“Ibrahim!” the Grand Mufti called. A bodyguard appeared. Ashrawi pointed to the man who’d invaded his privacy. “Throw him out.”
Ibrahim shook his head. “That’s not a good idea. You don’t know who he comes from.”
“Someone who can tell me what to do?” Haji Jamal didn’t believe it.
But Ibrahim nodded. “That’s right. A bigger fish than you.”
There weren’t many, not in Palestine and not in the wider Muslim world. “How do you know?” Ashrawi asked.
“You’re wasting time,” the stranger said. “My friend doesn’t like that. He came to Hebron to see you. Keep him waiting, he won’t be happy. You won’t like it if he’s unhappy.”
“Boss…You better go.” Ibrahim sounded urgent.
None of Haji Jamal’s guards was a coward. If the stranger could intimidate Ibrahim…“All right.”
“About time,” the nameless man said. “Well, it isn’t far.”
It was only a couple of blocks from the market square. Everything seemed normal. But wasn’t it too calm? Wasn’t everybody on his best behavior? So it seemed to Jamal Ashrawi. Or maybe his imagination was running away.
They ducked into a doorway. The stranger relaxed—a little. “Israeli patrols won’t catch us in the open,” he said.
“They haven’t caught me yet,” Ashrawi said.
The stranger looked through him. “They don’t want you the way they want—” He opened a door and finished with one word: “Him.”
Ice walked up the Grand Mufti’s back. He was in the presence of legend. The handsome man with the gray-streaked black beard nodded. “In the name of God, I welcome you,” he said, and his Arabic, unlike his stooge’s, had the flavor of Iraq.
“In…the name of God,” Haji Jamal managed after a pause. He tried again: “I did not look for you here.”
That won a smile. “If you had, others might have, too,” said the man who called himself a caliph. “Will you drink tea? Will you eat bread and salt?”
“I would be honored!” If the Grand Mufti was being offered hospitality, he hadn’t been brought here to die. His host was supposed to be punctilious in such things.
At a nod from the Iraqi, the man who’d collected Haji Jamal fetched tea, flatbread, and salt. The tea was mint. The bread and salt went back to desert days, and were symbol as well as food.
After the refreshments, Ashrawi asked, “What do you need from me?” He couldn’t keep his voice from wobbling.
“You have been harassing the Jews as they rebuilt their Temple.”
“Y—Yes.” No, the wobble wouldn’t go away.
“You have been failing.” The Iraqi sounded disgusted. “Time to let people who know what they are doing get on with the job.”
“Inshallah,” Ashrawi said. If God wills was always appropriate. Considering what had happened to the Palestinians’ attacks—and to the Iranians’—it seemed more so here.
The Iraqi’s dark eyebrows came down and together in a frown. “And why would God—the compassionate, the merciful—not will it?” he inquired.
“I don’t know why God does anything,” Haji Jamal said. “But our heavy mortar would not have opened the Golden Gate and let the young Jew fulfill their false prophecy had God not willed it. The other rounds would not have torn the graves so he could pretend to raise the dead.”
The ISIS leader looked down his nose at the Grand Mufti. “Some people don’t know what they’re doing, and don’t do it well. Then they blame God for failure.”
“I blame no one,” Ashrawi said. “I only tell you what happened. If you don’t believe me, ask the President of Iran or his chief general or the Grand Ayatollah.”
“Iranians. I spit on Iranians. They are still angry God did not give them the Prophet, peace be upon him. They act foolishly—and then, like you, blame God when things go wrong.”
Ashrawi could tell he wouldn’t listen. “May success bless your men,” he said.
“I think it will,” his host answered calmly. “Is Tel Aviv radioactive, or not? We didn’t do all of that, but we were involved here and there. It shows what can be managed.”
“It harmed the Zionists,” Haji Jamal said. “But it also enraged them. Without the dirty bomb, they would not have had the will to throw us off the Haram al-Sharif. The United States would not have let them get away with it.”
“I spit on the United States, and on the Zionist entity. So does God—you may be sure of that.” The Iraqi’s eyes gleamed. “We will do what needs doing, I promise. We may need to use some of your men. Is that acceptable, O gracious one?”
What if I say no? Ashrawi wondered. But he could see the answer. If I say no, I don’t leave this room alive. He had no urge to become a shahid, a martyr. He admired such bravery without wanting to imitate it.
And so, after a short pause, he said, “Certainly. I will pray for their success—for your success.” He wasn’t even lying, though he wondered if it would be as easy as the Iraqi expected.
“May God hearken to you. Watch. You’ll see how things should be done.” Without giving the Grand Mufti a chance to reply, the Iraqi nodded to his underling. “Take him home.”
“Of course.” The fellow nodded to Ashrawi. “Come on.”
Haji Jamal went with him. They made it back without drawing any attention. The souq kept the not quite normal feel Ashrawi had noticed on the way to the Iraqi’s door.
Ibrahim breathed a sigh of relief. “Did you talk to—him?” the bodyguard asked, his eyes big and round.
“Yes.” Jamal Ashrawi let one word suffice.
“And?”
“And he will do what he will do, and God will do what He will do, and we will see what happens then,” Ahsrawi said.
“If anyone can do anything, he’s the one,” Ibrahim said.
“If anyone can do anything, God is the One,” Haji Jamal said. The guard bowed his head.
* * *
—
Chaim’s guards stuck to him tighter than the resurrected souls did. They didn’t listen to him even if he screamed. Except at the falafel stand. Then the hard-faced men formed a perimeter around the place, leaving an island of privacy inside their line.
It was what Chaim had. He knew he’d better make the most of it. “Hi,” he said to Shoshanah, and then, “I hope I’m not hurting business.”
She laughed. “Are you kidding? The soldiers come here when you’re not around, and you wouldn’t believe what they eat.”
“Oh.” That didn’t overjoy Chaim. “Do they…bother you?”
“Not really.” Shoshanah spoke with easy assurance. “Besides, they think you can turn them into frogs if they give you any grief.” She leaned across the counter. “Can you?”
He started to say, Don’t be silly, but he didn’t. “I don’t know,” he said slowly. “I never tried anything like that. I never even thought about it till now.”
“I bet you could—if you got mad, I mean,” Shoshanah said, and then, “You don’t get mad much, do you?”
Chaim blinked. “I never thought about that, either. I don’t know. I’m just kind of regular, I guess.”
“Regular?” She laughed again. “How can you be regular when you’re the Messiah?”
“I don’t feel like the Messiah—mostly, anyhow,” Chaim said. “I get sleepy and hungry like anybody else. You guys make great falafels. I get mad like— What are you doing?”
“Getting you some falafels. If you like them, you ought to have them.”
He reached into his pants pocket. She waved for him not to bother. “I’ve got money,” he protested.
“Don’t worry about it. You think other people don’t come here because you do? You’re nuts if you do.” She handed him the pita and the deep-fried garbanzo balls. “Here. Load your own fixings.”
“Thanks. Y
ou don’t need to do that, though, honest.”
“I didn’t do it ’cause I needed to. I did it ’cause I wanted to. I never imagined I’d meet anybody like you, let alone that you might like me.”
“Might!” Chaim said with his mouth full. Eating a falafel was messy any time. Eating a falafel when the first girl he’d ever really noticed said that…The pita started disintegrating a lot faster than usual. Fortunately, he had plenty of napkins. Once he swallowed, he went on, “I think you’re wonderful.”
“Me?” Shoshanah gaped. “You say you’re ordinary. I am.”
“No, you’re not!” Chaim said fiercely.
“No? Why am I working here till I get drafted?” she said. “I’ll worry about school after that. I just want to…Right now, I don’t know what I want to do. You always did, didn’t you?”
That almost made Chaim snarf falafel. He’d never had any notion what he would do if the Temple didn’t get rebuilt. He would have been raised ritually pure in a world that had no use for anyone like that. He’d come across an English phrase that summed it up: all dressed up with no place to go.
He realized he wasn’t as regular as he’d told Shoshanah. Being raised as he was, hardly setting foot on bare ground till he got mad at Kupferman…He wondered how weird he really was.
Weird enough to raise the dead. What was weirder than that?
He needed to answer Shoshanah. “I didn’t have a clue. I still don’t.”
“God will tell you.” She raised one eyebrow. He thought it was cute. She didn’t do much he didn’t think was cute, but he hadn’t realized that yet. She went on, “I’m not frum or anything, but this isn’t happening by accident, like. When the time comes, God will tell you.”
“I guess.” Chaim wasn’t a hundred percent convinced. “He didn’t tell me what would happen when I ran through the graveyard.”
“He didn’t need to,” Shoshanah said. “He showed you.”
“Yeah, but—” Chaim broke off. He couldn’t explain what it meant, even to her. He didn’t know himself. He had this power, but it almost drove him crazy when he used it. What kind of sense did that make? None he could see.
“Don’t worry about it so much,” Shoshanah said softly. “If God wants it to be all right, it will be. And if He didn’t want it to be all right, why would He do it?”
“I don’t know,” Chaim said.
“See?” Now she sounded triumphant.
Chaim wasn’t so sure. God did what He wanted, for His reasons. If you got in His way, too bad. Chaim shivered, remembering Job’s kin.
* * *
—
Once, Yitzhak Avigad had thought he knew what was going on. Now things were happening all around him, and he had no idea how he’d got caught up in them. The Ark, the Temple, his nephew…He’d seen a Hebrew production of Rosencrantz & Guildenstern Are Dead. Wasn’t he stuck in something too much like that?
Matching wits with a human playwright was a fair fight. In God’s hands…Everything that happened meant something to the Lord. For a mortal to figure out what…Yitzhak wasn’t sure a miracle would suffice, not any more.
His phone rang. When he was younger, he would have called a phone you carried in your pocket a miracle. The word had a new meaning now. No—it had its old meaning back. A phone was a clever gadget. A miracle was when God showed you Who was in charge instead of expecting you to believe it.
Thou shalt Love the Lord thy God with all thy heart and with all thy soul and with all thy might. The line from the prayer ran through his mind as he obeyed a mortal commandment. Thou shalt make thy phone shut up. “Yes?” he said.
“How’s Chaim?” his sister-in-law said.
“Fine,” Yitzhak answered, “all things considered…”
“When can I come to Jerusalem?” Rivka Avigad demanded.
“Nobody’s stopping you,” Yitzhak said. “It’s what? Half an hour from the kibbutz to here? He’ll be glad to see you.”
“I don’t know if I’d be glad to see him,” she said. “I just don’t know. He scares me. I feel like a duck that hatched a hoopoe.”
Yitzhak shook his head. “Not a hoopoe. Hoopoes are treyf. Whatever the boy is, you can’t call him treyf.”
“The goyim do. Antichrist.” She spat the word.
“You start listening to preachers and priests and muftis and ayatollahs, you’ll go crazy,” Yitzhak said.
“They’re already crazy, and they want to crucify my son.” Rivka hesitated. “Well, maybe not that.”
“Look at the trouble it caused the last time,” Yitzhak said dryly.
“Heh,” Rivka said. “What are we going to do, Yitzhak?”
“Beats me,” he answered. “We have to wait and see what happens and whether God decides to stick his finger in again. I was thinking about that just now.”
“I’m not worried about God. God will take care of Chaim,” his sister-in-law said. Yitzhak didn’t argue. She went on, “I’m worried about all the fanatics. What will they do to him?”
“Nothing God doesn’t let them do,” Yitzhak said.
“That’s…true.” Rivka sounded happier. “I didn’t look at it that way. If God takes care of Chaim, he’s safe from those people, isn’t he?”
“If God takes care of him, he is,” Yitzhak said.
“Thanks. You’re a sweetie. Shalom.” Rivka Avigad hung up.
Yitzhak stuck the phone in a pocket. If Rivka wanted to think he’d given her good news, she could. But the coin had two sides. (Rosencrantz & Guildenstern rose in his mind again, and made him uneasy.) If God felt like taking care of Chaim, he would. If He didn’t…
At least I didn’t have to tell her about Shoshanah, Yitzhak thought. Maybe she already knew; everybody in Jerusalem seemed to. But no. If Rivka knew, she would have asked about the girl. Since she hadn’t, she didn’t.
She would think Chaim was too young—and too holy. She would think he cared about the girl only because her name was Shoshanah. Yitzhak thought that mattered, but he didn’t think it was the only thing going on. Projection from a cow to a girl sounded as if it came from Freud or Greek mythology, one.
But Shoshanah seemed like a nice kid. She might end up in more trouble for being friendly to Chaim than he was for hanging out with her. Yitzhak hoped they’d both be okay.
Then he hoped he would. And Jerusalem. And Eretz Yisrael. While he was at it, he hoped the world would, too.
“Amazing what you can do with reinforced concrete,” Eric said.
Shlomo Kupferman nodded. “It really is. And by modern standards the Temple isn’t that big a building. So work goes much faster than it would with, say, a skyscraper.”
“We weren’t thinking of size so much,” Orly said. “It looks like the rest of the buildings here. It looks golden, like limestone, not…gray.”
“Part of that is the stone facing. But you can do almost anything with concrete these days,” Kupferman said. Like Eric and Orly, he mixed Hebrew and English almost without noticing. “Making it the color you want? That’s nothing.” He snapped his fingers. “You can make concrete that floats.”
“Can I talk to you about something else?” Eric asked.
“What else is there besides the Temple?” Kupferman sounded surprised. But, seeing the archaeologist was serious, he nodded again. “What’s on your mind?”
Eric took Orly’s hand. “You know we’re getting married?”
“Sure. Mazel tov,” the rabbi answered.
“We went to Cyprus for the civil ceremony, and that was great. They even took my plastic. But here—we’d do it a lot faster if we could cut the red tape,” Eric said. “You know the megillah a foreign Jew has to go through before he convinces people here he’s Jewish. It takes forever. If you can’t speed things up, who can?”
“The system is set up so we don’t make mistake
s. For you, though, Professor Katz…” Kupferman pulled out his phone and punched in a number. He barked at whoever answered, listened for a moment, and barked again. Then he called someone else. He didn’t bark this time—he bellowed. The phone disappeared. Kupferman looked pleased. He enjoys browbeating people, Eric thought. That wasn’t a headline. “Any day after this Sunday,” the rabbi said. “It’s taken care of. Anyone who gives you more tsuris, tell him to talk to me. I’ll make him sorry.” He sounded as if he wanted to.
“Well!” Eric said.
“Well!” Orly echoed. “Thank you,” she added. She sounded as if she’d never expected to say those words to Kupferman.
His sour smile said he knew as much. “My pleasure. This isn’t politics. This is religion—and love, I hope.”
“Maybe a little,” Eric said. Orly made as if to hit him. He ducked more sincerely than she threw the punch. He also touched the brim of his hat to Kupferman. “Thanks very much.”
“I already said it’s all—” Kupferman pointed toward two bulldozers rumbling onto the Temple Mount. “Who are those people? We don’t need dozers now!” His voice rose to a shout: “Guards! Something’s wrong with those bulldozers!”
The hard hats on the bulldozers looked like workmen to Eric. He’d wondered why so many were perched atop the school-bus-yellow diesel snorters, but he hadn’t wondered enough to say anything.
Soldiers trotted toward the dozers. The guys on them pulled out AKs and RPGs and started shooting. Some Israeli guards went down. Others returned fire. Facing charging bulldozers, that took nerve.
Eric didn’t see what happened next, because Orly knocked him down. “When they start shooting, get flat!” she yelled. She’d been through the IDF mill. She knew what was what, and he didn’t. A bullet cracking by where his neck had been a few seconds earlier underlined the message.
Ping! Ping!—metal off metal. The attackers had got the dozer blades up. They were using them against Israeli bullets.
And they were charging the Temple. There was a scene the scribes who set down the Bible had never imagined. Not even St. John the Divine had put berserk bulldozers into Revelation.
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