Until recently, the Bom-Retiro quarter consisted of an entanglement of Jewish alleyways. Portuguese and Yiddish shouts connected the sidewalks. Hawkers wearing payot in caftans pitched blue jeans; half-naked women pitched themselves. Honking Volkswagens tried to find a way through. Back then, I went there on occasion to play a game with myself. I tried to guess the origins of the people. Afterward I made sure I was correct. It was easy for me to distinguish Sephardim from Ashkenazi, but I had problems separating Smyrneans from people from Constantinople or Frankfurters from Viennese. The highpoint of this game—and its end—came about as follows:

An old gentleman wearing a prayer coat and sandals but without a head cover or sidelocks slowly strode along the alleyway. I could not categorize him. Even the main categories, Ashkenazi-Sephardi did not fit. I then addressed him in Portuguese. He politely responded in a language unknown to me. While I am unfamiliar with Semitic languages, it seemed to me that his language was related to Hebrew the way Latin is to Portuguese. I rejected this absurd theory in favor of one more reasonable: the old gentleman probably spoke a Yemenite dialect. He had likely just arrived in São Paulo as he appeared lost. He needed help. I stopped a taxi and the old gent willingly got in. I told the driver to take us to the library. There, I wanted to consult a Yemenite dictionary.

The Yemenite dictionary wasn’t any help. I then asked the librarian for a Chaldean dictionary. While she was searching, I tried to mobilize in my memory the saved chunks I had stored regarding Ur (and to simultaneously free myself of the etymologically misleading smack of German): Kaldi was Semitic; several Babylonian kings (Nabopolassar and his descendants) were Chaldean; the priestly caste of Mesopotamia consisted primarily of Chaldeans; for the classic Ancients the Chaldeans were magicians and astrologers; later, the Chaldean language was mistaken for Aramaic, and as such it has been used by a Christian sect unto the present day. The librarian reemerged, beaming, with an English-Chaldean dictionary. I opened it, sat down in front of the old gentleman who was blinking, amused, and asked: “Abi-ram? Ab-hamon? Ab-rucham? Sarah?” Laughing loudly, he responded: “Abi.” There was an unmistakable undertone of authority in his laugh.

I understood: “I am father, you are son, no matter which surname you give me, and I ask you not to invert the roles, please.” I handed him the dictionary so that he could lead the conversation instead of me. I knew how risky it would be to oppose him—did he not betray his business partner, and did he not even seek to betray God? Did he not prostitute his wife, and on top of that disinherit his sons in favor of just one? And did he not aim to murder this chosen son? He opened the dictionary and—pointing to the English page opposite the Chaldean words—began to interrogate me:

“Did He actually keep His promise?” I thought he meant “His contract,” that thing with the sand on the ocean, and I responded, “There are approximately 16 million Jews, that’s how the grandchildren of your grandson Jacob are called, but there are way over 4 billion other people.”

He was not interested in statistics (or in Jews). “Did He do better later on than back then with Sarah?”—“As far as I know, He tried three more times. With Rachel, with a certain Mary, and with Mohammed, an Arabian man.”—“I know about Rachel. Do tell me about Mary.”—“He impregnated her using Gabriel; he became a rabbi, who took the sins of all people upon himself.”—“Did that eliminate sin?”—“No, because the people did not really believe in the rabbi and merely simulated their faith. And the rabbi did not want to take their freedom of choice from them. He never forced them to follow him.”—“And hence the renewed attempt with this Mohammed”?—“Yes. In this case Gabriel dictated a book to him instead of getting someone pregnant.”

He laughed and slapped his thighs: “As a second, revised edition of this rabbi?”—“Yes. But this did not really diminish the sum of the world’s sins either.”

“And apart from that, how have the people carried on since I left?”—“They understood the world better and better. That’s how it changed, as you have been able to see.”—“Did they do that to improve themselves?”—“Is it not indeed interesting to want to recognize the world as an end in itself?”

He became angry: “Shut up! This is why I left Ur.”—“Many people tried to better themselves.”—“They wanted to correct the mistakes He had made?”—“Rather, they wanted a better life.”—“Did they succeed?”—“They live longer now, suffer less pain, experience more, and have many things at their disposal.”—“You idiot! That’s what you call a better life?”

I was offended. “Yes. A better life is more life.”

He doubled over with laughter. “You think life is an end in itself?”—“There are people who ask about the meaning of life. But the answers are so paltry that I’m ashamed of them.”—“Have at it, dear little son!”—“Some think you live for others—without knowing what they live for. Some think you live for the grandchildren and they for their own grandchildren. Again, others think that you live for a future life, and that this one is without meaning. I myself think you live to learn as much as possible.”—“And what have you learned?”—“For example, that the world is much bigger and older than you assume.” I was furious now. “How much bigger and older?”—“These are dimensions that you cannot even imagine.”—“But you, of course, are able to imagine them?”—“No, I can’t either.”

He choked with laughter. “This is the utter nonsense you learned?”—I couldn’t help myself: “This isn’t nonsense at all. It produces better cheese than the one for which you betrayed Lot.”

Screaming, he stood up: “You think I left Ur to make goat cheese? I curse my seed!” I fell to the floor, put my head in his lap and pleaded: “Teach me, father, about the meaning of life.” His wrath turned to laughter: “A curse, after all, is better pedagogy than a blessing.” While he placed his hand upon me, I posed this question: “Please, what is it that makes you laugh so hard?”—“You have no sense of humor. And jokes cannot be explained.”