In the Courtyard of the Kabbalist (23 page)

After lunch, a zaftig bewigged woman in the courtyard said something that sent all these troubling thoughts flying from his mind. The woman confided she was having fantasies about yeshiva students her husband brought home on Shabbos.

Standing near the open kitchen window, he caught a whiff of fried onions. “What kind of fantasties?” Isaac said, distracted, then immediately fell silent. He really didn’t want to know.

Her cheeks flaming, she muttered, “I don’t like to say it out loud. And here, most of these boys twenty, thirty years younger than me.”

He glanced at the plump lady standing there so tremulously, and he scratched roughly at his eczematic elbow. “A person must train his mind and heart to stand guard over his body,” he said firmly. “This applies to women, too. ‘You shall be holy’,” he quoted from Leviticus. “Try lighting a candle in your room for a zaddik,” he advised. “Learn some Torah before you go to sleep.” He nodded. That’s how he managed, more or less.

The plump woman leaned against the cottage and looked at the ground in bewilderment and shame. Just then, Isaac heard a
tap-tap
sound. It was the rebbetzin knocking at the open kitchen window. Shaindel Bracha had heard everything! He was mortified. The rebbetzin beckoned him inside with a quick movement of her turbaned head, and, after mumbling an apology to the lady, Isaac took off.

The rebbetzin was stirring about in the kitchen while fat ribbons of noodles boiled on the stove next to a pot of gefilte fish. He could smell a kugel in the oven—potato? broccoli?—and from the look of things, there was another kugel in the making. Shaindel Bracha was breaking eggs, one by one, into a plastic container and checking them for blood spots before plopping them into a larger mixing bowl.

“Yes, Rebbetzin?”

She rubbed her turbaned head with the heel of her wrist and wiped her hands against her apron—a new one, swirling with primary colors. “Give the woman this number.” She slid a scrap of paper across the counter. “A Reb Lazer Kaminsky. The lady and her husband should make an appointment with him.”

He stared down at the paper. “Who is he?”

She turned off the flame under the noodles. “A counselor in marital intimacy—something like that.” Now she was stirring the eggs, beating them until frothy. “Could you get me the cinnamon?”

A sex therapist. “
Gottenyu!
” he expostulated, his ears burning. “They’ll never go.” He opened a cabinet and plucked out a dusty cylindrical container.

Shaindel Bracha shut her eyes and averted her face as she poured the pot of steaming noodles into a colander. “Believe me, he’ll know how to talk to this couple. A lot of couples—even from Meah Shearrim—consult with this man.” Her cheeks and forehead were flushed from the steam. “Why shouldn’t this couple?”

Feh! She made it sound like going to an accountant. “It’s a private matter,” he insisted. “Between husband and wife …” he trailed off as he plunked down the cinnamon before her.

She rolled her eyes ever so slightly. “If your teeth are crooked, you go see a dentist. Now hurry, it’s urgent,” she said. She turned on the cold water faucet and let the water run over the noodles. “That lady outside is
very, very angry. Her husband has been disappointing her for who knows how many decades. Give her the number. That’s what the rebbe always did in these situations.”

As if in a fog, he watched her pour oil into the egg mixture, followed by honey, a heavy shake of cinnamon and a gentle shake of salt. She glanced up as she squeezed out a splash of lemon juice. “
Nu?
Well?” she said. “She’s waiting.”

“It’s unseemly,” he protested. The whole topic filled him with disquiet.

“Ah, yes, better a woman should do it,” she conceded, and snatched the paper back. “Pour the noodles in,” she called over her shoulder. “And the cut-up apples.” Through the kitchen window, he watched her nimbly darting between various people in the courtyard, sidestepping Gilgul, a baby carriage, and a garbage can as she made her way to the woman. A few loose apple cubes lay scattered on the kitchen table and he ate them anxiously. “But the rebbe,” he mumbled out loud, lifting a feeble hand. He then remembered many sayings that the rebbe had loosely culled from the sages: “The women in Egypt brought about the redemption because they flirted with and desired their husbands.” Or: “When husbands and wives have a strong attraction, their children will be wise and handsome.” Or: “A man should have relations with his wife as if a spirit of the devil had entered him—and may they both have the pleasure of their lives.” Come to think of it, the rebbe and rebbetzin must have had a great time together, he mused with a touch of wistfulness. Often, late at night, he had heard muffled sounds of laughter coming from their bedroom.

Through the kitchen window, he saw the zaftig lady opening the gate. She seemed to be smiling at the rebbetzin. And he thought:
Why couldn’t I do that?
He cautiously poured the noodles into the egg mixture, and they slithered out in one
whoosh
. He tossed the cubed apples into the stew of noodles and eggs and inserted the whole mess into a greased dish. A fan on the counter gave off gusts of relief in the hot, small kitchen.

Later, when Shaindel Bracha peeked into the oven to see how the noodle kugel was faring, he said, “I have a favor to ask,” and watched as she grazed the kugel’s outer skin with her finger. She was frowning. “Oven’s broken again?” he observed.

“It went kaput. It’ll get it working soon, I’m sure,” she said, bending on a knee and squinting at the oven’s dark insides. “If not, we’ll call a repairman.”
She pulled on the oven’s crotchety knobs and gave a sharp whack at the side. Some internal clicking noise happened. “There!” She got to her feet.

“You and your miracle oven,” he said, smiling. “Now, what was my question? Oh, yes.” He coughed, trying to dispel an itch at the back of his throat. “Do you think you can manage alone for one day? I need to take time off. Day after tomorrow.”

“Oh?” She toyed with an amber brooch. “Where are you going?”

“Out with Tamar,” he said in a neutral voice. “Up north.”

“That’s nice,” she said, rinsing her hands at the sink. “Have fun.”

He tensed slightly in his chair, waiting for encouragement, tips and blessings, and when none came, he sat back.

She dried her hands on a checkered dish towel. “So tell me, Isaac, what’s doing with the pomegranate?” She looked over at him. “When is the story coming out?”

“Who knows?” He tossed an arm. “I keep calling and get no answers.” That Yossi was a bungler, just like Isaac had suspected.

“Oh.” She looked crestfallen as she straightened the towel on the oven’s handle. “Well, why not contact the Israel Museum authorities then? Something has to be done,” she said, sitting down on the wooden folding chair facing his.

These were the same words Rebbe Yehudah had said to him. Practically his last words. But Isaac hadn’t listened. Not really.

“I’m sorry, Rebbetzin. I suppose you could say I’ve been distracted.” He stared out the window at the same pair of men who had taken to hanging around the courtyard for no reason he could discern. Both wore large black hats and thin black ties as if in a cowboy Western. He shook his head at their ridiculous attire. Dressed all wrong for the part. And they did seem to be playing a part, with their overly earnest prayer. “Have you seen any strange doings at the courtyard, people sniffing around, anything out of the ordinary?”

“Not that I’ve noticed,” Shaindel Bracha said. “Why do you ask?” She opened the oven and gently laid the noodle kugel inside.

His eyes followed the men outside. They were perspiring profusely, constantly adjusting their oversize hats, as if unaccustomed to their weight. Neither had yet to speak to him, so what were they doing here? Were they plants? Like his father used to say, “If you have nothing to do
here, go do nothing someplace else.” Up to no good, he concluded, though he didn’t want to alarm the rebbetzin. “No reason,” he said out loud.

Then he gathered up the loose dishes and ingredients.

Mustafa stood outside Jaffa Gate. A mild westerly wind blew in from the
wadi jehinun
, and he lifted his arms slightly, to catch the breeze. A date tree stuck out its dried-out fronds as if begging for alms. What a terrible day it had been. Lines and lines at the Haram.

A few Israelis waited at the bus shelter, holding fast to their huge shopping bags as if they were young children who might run off. Shopping and shopping, for this world and the next. The men and women stared at him with eyes of fear and curiosity. His gaze brushed past them and he saw a young woman with red hair, in braids. Ah, yes. Miss Tamar. She wore a long, colorful skirt almost touching the ground.

Miss Tamar smiled as if she knew him for many years. “Hey, Mustafa, where are you going?” she asked in her warm, pleasant way that always made him feel so good.

“To the Mashbir.” He had always wanted to shop at the big Israeli department store. With the money left over from the sale to Mr. Kareem he was going to buy nice underwear, the same kind in
JC Penney
, and maybe get the hole in his shoe patched.

“Really?” She flipped a braid over her shoulder. “What are you going to buy?”

“Just things.” He scuffed one banged-up shoe against the other. He saw a big Israeli man in shorts watching him with a look of envy, as if to say: Why does that pathetic one get to talk to a pretty girl and not me? Meanwhile, an old grandma on the bus stoop glared with suspicion at Mustafa. “Where is your motorcycle?” he asked.

“In the shop, getting fixed.” She tried to explain what was wrong with it, but he couldn’t concentrate.

“Do you know what happened?” he broke in. “A stupid boy set off a
firecracker and now the guards think everyone is carrying a bomb.” He grumbled, “That’s why it took me one hour to get off the Haram.”

“Whoa! Tell me what happened!” Miss Tamar’s eyes opened so wide, so excited, that he had to tell her the whole story, every detail, even the spanking.

“So now I ask you, is that a good reason to bother everyone, just because of a firecracker?” He saw her staring at the brown tip of his toe just beginning to jut through his shoe, and he tucked his foot behind his other leg.

“I keep on meaning to ask you, have you found anything else”—she cocked her head—“up there?”

“Oh, yes!” He smiled broadly. “Miss Tamar, it’s a miracle. I found, an old clay—” He stopped. Confusion swept his face. He clamped his hand over his mouth and one eye.

“What is it, Mustafa? A clay what?”

With his hands still on his face, he awkwardly shook his head.

“You have to tell me,” she insisted. She stepped close, trying to position her face to catch his one exposed eye, but then he covered that one, too. “You found something valuable,” he heard her say. “Something made out of clay. Is that it?” He opened his eyes and saw her looking at him closely.

He lowered both hands.

“And you’re afraid,” she said quietly. “Why?”

“I—oh—Miss Tamar,” he choked, and couldn’t continue.

“Please,” she begged. “Did something bad happen?”

“No. Not something bad. I found a clay bird, a dove, with Hebrew letters on it, just like the pomegranate. But it must stay a secret.”

“What? You found a clay dove?” She broke off, speechless. “You’ll have to show it to Isaac!”

Ya’allah
. At this, he struck his forehead. His big bragging mouth had gotten him into trouble again. Why did he have to mention the clay dove? No one had to know. Least of all the rabbi. “It’s still up there on the Haram,” he groaned. “I can’t get it off.”

“Don’t take any chances,” she cautioned. “The main thing is—be safe.”

Hot air swirled all around him. He felt tired and dizzy, his tongue too heavy to carry in his mouth. His foolish talking tongue. What next would come out of his mouth—how he hoped to sell the clay dove and make
plenty of money? “Excuse me, miss,” he said, “I have to go.” He turned and teetered toward the Jaffa Gate arch.

“What’s wrong, Mustafa?” she called after him. “Aren’t you going to the Mashbir?”

“Maybe tomorrow.” The day was spoiled. Another time he would buy the underwear and fix his shoe.

Behind him, he heard her footsteps, but since he didn’t want to answer any more questions, he tried to scuttle away.

“I just remembered something!” she called again. “Do you have any messages for Isaac? I’m going to see him tomorrow. We’re going on a date!”

He turned and saw her happy face and fought down a deep feeling of sadness and despair. Now he would be alone and no one would ever talk to him, not the rabbi or Miss Tamar. Just this week he noticed Hamdi was eating a falafel and laughing with a new worker. Already his old friend had forgotten Mustafa. As for Ali, his flatmate only spoke with him when he cooked a tasty dish. That didn’t count. And his brother Tariq hadn’t called in months. “I think the rabbi doesn’t want to get married!” he shouted over his bad shoulder.

Miss Tamar had stopped next to a display of goat drums. Her face looked as though someone had slapped it. “Did he tell you this?”

Confusion broke over him again. Both he and the rabbi—neither would ever marry. He was sure Rabbi Isaac had said this. “Yes!” he said. He walked quickly, limping on the leg with the torn shoe, before she would ask him something else. He passed the tourist information booth, a fabric and knickknack store, and the police station. He didn’t have time for such questions. The main thing was—get the clay bird off the mountain. He needed to come up with a plan. He would try tomorrow. Then the day after. Soon Allah would smile on him.

He looked over his shoulder—Miss Tamar stood next to the goat drum stand like some lost little girl—then he turned back and walked on and on, past the Citadel of David, past the post office and the Three Religions Doll Museum, nearly stepping into a steaming clump of donkey turd, going as fast as he could to escape all Miss Tamar’s annoying questions, until he realized he was walking straight into the Jewish Quarter when surely he needed to be going the other way.

Pale and anxious, Isaac sat next to Tamar as they waited for the bus to rev up. It was a mistake. He could literally smell the mistake: a perfume scent on Tamar not unlike honeysuckle. A three-hour bus ride sitting next to a beautiful, lively, intelligent young woman. Was he a twenty-year-old to go running off in the middle of a Jerusalem workday? Horseback riding yet, just the two of them. It had a vaguely illicit feeling.