent – half confession, half justification, he complained and
explained and told him everything until he began to weep, like a little child.
“Jacob.”
At the sound of
his name he fell onto his knees in front of the man and grabbed him by the shoulders.
He started shaking him and quickly the man reached out, took hold of him, and
the two men began to wrestle. They struggled intensely – sometimes staggering
across the room, sometimes opposing each other so fiercely and so evenly that
they were almost completely still. As they stood, locked in this shuddering
embrace the man suddenly freed his right hand from Jacob’s grip and tapped him
lightly on the hip. Jacob let out a guttural roar of pain and anguish and
crumpled over as he felt his hip wrenched from its socket. He staggered
forward, grimacing and grunting and clung to the man once more, almost bent
double by the agony.
“Let go of me.”
Through gritted
teeth Jacob replied “I will not let you go unless you bless me.”
“What is your
name?”
“Jacob.”
“No. Your name
is Israel. It means, ‘One who wrestles with God’.”
Israel looked
confused, uncertain. “Please. What is your name?”
“Why do you ask
my name?”
Israel did not
answer. Instead there was a long pause as the two men looked at one another.
Breaking the stillness the man took a deep breath in and out, a sigh, somewhere
between sorrow and satisfaction. Then he
answered,
“I, I am the one
who wipes clean your rebellions, for my own sake, and your sins I do not
remember.”
