The Masada Complex (62 page)

The imam and the bearded man exchanged rapid whispers over Father’s head while he continued his recital of the holy book. The bearded man said, “We’ve never heard of this Abu Faddah.”

They whispered to each other again, nodding in agreement.

Imam Abdul declared, “You’re an Israeli spy.”

“Or an American spy,” the bearded man added. “Or both.”

Professor Silver entered the office and paused at the sight of Rabbi Josh hunched over the desk, his back to the door. “Hello, Joshua,” he said.

“Oh, hi there.” The rabbi turned, the computer screen going blank before Silver could see what he had been looking at.

There was an awkward moment, and Silver asked, “Will you go to the rally later?”

“I’m still in the
shiva
period. No festivities allowed.”

“Hardly a celebration. It’s more of a national protest.”

“Why not celebrate? The suspension of American aid means true independence, right?” Rabbi Josh’s voice had a touch of sarcasm, as if it were a trick question.

“That’s an interesting—”

“Kind of a biblical isolation? A preordained fulfillment of Israel’s
destiny?
”

The rabbi’s tone was contentious, but what debate was he trying to win? Silver sighed. Between these three Jews—Al, Masada, and the rabbi—a psychiatrist could have kept busy for years. “Joshua, I’m not sure what you’re talking about. May I use the phone, please?”

“Sure. We’ll talk later.” Rabbi Josh left the office.

Silver called Ezekiel to arrange a ride to Mount Masada at 2:30 a.m. He reminded the driver that a lady friend would be joining. “Please don’t ask her questions. Her life is in shambles. She is fragile.”

“Of course,” Ezekiel said. “Say no more.”

“It’s important that you understand.” Silver assumed the cabby would be questioned by police after Masada’s death. “I’m worried about her. I told her not to go, but she insists. What good would it do, to open up old wounds? She’s so depressed as it is. Who knows what can happen?” Silver sighed. “Two thirty in the morning then.”

Masada stood in line at a food market down the street from the Ramban Hostel, holding a basket with oranges, apples, and dried figs. A wide-screen TV mounted above the cashier reported that large police forces were gathering in preparation for more than a million Israelis expected to attend the national rally in Jerusalem to protest the vote in the U.S. Senate. The anchor mentioned the rumor that the writer Masada El-Tal, who recently made
aliyah
after losing her American citizenship, might speak at the rally tonight. Her photo appeared.

“The goyim kicked you out.” A man with wild white hair rattled a bunch of grapes he was holding. “We should crucify you at the gates of the city, like we used to do with traitors.”

“Oh, shush!” a fat woman in the back of the line said. “Leave her alone! What do we need the goyim for anyway? They can keep their money.”

“America is not the goyim,” the cashier said with a Russian accent, moving items over the bar-code reader. “America is a Yiddisher country. Who do you think calls the shots in the White House? The smart
Yids
with PhDs, that’s who. Like Kissinger.”

“Henri Kissinger?” The fat woman laughed. “He retired thirty years ago. Is he still alive?”

“That’s what the anti-Semites say.” A bespectacled man looked up from his newspaper. “The Elders of Zion control the world. It’s absurd. We’re the victims!”

“We are victims of Jews like her.” The first one rattled his grapes at Masada again. “Spreading lies, telling the goyim that Israel pays dirty money for a pound of legislation. That’s anti-Semitism! Shame on you!”

Rabbi Josh stood by the office door, eavesdropping on Professor Silver’s conversation. Why would he take Masada to the memorial service? Why was he telling the driver she was depressed? The professor’s protective tone contrasted with the ominous falseness of what he was saying.

A terrible possibility occurred to Rabbi Josh. If Silver had been behind the bribe as part of an End of Days conspiracy, then he had also directed the attacks on Masada—the brownies, the rattlesnake, the gas explosion, the shootings. Was Silver planning to murder Masada and make it look like a suicide? The few people who really knew her would never believe she killed herself, but the Israeli police could see the logic—her life destroyed by a series of misfortunes, the writer bids farewell to her dead brother and jumps off Mount Masada.

The whole idea seemed unreal. Levy Silver, the bad guy? Rabbi Josh felt as if he’d caught a glint of the devil in the eyes of a beloved friend.

Inside the office, the professor hung up the phone.

Rabbi Josh retreated into the ladies’ room, his mind swirling with doubts. A woman was powdering her nose at the mirror. He kept his back to her, his foot stuck in the door, and watched Professor Silver cross the lobby and exit the hostel.

“Hey,” the woman said behind him, “are you lost?”

“Completely! Lost and confused!” He hurried through the lobby, down to the sidewalk.

Silver was strolling toward downtown, his head swaying from side to side in the slow manner he had developed lately. The rabbi fell behind, keeping a distance. His feet, bathed in anesthetizing ointment, squeaked inside his shoes. Buses and trucks rumbled by, pedestrians rushing on their midday errands.

Police barricades blocked motorized traffic to Jaffa Street. The wide thoroughfare was filling with thousands of people in advance of the rally. Many wore yellow shirts, some of them big enough to fit over the ultra-Orthodox black coats. Vendors were selling flags and whistles and yellow plastic hammers. An old man wearing a wool sac and rope sandals held a sign:
Jews Who Don’t Pray Keep the Messiah Away.

The professor stopped by a cart of drinks and ice cream, lingered by a hot dog stand, and chatted briefly with a youth selling sugared peanuts, who proffered a brown bag. But he bought nothing and walked on, unaware of the middle finger the youth raised behind him. Rabbi Josh’s mouth watered at the appetizing smells as he kept up with Professor Silver.

Close to the walls of the Old City, the crowd grew denser. The Jaffa Gate had been decorated with Israeli flags and yellow ribbons. A stage had been erected against the walls. Expecting Silver to find a shaded spot to wait for the rally, Rabbi Josh hung back. A group of noisy youth passed by, blocking his view. When they moved on, the professor had disappeared.

Rabbi Josh hopped onto a garbage bin and searched the wide avenue, catching sight of the short figure with the black beret entering the Old City through the Jaffa Gate. But he wasn’t alone. A man followed Silver through the gate—tall, with black hair and a black yarmulke, resembling the fragrant driver who had argued with Silver and grabbed his arm.

The rabbi ran after them. Inside the gate, he searched the sea of hats, yarmulkes, kafiyas, and bare heads. He proceeded up the street, past the entrance to David’s Tower, where pedestrian traffic thinned out. He ran back to the gate area, slowing by each storefront, glancing inside.

They were gone.

A narrow market alley greeted him with dim light and the dense aroma of smoked meats, spices, and dried fruits. He ignored a pleading vendor and went deeper down the alley, filled with tourists and goods overflowing from shallow stalls.

Three women were chatting in German while a fourth tried on a kafiya. Next to them, he saw Silver and the other man arguing in hushed voices.

The rabbi pretended to examine a copper teapot, turning away to hide his face. The Arab merchant said, “You like?”

He nodded.

The professor and his companion walked slowly down the alley.

“Sixty dollar,” the Arab said, and tore a sheet from a roll of brown wrapping paper.

“Fifteen.” The rabbi glanced at them.

“Forty, okay?” The shopkeeper held ready the wrapping paper. “Very good price.”

Rabbi Josh peeked over the tray to see where they were heading. “Fourteen.”

“Thirty!” The Arab raised two fingers. “Cheap!”

They allowed Elizabeth to use the bathroom while Father and the other two discussed the ludicrous idea of her being a spy. She relieved herself in a reeking hole in the floor and rinsed her face in the single faucet over a plastic bucket. She moistened her hair and brushed it behind her ears.

Back before them, she decided to take control of the situation. “As an experienced lawyer, I assume Islamic law requires evidence to convict a person of a crime.”

Father returned to muttering the verses. The bearded man said, “We are fighting a jihad. You serve the American Satan. Do you deny it?”

“Satan?” Elizabeth had to laugh. “The United States is a country with millions of free citizens who vote to elect their representatives and officials—”

“Women too?” Imam Abdul sneered.

“That’s right! You can mock America, but Palestine and the rest of the Arab world will never thrive until women are allowed to participate in political and economic life. We are like a person trying to run on one leg. Our women will double our national—”

“Silence!” Father closed his book and pointed a trembling finger at her. “You speak of women? You are no woman. Barren as a field of rocks.” He spat on the floor.

She stepped closer. “You’re wrong.”

Father waved a bony hand. “A woman bears children, not political fantasies.”

Her hand rested on her midriff. “I can do both.”