Gabriel Marcus could turn into a fox if circumstances called for this. He had a gift of keen observation and impartial perception detached from his emotions and beliefs. His friends praised him for being honest and infallible in assessment of people and their circumstances. With all this in mind, it is quite unclear what shattered his tranquil, serene attitude and beguiled him into the slippery and uncertain affair of travelling across Mediterranean in search of the truth behind the family legends,and few memories left behind their painful journeys. He was alone and the tragic accident and death of his girlfriend had obviously thrown him into spiral mourning which was turning into depression. That is what most people that knew his story thought about him. He, however, did not think of himself as depressed. The research, the project and putting together the torn tapestry of his family history has become his passion and the only light of his days. This light grew with every letter he read, any discovery made in the archives at each stop of his journey. The Professor Vasilidis gave him the directions that took him to the next town on the map: Tel-Aviv and the the Diaspora Museum. He desperately tried to delve into the stories going back to Portugal and the family of his ancestor before they became New Christians, not succeeding further than the name that they adopted, or anything older than what he already heard in Salonica. Still he learned a lot about the Jewish community in Lisbon, their struggle, conversion, leaving Portugal and disappearance of any continuity and recorded existence across the country. Tel-Aviv was hot beyond anything he experienced in his life so far, and humidity of the air burning on his skin more than sun. People were loud and crude, brazen and beautiful. Except for the names already mentioned in this history he realized there was little he could learn despite all the hours he spent pondering over information offered in the Museum. He did accomplish something else: Tel Aviv experience and two weeks he had already spent in the city has slowly developed into strange attachment to the established routines: the morning coffee on the corner, stroll to the beach that soothed him if he committed to it early enough not to have his feet scalded with hot sand, the smells and noise of the Carmel Market where he rushed to get his fruit, shouting and crowding in the streets throughout the day. Slowly, he began to adopt a few phrases in Hebrew and filled the rest with English. One morning, he woke up and did not feel at odds with everything around. He began to belong.
Posted on: Thu, 18 Jul 2013 02:54:03 +0000
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