In the Courtyard of the Kabbalist

by Ruchama King Feuerman

  The radio played the Beatles’ “Michelle,” and the bus driver sang along, oblivious. Everyone else was looking at the ground or at some other place, just not at the old man. Shame flooded into Isaac’s eyes. Such a pinched raw feeling in his heart. That this should happen in the holy city, Jew to Jew? An old lady in a pantsuit said under her breath, “Brat teenagers.”

  Isaac slipped from his spot and wound his way to the Yemenite. Now he stood before the old Jew. “Here, try this.” He took off his wide-brimmed hat and gently placed it on the old man’s wispy-haired head. The Yemenite halfheartedly lifted a hand. “No, no. I can’t take it.” Then he peeped up. “Does it look all right?”

  Isaac angled his face to the right, to the left, bottom and top. He kissed his fingertips. “Excellent.”

  The old man touched the hat’s brim self-consciously. “Let me pay you.”

  But Isaac shook his head vigorously. “Really, it’s nothing.”

  The old man insisted, “A few shekels at least,” and he pressed some coins into Isaac’s hand.

  As he wended his way through the aisle back to Tamar, he got some God-bless-you pats here and there. “What’s going to be,” he said, standing before her, slightly shaking his head.

  Her eyes had never left him, he saw. She was staring funnily at him. “You just gave a stranger your hat.”

  “Yes. He needed it.”

  “You made an act of kindness as matter-of-fact as tying your shoes, or”—she closed one eye—“flossing your teeth.”

  He faintly rolled his eyes. “It wasn’t such a big deal.” For goodness sake, why was she staring at him like that? It bordered on irritating.

  “Hats aren’t cheap,” she insisted.

  “Anyway, I needed a new hat. What’s going to be,” he repeated with a sigh. “You know, the sages wrote that the temple was destroyed through groundless hatred and that it will be rebuilt from the foundation of groundless love.” He nodded. “That’s what’s going to be.”

  Tamar broke into a broad smile. “Yes!” She made a power fist and a number of passengers glanced her way. “Groundless love. Love for no reason at all. Love just because.”

  The bus moved on sluggishly through the traffic, like an overfed hippo. A child ate from a bag of Bamba and the salty corn snack filtered through the air. Tamar’s eyes kept raking Isaac’s face as they stood in the bus aisle.

  He took off his glasses, held them up to the window. “Why are you looking at me like that?” he said finally.

  “Like what?”

  “Like a horn’s growing out of my head.” He rubbed his glasses with a tissue.

  “You …” she hesitated. “You have hair.”

  He replaced his glasses and ran his fingers through his front bangs. He could feel a faint line etched in his forehead like a crescent, where his hat had been. “Of course I have hair.”

  “I mean,” she blushed, “lots of it. I don’t know why, but I just assumed you were bald. And it’s not even graying, like your beard.”

  “Not yet, thank God.”

  She kept staring at him with her huge green eyes. “Are you married?”

  “No, I’m not. Why do you ask?”

  “The next time you go on a date,” she ordered, “take off your hat. With it on, you look fifty. With it off, you look thirty-two.”

  He chuckled, then blushed fiercely. “Not quite. But thank you for the tip. I’ll remember that one.” He coughed. The conversation had gone beyond him and needed some reining in. “Speaking of dates, tell me, have you met anyone yet?”

  “Nope.”

  “What day are you up to now?”

  “Day thirty.”

  Had a month passed since they’d last met?

  “These matchmakers, why don’t they get it?” Tamar went on. “They keep introducing me to working professionals. But I want someone …”

  “Yes?” He leaned slightly forward.

  “Who learns Torah. And if not that, at least let him be teaching it or doing something meaningful. Not these investment bankers or actuaries.” She shuddered, and her gauzy little neck scarf fluttered.

  “Actuaries can lead spiritually meaningful lives, too, Tamar, and make wonderful husbands.”

  She looked squarely at him. “I didn’t turn my life around and become religious for second best. I want the best.”

  “The best what?”

  “The best kind of Jewish family,” she said with an edge to her voice.

  “You realize,” he said with a certain frankness and gentleness, “there is no such commandment for a woman to marry a rabbi.”

  “Commandment?” She drew back. “You think this is about commandments?” She looked at him incredulously. “This is about what I want!” She shook her head. “Growing up, my house had no tone, no atmosphere. Television reigned supreme. That there was a shred of Yiddishkeit only made it worse, like a”—her huge eyes roved—“like a bride dressed in filthy overalls and a veil. All I can tell you is, I want the total opposite for my own home.”

  He stood, clasping the bus pole. Once, he, too, had longed for the ideal. But then everything collapsed. “So it’s a yeshiva man you want,” he mused, massaging his beard. An idea struck him. “Do you know? I just thought of someone—he learns at the same yeshiva where you work. Tall fellow. Light brown hair and a blond beard. Joseph?”

  “Oh, I think I know who you mean.” She frowned. “Joshua. Joshua from Los Angeles.”

  “That’s the one.”

  Tamar gave him a withering look. “Please. He’s so young!”

  He drew back. “Well, how old are you, young lady?”

  “Twenty-eight. I meant, young in attitude and religiously. He’s just a beginner, and me, I’ve been religious, I’ve been in this world for five years.”

  “I suppose that makes you a veteran.” He smiled indulgently. “Well, Tamar,” he said mildly, “I wish you a lot of luck finding the best, though life usually has something else to say.”

  “Luck?” She said the word like it tasted bad. She snapped, “What’s that supposed to—” The bus jerked to a halt and she looked around. “Oh no! My stop. Gotta go, it’s my big day!” She bounded off the bus, her ponytail flying about her back.

  Well, he thought. It might take a lot more than a forty-day segulah to find her mate. Not many Torah scholars were flocking to a woman who rode a motorcycle and who gestured so dramatically that half the bus had turned to watch her. Though she had a point. The boychik Joshua was hardly in her league.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Tock, tock. The Haram sun was so hot it hit Mustafa like a hammer against his skull. It wasn’t even summer, he thought, and the sun wanted to become his enemy. Thanks be to Allah, he knew how to be patient with the heat. Like his grandfather used to say, “If you are a peg, endure the knocking. If you are a mallet, strike.” It was the Arab way to endure. He was emptying his rucksack into a garbage bin when he saw Sheikh Tawil tapping his way down the Stairs of Scales of Souls. Dust from his rucksack powdered up into Mustafa’s eyes, and he sneezed.

  “You are needed at the construction site,” the sheikh called out, his dark cane swinging from side to side.

  Mustafa nodded, took up his tools, and began to walk toward the site.

  Sheikh Tawil leaned smartly on his cane and observed him. “Lately, I see you work better than anybody,” his boss commented. “I see how well you listen. I know you can take on more responsibility. I’d like to see that happen. I see you like I see my own son,” he said, though the official couldn’t have been more than five years older than Mustafa, who bobbed his head.

  “Oh yes, honored sheikh, I’m a good worker, I am ready for more responsibility,” he said to the sheikh who was already tock-tocking away.

  Yawaladee! he exulted, as he tilted and listed sideways toward the site. Sheikh Tawil wanted to make him a boss—he, stupid Mustafa.

  He scuttled over to the construction area, breathing in along the way the good smells coming from the mint and basil
bushes. He took his place at the top of the human chain that brought the pail of debris from Solomon’s Stables. After grabbing a pail, he ran to the truck, emptied the pail, returned to the line, and exchanged the pail for another. “Hela hob, hela hob,” the men sang as they worked, but Mustafa was thinking about his promotion and didn’t join in. Could it really happen? He had been at this job for many years. But now, ever since he started working hard, with honor, like a kohein, his work had stood out. His good luck was thanks to the Jew Rabbi Isaac.

  Now he would have more money, too, with the promotion. Right away, he thought of the things he would buy. First of all, jewels for his mother—necklaces, bracelets, and earrings so heavy they would pull on her lobes. “Gold jewelry brings honor to the wearer,” she liked to say. But who had money for luxuries? His brothers and sisters helped pay the rent, electricity, food, and that was hard enough. Still, what if he, the poorest, ugliest son, bought his mother jewels? He who had only brought her humiliation would now bring honor. The very thought made him stand taller, and he even pushed his neck two centimeters the other way, so that for a minute he looked like the others, almost.

  Still, the money seemed a faraway thing. Once, he had tried to save money to buy fancy jewelry for her birthday, not just silly presents. For three weeks he gave up going to Fatima’s Laundromat and washed his clothes by hand. A small sacrifice if it could buy his mother a gold bracelet. But Ali, his flatmate (really his landlord), finally forbade him, said it was bad for the sink. But now everything could change—in a month, no, a week! Sheikh Tawil wanted to make him a boss. He would do his job better than anyone. He, who never had money, would now have much more. His mother would not say she had a toothache when he wanted to visit but would welcome him back to the village. Maybe he would even fix his neck. But no, that would cost too much money. Anyway, many years ago, a doctor from Jordan who happened to pass through his village, examined him and said there was no hope. What did it matter? He would have extra money to buy jewels for his mother.

  “Ya’allah, ya’allah!” urged the worker next to him. “You’re messing up the rhythm.”

  With new energy, he grabbed the pail, ran, and poured. The worker below grunted with approval at his quickened pace. The sweat trickled down his neck. He emptied another pail. Faster, faster. His neck and shoulders streamed with sweat. A round gray thing rolled past his shoe, and he crouched to stare at it. It looked old, from long, long ago. What could it be? He mopped his forehead and temples with a corner of his kaffiyeh. Maybe he could bring it to the rabbi. The Jew would like it, even more than the spout. Rabbi Isaac would look at him with happy eyes, maybe even give him more of that soup. If he left it here, it would just get crushed by a worker’s foot. So he plucked the grayish ball off the ground and put it into his satchel. After work, he walked down the mountain, holding it in his hand like it was a snack. No one stopped him. Only the Jews and the tourists got checked when they came or left the mountain.

  When he arrived at the courtyard, the rabbi was busy talking to someone. Mustafa let loose a stream of saliva on the gray ball and rubbed it in with his thumb. A soft reddish color emerged. When it was his turn, he shambled forward, stopping the rabbi midstep. “I have a present for you.”

  “Another present?” A frown line made a cleft in the rabbi’s forehead. But he was smiling. “Really, Mustafa, it’s not necessary to bring me anything.”

  “But it comes from the Noble Sanctuary. Don’t you want to see it? I think it even has letters.” He pointed to dark squiggles on the side.

  “Letters?” Rabbi Isaac cocked his head.

  Mustafa merely held out his hand. The rabbi’s cheeks paled, his lips twitching as he read the words to himself. “No, it’s not possible,” he whispered. Now he looked flushed. “Wait a minute. I have to speak with Rebbe Yehudah.” He rushed into the cottage. It was quiet. Then Mustafa heard him talking in a loud voice, maybe into a phone. The rabbi came back a bit later with a kitchen towel. He gently, gently, wrapped the round thing, and held it close. “Are you busy?”

  Mustafa shook his head. Except for laundry and a little grocery shopping, he was never busy after work.

  “You’re coming with me,” the rabbi said. “The rebbe has sent us on a mission.” His mismatched eyes gleamed.

  What a disturbance this reddish ball was causing. But Mustafa became excited at the rabbi’s excitement.

  Mustafa and the rabbi sat in the backseat of a taxi as the driver moved his car through the press and tumult of Jaffa Road traffic. The car made a sharp left at the UN building, and the street widened; here the apartments looked fancier and there were more trees with broad leaves. “We’re going to Beit HaKerem,” Rabbi Isaac said. “The home of one of the foremost archeology experts in Israel. Professor Minkus. Teaches at Tel Aviv University.”

  “The professor will see us so fast, just like that?” Mustafa wondered out loud.

  “Yes, yes. He’s expecting us.” Rabbi Isaac held the wrapped object close to his chest. “His mother once came to the rebbe. She had a tumor and she wanted a blessing to make it disappear. The rebbe said he couldn’t help her. He blessed her anyway. A month later the tumor was gone. Of course, the rebbe takes no credit, but try telling that to the mother.” He glanced over at Mustafa with a half smile. “So, yes, we have a little pull with the professor.”

  Mustafa tried to position his head on the leather back of the seat, but he couldn’t get comfortable. A catchy Israeli tune played on the radio: “… what you see from here, you don’t see from there …” He had never been in a taxi before. He sat watching the pretty apartment buildings going by and the trees with their long broad leaves. This is where the rich, fancy Israelis live, he decided. Not Jews with long black coats or women who were as modest as the mothers in his village.

  Professor Minkus, tall and bare-headed, greeted them at the door, his deep dimple lines making a valley in each cheek. Isaac asked about his mother. They chatted as the archeologist brought them into his study. He seated Mustafa in a special chair with little wheels, the rabbi in a seat next to him.

  “Come,” said the archeologist, “let’s see what you’ve got.” Mustafa watched as Rabbi Isaac handed over the kitchen towel. Professor Minkus pulled on gloves and placed it on the wooden desk between them. He half-rose from his seat. With great delicacy, he touched the soft red globe, rolling it by degrees. His brows came together over his nose. “The letters,” he murmured, “the letters. ‘Asu lee mikdash,’ ” he said out loud. Make for Me a Temple. “From Leviticus,” he pronounced. He flipped through pages of a book. Again he examined the ball. Rabbi Isaac beside him watched the professor’s every move, the rabbi’s lips moving like he was praying. So strange, Mustafa thought. A minute passed. More consulting of books.

  Mustafa yawned. He rolled his chair forward and backward. He rolled it from side to side. What a special chair with wheels on the bottom! The top part turned one way, the bottom the other. It was an amazing chair, as if made for him.

  At last Professor Minkus lifted his head and his eyes looked past them, at something out the window or beyond. “I can’t promise and I would need to do some testing, but”—the professor’s voice was thin and strangely excited—“this could be a pomegranate that was attached to a cane or a staff. The kind of staff used during the First Temple period in religious processions.” He expelled a long gust of air. “Believe it or not.”

  Mustafa, who had rolled himself to the other side of the room, now stopped.

  “How can it be?” Rabbi Isaac said tensely. He abruptly took off his hat. “The First Temple?”

  “It doesn’t necessarily mean it dates from the First Temple,” the archeologist explained, and gave the clay fruit another gentle prod. “Perhaps that’s a little too incredible. Such staffs might have been used in the Second Temple, too. Or perhaps artisans made replicas of these objects. But to my eye, what we have here could be from the Second Temple, or somewhere in between.”

  Mustafa shifted his eyes f
rom the rabbi to the archeologist.

  “But could it be from the First Temple?” the rabbi persisted.

  “Well, Isaac, it’s possible,” he relented. “Could very well be.”

  At this, Rabbi Isaac’s head fell back. “Unbelievable,” he whispered.

  “Well, we won’t know until we test it, of course. Either way, it’s astonishing.” The archeologist placed his instruments back on a shelf. “How lucky for us that you recovered this artifact. And where did you say”—he faced Mustafa who had rolled himself back, flush against the desk—“how did you find this?”

  “Over at the Noble Sanctuary, the men are shoveling the ground. These things got into my pail,” he said.

  “Shovels? They are using shovels?” The professor’s jaw hung open.

  “Ah, yes, it’s very slow with shovels,” Mustafa agreed. “In other parts they dig with bulldozers. Much faster,” he said, thinking the fancy machines would impress the archeologist, but the man let out a loud groan, and the rabbi shook his head and covered his eyes. “I found these things in a big pile of dirt. It was going to be dumped, so I know the Waqf wouldn’t care if I took it,” he said confidently.

  “Garbage,” Rabbi Isaac said in a shocked voice. His cheeks above his beard went slack. He opened his mouth as if to speak, then shut it, and reached for a spot just under his ribs, as if pressing against a sore. “That dirt is the richest dirt in the world,” he said hoarsely.