In the Courtyard of the Kabbalist (19 page)

“Miss Tamar,” he slowly replied, “the only thing I fear is that I’ll step on something and break it.” She stared at him, her hair the color of fire falling into her eyes. “I find things,” he blurted. “I found a pomegranate,” and before he knew it, he told her how he and Rabbi Isaac had gone to the archeologist—“he had a fancy chair that made circles”—and how the rabbi almost fainted when the professor said how old the pomegranate was, and how the two men almost got into a fight over who would keep it. She listened with a kind of listening not of this world. He should have stopped talking right there about his private treasures that he had no wish to share. But no. He wanted her to keep listening in that good, serious way, nodding her head like she did, looking at him straight into his eyes, and not at his neck. He went on, “I’m not giving up, Miss Tamar. I’m still looking for more treasures to save,” and she gaped at him.

“It’s dangerous! You shouldn’t!”

Ya’allah
. Why did he tell her? He knocked his head: Showoff. Fool.
Moak
. All to get a look and a nod, a little attention from this Jewish girl.

“It is very dangerous,” she repeated, and he was moved that her first words were about him and not the pomegranate. “Your people won’t like it, and I bet our government won’t, either.” But then she asked, “Can I see the pomegranate?”

“Ask Rabbi Isaac,” he said, suddenly confused. “I gave it to him.”

“Isaac,” she repeated, nodding a little. Then she cast her eyes down, as if sad or maybe angry. And he remembered how she had laughed with the woolly bearded man in her office. She probably didn’t care for the rabbi at all. Maybe it was all his, Mustafa’s, fault. He should have given her the plants right away, when they were fresh, not the next day when they got dried up and dead.

“Be nice to Rabbi Isaac,” he urged. “He is a good man.”

She looked startled. “With all my heart I know,” she said in a quiet voice.

Mustafa nodded as hard as his neck would allow. Because hadn’t the rabbi taught him how to look and find good things in the dirt? Still, he was sad about his neck. Why couldn’t the rabbi have tried something to fix it? he thought.

A group of girl soldiers walked past. They laughed and swung their arms, their sunglasses reflecting the Dome of the Rock. “I don’t know you well,” Tamar said, turning to him in a low voice. “But I want to warn you. Maybe you shouldn’t be doing this, taking things off the mountain.”

“Allah protects.” Then he saw her
helwa
face became less pretty. She didn’t like what he said.

“You still aren’t allowed to put yourself in danger,” she insisted.

He kneaded a joint in his neck. “Allah protects,” he sulked. He wanted her to smile on him like before, not look at him with the long, angry face.

She took a step closer. “Yes, God does protect you. Your soul he protects and preserves inside you, like a wrapped gift, and makes sure it doesn’t get damaged, especially when you need it most. But your body, your life—you can’t assume that kind of protection. Take care.”

A passing soldier frowned, then chortled at the sight of the two of them.

Mustafa’s eyes caught on a spark of white light, and he gazed, transfixed, at Miss Tamar’s arm. “Where did you get that?” He pointed at the bracelet that hugged her wrist, studded with stones as small as little pills. They flashed white fire, each stone separated by a dot of gold. She glanced at her wrist. “This? I got it for my college graduation. They’re opal stones.” She looked at him sideways, a smile slipping out of her eyes. “Do you want to get the bracelet for your wife?”

“No,” he said. “For my mother. Is it much money?”

Miss Tamar couldn’t tell him exactly how much it cost—maybe a thousand dollars, she said, which was like asking for the farthest cloud.

Later that night, he prowled around the small kitchen for a snack, though he had eaten a huge meal earlier. He tapped cautiously on the door of his flatmate, Ali. “Please, can I take a fruit to eat?”

The carpet seller muttered through the door, “Take what you need—except the cheese and milk.” For a moment Mustafa was surprised Ali was up so late and then remembered the carpet seller was studying to become a licensed tour guide, specializing in the holy sites in al-Quds. Now and then Mustafa would hear the carpet seller memorizing dates, names, ancient Arabic history late into the night, and the sounds would soothe Mustafa to sleep. But not this night.

Mustafa opened the refrigerator, and then shut the door. Nothing would satisfy him, he realized. His father used to say: “The soul wants not coffee and not a café, but company.” The coffee was just an excuse. Mustafa remembered sipping hot drinks with his father late at night, his father humming a tune sung by the famous singer, Umm Kulthum, the Star of the East—was it “The Lover’s Heart Softens” or maybe “The Ruins.” What did it matter. He loved sitting with his father, away from the others, just the two of them. Sometimes his father would reach and rub Mustafa’s neck, digging his hard thumb into the old knots. Mustafa would sit very still, so as not to lose any bit of this moment. One time his father said, “I wish I could have saved you, Mustafa.” The regret in his voice was hard for a son to hear. If only Mustafa had answered, “You save me every day with your kindness, Father,” but he’d said nothing. Always his good ideas came too late. On these lonely thoughts he lulled himself to sleep, wishing, as he did every night, that he could lie on his side. As always, the awkward position of his neck forced him to sleep flat on his back.

He got up half an hour early, the predawn air sharp as a knife against his skin as he walked through the souk. In the dark, the mosque and shrine and minarets and rounded arches appeared like the humps and shadows of strange animals. He carefully eased himself on the stone seat next to the fountain, washed quickly, dried himself, and hurried to the
Gray Lady before all the worshippers arrived. He hadn’t entered the Al-Aqsa mosque to worship for many years—only to clean the place. He prayed slapdash; he picked up what he could from books and watching others. But now he was alone in the gray vault of Al-Aqsa.

He spread his arms. There was no one left to talk to—only Allah. What should he say in this large room? It wasn’t yet time for the
faqr
prayer, yet he had washed himself and now was his chance. He began reading from the first chapter of the Koran—Al Fatiha, “Praise be to Allah, sustainer of the worlds,” putting on a serene yet yearning expression, just like he had seen others do. Ah, he was a monkey, copying faces. He shut the Koran. Not a bit of serenity, no yearning here. In fact, why had he come? Oh, what should he say to Allah?

He gave his throat a good clearing. “Allah, you see, I—” And he left off speaking. He tried again. “Allah, I trust you like I trust … like I trust …” he trailed off. He began again: “You are my only real friend, Allah, if I didn’t have you I would surely die. Why should I be cast out from all? Oh, forget it, Allah, I am so shy right now—” He couldn’t continue, the words got jammed up in him. On a window ledge he picked up a laminated card: the ninety-nine names of Allah. He began chanting: The Irresistible, the Comforter, the One Without a Partner (here he saw a special kinship), the Gentle, the Subtle One, the Reckoner, the Finder, the—He stopped. The Finder.

“Allah, Allah, Allah,” he spoke in a burst, his eyes shut, “please, find me money to buy my mother gold jewelry, the real thing. Allah, don’t be insulted, my heart loves you, but I also want my
oma
to say a good word to me, too, and let me back to the village. Put it into your servant’s feeble brain from where all this cash will come. From your trying-to-be-loyal-and-good custodian, Mustafa, ameen, ameen.” His eyes sprang open and he added, “I know you can do all miracles and this wouldn’t be so great for you, but for me it would be great.” He paused. “Ameen.”

He prostrated himself on the carpet, his head heavy and important with his prayers. How comfortable this kneeling position was! Here, his face and nose didn’t poke into the floor but turned naturally to the side. His crooked head that bothered the other worshippers was meant for praying, he decided.

The cry “Prayer is better than sleep” sliced the dawn air, and as the
heavy-lidded worshippers began to arrive, Mustafa unfolded his body, got stiffly to his feet and exited the mosque. He went to his hiding place and surveyed all the treasures he had collected these past few weeks: a base of a jug; a long, thin marble stick broken at the end; a piece of clay that looked like a bird. Each was a present from Allah. A gift, yes. He struck his forehead. By the hand of Allah, look what was here! These objects had to be worth some money! Allah was showing him how to get back to his village and his mother. “Praise be to the Finder of Lost Objects,” he uttered.

After work, he browsed through the souk and picked up green wheat and other items for a soup. He passed a store: Hala’s Jewelry Shop. An old woman in a white
jalabeeya
held out her arms from under an awning, strands of gold chains streaming from her spindly gray fingers.

While he was cooking the onion, chicken, and green wheat for the soup, his flatmate entered. Ali sniffed with pleasure, his thin nostrils dilating. “
Salaam
, Mustafa. What’s this nice thing cooking? Is that
freka
?”

“My mother makes it for my birthday,” Mustafa stretched the truth: She had made the soup for him only once, and not for his birthday, which he didn’t know anyway. He set out bowls and spoons, and they drank cups of Wisotsky Earl Gray tea while they waited.

Ali made chitchat. His brother installed air conditioners and was making a bundle of money. His niece, the foolish girl, had stopped wearing the hijab. A neighbor from his village was shot down in front of a bakery and cut up like a zucchini. “
Wiseh
—a dirty one,” he said, shaking his head. An informer.

The good soup smells had made his roommate talkative. When it was ready, they ate fast, now saying little except to point out a bird on a ledge or to adjust the fan on the counter. After the second bowl of
freka
, Mustafa put down his spoon. “Do you know a place to sell old things?” As he said this, his heart knocked against the wall of his chest. Would he really sell these old precious things?

“Old things?” the carpet seller repeated, exploring something in the far reaches of his mouth. “You mean clothes?”

“No. Old things from long ago—pottery, ancient lamps.” In the air his hands formed the wide bottom of a jug. “Things like that.” He thought: If he sold these things, they’d no longer be his. Gone forever. He put a hand on his belly to quell a disagreeable feeling. And what about Rabbi Isaac?

Didn’t they belong a little to him, too? He shook his head. He only owed to himself. He closed his eyes and saw Hala’s Jewelry Shop.

“Oh, you mean antiquities.” Ali nodded. He dipped a toasted pita bread into the soup. He was silent for a long time, probing a mole on his neck. “Yes, I know a man who sells such things. Yusef al-Ghazali. An antiquities dealer. Depends on what it is, of course. You have something?”

“Not me,” he lied. “I know somebody.”

“If it’s really an antiquity,” the carpet seller stared out with a sage look, “he could get a lot of money.”

Ya’allah
. If only he had kept the pomegranate. “Where’s this dealer?” he asked casually.

“Next to the carpentry shop on Bab el-Silsileh Road. You pass it all the time, I’m sure.” Ali paused before going to his room. “Wake well in the morning.”

After the carpet seller left, Mustafa stared at the dirty bowls. He placed his hands on his stomach. He burped, and it left a putrid trace in his throat. Then he remembered his bragging words to Miss Tamar, how he would save these things for her, how he told the rabbi he would protect and care for them. He groaned.

“Well, Mustafa,” he said to himself, “so you would really sell these things?” His stomach lurched. The
freka
was no good. Moments later he was retching into the rusting toilet. Afterward, he cleaned himself, washed out his mouth, and wrote down the dealer’s name and address, humming to himself. And he tucked the note into an old eyeglass case that had belonged to his father, peace be upon him and salvation.

Something peculiar happened at the courtyard—something Isaac couldn’t explain in rational terms and that disturbed him to no end.

He had been unloading a box of frozen gefilte fish early one morning when he glimpsed through the kitchen window a feminine form scurry into the courtyard. Could it be—? He shoved the last fish roll into the freezer and banged his finger in the process. Nursing his knuckle, he dashed outside just in time to catch Mrs. Edelman unsnagging her skirt caught on a rosemary bush. Oh. The widow Edelman, and his heart sagged. Resolute, he brushed his palms against the side of his pant and walked over, the heat of the morning rising between the cracks in the stone ground. Mrs. Edelman hadn’t come in weeks. Why now? He gazed at her in her everyday brown pageboy wig. Once again, she was wearing a navy outfit. It was practically her uniform.

She turned to face him, and what an expression on the widow’s face: furtive, distraught. “I’ve got an unpleasant situation on my hands.”