Jerusalem Stone

by Susan Sofayov

  I pulled him close and kissed him, overwhelmed by a wave of love for an eight-year-old Avi that I’d never met.

  The courtyard contained archeological digs, gardens, and an amphitheater. Avi explained that the theater provided seating for a show that combined music, lights, and virtual reality to tell the history of Jerusalem. He looked at me. “It plays every night. If you want, I’ll order tickets.”

  “I’m in. Let’s go see it.”

  We meandered around the courtyard and the rest of the museum for another hour. When we reached the exit, I looked at him. “Well, sexy tour guide, what’s next?”

  “Snack time, of course. Follow me.” We didn’t have to walk far to find a souvenir shop selling Jerusalem T-shirts, key chains, and hookahs. But near the checkout counter, Avi located what he came for. He paid the clerk for two bottles of water and two bags of gummy bears. “Now we can walk the ramparts.” He opened the first bottle of water and handed it to me. “Gummy bears now or during the walk?”

  I playfully pulled a bag from him and kissed his cheek. “Now.”

  The entrance to the North side of the ramparts consisted of a barely noticeable passageway situated between an ancient stone street leading to the Christian Quarter and the Jaffa Gate.

  Before we climbed the steps leading to the ramparts, I looked over at the Gate. Sitting in the shade provided by the giant stone wall, the old Arab man played backgammon with another robed man. The camel still looked bored.

  The narrow path of the northern ramparts went as far as Lion’s Gate. As we walked the uneven stones, Avi pointed out the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. He described how Christians came from all over the world to walk the streets of the Christian Quarter where Jesus carried the cross.

  When we reached the Moslem Quarter, I heard the muezzin summoning the Moslems to prayers by chanting an ancient call from the minarets scattered through their quarter.

  “Look,” I said, pointing down at a group of uniformed children playing soccer.

  “A school.” He pointed to the right. “And those are the homes where many of those kids live.”

  I’d never really thought about people living in the Old City. In my mind, modern Israelis lived outside the walls. But, not far from the place I stood, a hajib clad woman hung out her laundry to dry or should I say roast in the breezeless, afternoon sun.

  Our walk ended near the Lion’s Gate. “Time to turn around and go back,” he said.

  On the return, we talked about various buildings outside the wall. He pointed out the King David Hotel, which was near his apartment building, the Jerusalem YMCA, and Hebrew University perched high on the mountain side. By the time we exited through Jaffa Gate, even my shoes needed a break.

  “I think it’s time to go home,” he said, clasping my hand. “I don’t want you burning out on history overload.”

  “No way, this has been the most fascinating day of my life. Who knew dead historical figures could be so interesting?"

  We strolled through the residential part of the city and turned down a narrow street. “Shortcut,” he said.

  “Stop,” I said, in front of a small bookstore with a picture window displaying hardback books in English. “Can we go in for a minute?”

  He smiled. “Sure. I’ll introduce you to another one of my soccer buddies. He owns this place.”

  The store smelled like every other used-book store I’d ever been in--musty and dusty, which was one of my top five favorite smells after Avi, the ocean, pizza, and coconut oil. I ambled over to a table displaying vintage former best sellers, opened each one, scanned the first few pages, and returned it to the table.

  “What are you doing?” he asked, sliding his hand down the length of my hair.

  “I collect signed books. Sometimes, I stumble across one in places like this.”

  “Dig around as much as you want. I’m going to go find Adir and say hello.”

  He pecked my cheek and walked down the first row of shelves. I continued scanning the books on the table. Not one contained an autograph, so I moved down the first row of shelves, stacked with English language paperbacks. The second row housed worn Hebrew paperbacks. I wandered into the last row, pleased to find more hardbacks. One by one, I pulled about a dozen from the shelf. The last book looked interesting, so I sat down on a wheeled stool and began reading.

  “Julie.”

  Avi stood in front of me with a blond guy, who looked more Scandinavian than Israeli. “This is Adir.”

  I rose from the stool, concerned that he didn’t speak English. “Hi,” I said, extending my hand.

  “Hello,” he said, dragging out the sound of the letter l, and turned to Avi. “You didn’t tell me she was gorgeous.” Adir slung his arm over my shoulders. “He’s a loser, dump him. All he cares about are books, computers, and that foul-smelling dog of his.”

  Avi lifted Adir’s arm from my shoulders. “Dump me for who? You? I’d buy the first ticket to watch the show--your wife beating you to death for cheating on her.”

  “A guy can dream. Anyway, nice to meet you, Julie.”

  Like Avi, Adir spoke accent-free English. “Are you an American?” I asked.

  “No, born and raised here in Jerusalem. But, my mother is an American, and she loved shipping me and my brother back to the States every summer. My grandparents loved sending us to camp for two weeks out of that month.”

  “Oh.” I scratched my head and looked down, feeling like I’d learned too much information. “This is a great store. Does anyone ever trade in signed editions?” I said to change the subject away from family relationships.

  “Occasionally, I’ll see one. But they usually don’t make it to the shelves. I offer them to my best customers first.” He turned and patted Avi on the back.

  “You collect signed books, too?” I asked.

  “I own a few.”

  “Telephone, Adir,” a voice bellowed from the back of the store.

  Adir turned his head toward the voice and shouted something in Hebrew. “Nice to meet you and stop by my house for coffee some evening. Nofit and the kids would love to see you. Bring Julie, leave Brutus at home.” He trotted down the aisle.

  “During college, I worked at a used-book store in Oakland called Caliban. That’s where I bought my first signed edition,” I said.

  He cocked his head sideways. “You worked at Caliban? I bought a few books there and spent hours combing through their shelves. I loved that shop.”

  “I think it would be great to own a bookstore like this.” I scanned the store, taking one more sniff of the old-book-infused air.

  “Really?”

  “Yep, with a children’s department, where moms could drink coffee while the children attended story time.”

  “Caliban was one of my favorite places in Pittsburgh,” he said, as we left the shop.

  ***

  The minute I walked into the apartment, I kicked off my shoes, flopped onto his overstuffed sofa, and closed my eyes. “Forget running tonight. My feet are too tired.”

  He plopped down on the other end and intertwined his legs with mine. “My feet are too tired to swim.”

  I cocked my head and twisted my mouth. “What?”

  “Kicking and feet flapping--hard work.”

  “You’re crazy.” I shut my eyes. “Mmmm, maybe this is a good time for a nap?”

  He snapped to life, picked me up, and tossed me over his shoulder.

  “Hey!”

  “I’m putting you down for a nap,” he said, crossing the threshold into the bedroom. “And I know how to make you even sleepier.”

  Chapter 17

  His ringing cell phone woke us two and a half hours later. He spoke in rapid Hebrew for a few moments before hanging up. “Work. They know I’m back in town.”

  I curled around him to satisfy my craving for the feel of his skin against mine. “Mmmm,” I mumbled. “Don’t move. I’m imprinting the texture and heat of your skin on my brain. The memory will be my survival tool on cold P
ittsburgh nights.”

  He responded by pulling me in even tighter. “It doesn’t have to be a memory. You could stay here, with me.”

  My sweet, brilliant dreamer didn’t understand that his place and my place were farther apart than Pittsburgh and Jerusalem, in more than physical distance. “We’re not talking about that. Let’s get a shower and go find food.”

  “I’ll race you to the bathroom, and I know a great steak place.”

  I bolted for the bathroom, arriving before he managed to get out of bed. “Don’t ever try to out run me,” I said, leaning against the doorframe. “And no, we’re going to the supermarket and buying groceries.”

  “We still have eggs.”

  “Nope, it’s time for your oven to lose its virginity. You can chop Israeli salad while I cook up some real food.”

  The expedition to the supermarket was a repeat of our first supermarket adventure. I went to the meat department and the produce department, and he wandered off to the candy and cookie aisle. “It’s amazing your teeth haven’t rotted out of your gums.” I clasped his elbow and led him to the checkout.

  The young clerk blushed as she said, “Hi, Avi.”

  He chatted with her, calling her by her first name. As she scanned the chicken and vegetables, he put them into plastic bags. I reached into my purse for my wallet, and once again, he nudged me aside.

  “Not this time,” I said, shaking my head. “I’m buying you dinner tonight.”

  An hour and a half later we sat across from each other, devouring rosemary chicken, saffron rice, broccoli, and Israeli salad. “You chop an excellent salad,” I said, holding a forkful of tiny chopped tomatoes, cucumbers, onions, and cilantro.

  Together, we cleaned the kitchen. I cleared the table. He loaded the dishwasher and scrubbed pans. When the countertops gleamed, and the dishwasher was turned on, he poured two glasses of wine. “Let’s drink these on the balcony.”

  The night air was infused with the scents of the neighborhood. The restaurant a few doors down fried falafel and French fries. The exhaust from the buses and cars intermingled with the sweet scent of rugalach baking somewhere in the building.

  We sat in matching white plastic chairs, separated by a small plastic table, sipping wine and enjoying a faint breeze.

  “Tomorrow morning, we’re scheduled for the eight a.m. Old City Tunnel Tour. We’ll need to be up by seven o’clock at the latest if we want to have coffee and breakfast first. After the tour, we can wander the backstreets of the Jewish Quarter for a while. In the afternoon, I’ll play soccer, and you can bake.”

  “I still want to run.”

  “I’ll call Rivka. She’s the runner in the family. Maybe she can tell me where to take you.”

  “Will I get to meet her at Aviva’s house tomorrow night?”

  “No, Aviva said Rivka is working in Haifa until Wednesday. I’m not sure she even knows I’m home.”

  We sat together talking as if we had known each other for our entire lives. Nothing about being with him felt awkward. The conversation never hit a lull, and there wasn’t a moment my body didn’t crave his.

  “How does this sound for a game plan? On Saturday, we drive north to the Kinnert for two days. Then, we can head south to Tel Aviv, stopping in Akko and Safed, unless you prefer going north to Haifa.”

  “You’re the sexy tour guide.”

  “Two nights in Tel Aviv. We can hit the beach for a day and do the touristy stuff for a day. Then back home for a night before driving down to the Dead Sea on Thursday. We’ll be back on Friday afternoon in time to shower and get to Aviva’s house for Shabbat dinner.”

  “Which day do we get to spend in bed?”

  “Next Saturday, before you fly out. Unless you decide to extend the trip.”

  ***

  On Friday morning, I laced up my sneakers, coated my face with sunscreen, and went straight to the coffee maker. As I made coffee, he finished shaving and dressing. The sun lit the apartment. Its warmth reflected off the cream walls and the marble floors. It amazed me how fast this apartment switched from being overwhelming to feeling like home. So many times, in our conversations, I stopped myself from referring to it as “home” instead of “your home.”

  “I smell coffee,” he said, wandering into the kitchen, barefoot and shirtless.

  Just watching him walk and seeing his bare chest caused my heart to flutter. He looked good in his simple T-shirts, but shirtless--delicious.

  I lifted my mug in a salute, set it down, and poured him a cup. He came around the countertop and kissed me behind the ear. “I love you,” he whispered softly before kissing it again.

  My insides trembled, and my heart pounded gratitude that this magnificent man wanted to be with me. “I love you too, and if you keep kissing me like that, the only walls we’ll see today are the ones in the bedroom. So, drink your coffee and stop tempting me.”

  “I’m doing this touristy stuff for you. If I had my way, you wouldn’t be allowed out of that bedroom for ten days.”

  Tough choice--see Israel or spend ten days in bed with him. Actually, not such a hard choice, but it would be awkward writing an email saying: Hi, Dad, Haven’t seen much of Israel. Spent the week in bed with Avi. The airport is nice. Love, Julie

  ***

  Our tour guide almost left without us. After finishing our coffee, we stalled in the bedroom. At seven-forty-five, we sprinted to the Old City. Avi knew a short cut that sent us trotting through narrow stone streets that would never pass a safety inspection in the United States. Not one stone laid level with another.

  The tour guide flashed us a dirty look when we arrived, breathless, as she was finishing her introductory speech. We stood at the back of the line as the group passed through the archway leading into the tunnels.

  The millennia-year-old walls of the tunnel wrapped us in a stone hug. As we traipsed through, it was hard to imagine, but Jews had been walking this path since the time of King David. The history overwhelmed me. Jack was the history lover in the family. To me, the people in the Bible were no different than the characters in fairy tales.

  I never gave any thought to the history of the Jewish people, but listening to the tour guide lecture on these historical greats and being inside this tunnel, deep in the earth of Jerusalem, made their world as real as my own. I thought about the women of the time and how difficult their lives must have been. What did they pray for when they touched the stone? Love? Hope? Sustenance? Health for their families? I was sure they, too, mourned the loss of loved ones.

  Grief is strange. It’s like the thestrals in the Harry Potter novels, mysterious animals that can only be seen by people who have witnessed death. Only people who have grieved can genuinely empathize with the intense pain of loss experienced by others.

  I identified with the pain of those long-gone women and silently asked them to help ease my pain over losing Jack.

  They came here to be close to their God. Would they be willing to reach out and help me find mine?

  “Hey, are you still here? You’re too quiet.” Avi clasped me around the waist and pulled me close, hip to hip.

  “I’m here.”

  “Just checking,” he said.

  The tunnel tour ended deep within the Old City. At the exit, the tour guide introduced the group to an armed soldier, flashing a nose ring and a Mickey Mouse watch. “This is Nofar. She’ll be leading the group back to Jaffa Gate. It’s important that you stay with her and not wander off. Portions of this area are not as safe as others.”

  The group clumped around Nofar and began the hike back. Avi tugged on my hand, leading me in the opposite direction. “It’s okay. The tour company doesn’t want to be responsible for tourists wandering off into places where they don’t belong. I grew up running around this place. We’re taking a shortcut.”

  The narrow stone passageways of the Old City twisted and turned from street to street, leading us under ancient archways and by open windows, providing us with a glimpse of families carry
ing out their daily routines. I thought about the bygone stonemasons, on their knees, laying stone after stone in the hot Jerusalem sun. “Wow, I just thought of something,” I said. “The men who set these stones must have boiled in the hot sun, day after day.”

  “Yep,” he nodded, reaching for my hand.

  “They didn’t even have ice water--no electric, no refrigeration, nothing.”

  He launched into an overview of ice making in the middle east, from the BCE Period, all the way to the invention of what we know as true refrigeration in the 1750s. “Anyway, we get a few snowflakes in the winter,” he said, ending the speech.

  “Snow? Well, that’s just great. Now I feel bad that they had to work in the cold.” We walked for a few steps. “Why don’t you kiss me and pull my thoughts away from those poor stone masons?”

  He pulled me close and planted a quick kiss on my lips.

  “What kind of kiss was that? Suddenly you’re not a fan of public displays of affection?”

  “Not in this place. One, I don’t want to risk anyone snapping a picture and selling it to a magazine--it’s happened before. Second, when I’m here, I try to be respectful of the sensibilities of the orthodox community.”

  “I understand, but you owe me one real kiss.”

  He smiled in agreement, and we continued walking through the labyrinth of the old city, stopping at a small grocery store that Avi called a makolet. We went inside and replenished our water supply.

  Back on the street, we continued to follow the stone path until it took a sharp turn, leading us to a stepped passageway that sloped downward. “Welcome to the Arab Market,” Avi announced, pointing at the stalls lining the road. Mizrahi music blared, and I could imagine veiled belly dancers emerging from the shops. A few vendors sat on small stools outside their shops, chatting with each other, or shouting into their cell phones. Their wares spilled out onto the stone steps of the road--exotic tapestries, hookahs, brass menorahs, and Christian and Jewish symbols carved out of olive wood.