Paris: The Novel

her how Geneviève—supposedly—saved Paris from Attila the Hun. I find these stories absurd, but shouldn’t she at least know them?”
    “When she is older, I would agree with you. But she tells these stories to your friends’ children, and they don’t like it.”
    “They say nothing to me.”
    “No. But to me they do.” The rabbi took a deep breath. “Jacob, we are sorry that you have no son, but Naomi is a daughter. You cannot turn her into a boy.”
    “Have you any other advice?”
    “You do not always come to the synagogue.”
    “Perhaps this is the real reason you are here.”
    “No. But if you turn your face from God, then God will turn his face from you. This is certain.”
    “I am grateful for your concern.”
    “I have told you only what is for your own good.”
    Jacob stared at him. He was angry. But he was also hurt. And the fact that some of the things the rabbi said might be true did not make it any better.
    “I will consider your advice,” he said coldly.
    “You should. It is good advice. I shall tell your friends that it has been given.”
    This was the last straw. Was this rabbi really trying to impose himself between him and all his neighbors? Was this his object?
    “You are a fool,” Jacob suddenly burst out. “My father always told me your father was a fool. Your son will be a fool as well.”
    “Do not speak to me like that, Jacob.”
    “Get out.”
    The next week, Jacob observed the Sabbath in his home. But he did not go to the synagogue. He did return the week after. But although he had many friends, an invisible bond between himself and the rest of the congregation had been broken. What else, he wondered, might his so-called friends say to the rabbi behind his back?

    And then, as if to give the lie to the notion that God had turned His face from him, Sarah announced that she was going to have another child.
    If Jacob was thrilled, he was also concerned. God might be smiling upon him again, but common sense told him to be careful. Two boys lost and a miscarriage: the record was not good. He resolved to take every precaution. He wished his father were still alive to give him guidance.
    As the weeks went by, therefore, he protected Sarah night and day. He made her promise not to exert herself. If he was out in the city, he’d come back several times during the day to make sure that she was keeping her promise. He realized that he was giving less attention to Naomi than he usually did, and felt guilty about it. But though she was only eight years old, Naomi seemed perfectly to understand. Each evening he would read stories to them both in front of the fire.
    They never discussed whether the baby would be a girl or a boy. The subject was too sensitive. But one day when Sarah was in her sixth month, a visiting neighbor remarked to him: “I see your wife is going to have a boy.”
    “Why do you think so?” he asked.
    “By the way she carries the child, the way she walks,” the woman replied. “I can always tell.”
    And at this news, Jacob’s heart leaped for joy. But he said nothing even to Sarah. And he was glad that he had not. For a few days later, passing the kitchen, he overheard Naomi say: “I wonder if my father will still love me so much if the baby is a boy.” And he knew that his little daughter was right, and his heart went out to her. And he vowed on the spot that never, never would he love her any less, or show that he cared more to have a son than a daughter.
    It was in the eighth month that things began to go wrong. The physician, a man whose judgment he trusted almost as well as he had his own father’s, took him aside and told him: “I believe this will be a difficult birth, Jacob.”
    “You mean she may lose the child?”
    “It may be difficult for both of them.”
    “What can I do?”
    “Trust in the Lord. I will do the rest.”
    It was now approaching midwinter. Some mornings, the cobbles in the street were slippery with ice. He told Sarah that she must on no account go outside. He kept the fire burning night and day.
    Two more weeks passed. Her time was drawing near.
    Then one night came a knock on the door.
    It was Renard. His friend came in quickly, embraced him, asked after Sarah and Naomi and then said in a low voice that they must speak alone.
    They went into Jacob’s little counting house and closed the door.
    “No one must know that I came here tonight,” Renard began. “What I have to tell you must remain a secret for your own