Mustafa twirled his chair to better see the rabbi. “Rich dirt?”
“Rich with your history, with mine. It tells the story of our temples, where we worshiped two thousand years ago. Why”—he took up Mustafa’s wrist—“whoever prayed at our temple, Jew and non-Jew, knew the reality of God, like a child recognizes his mother. This dirt tells the story of your mosques, too,” said the rabbi, giving him another penetrating look. “And the churches built from Crusader times.” Finally, he released Mustafa’s hand.
“It simply can’t be they’re using bulldozers and shovels,” the professor insisted. “There are rules for digging in such areas.”
Mustafa said, “Oh, I saw it,” and then he clamped a hand over his mouth. Why was he telling these Jews anything? Maybe—his stomach pricked with fear—he shouldn’t have brought this fruit off the mountain. Maybe Sheikh Tawil would be angry. Still, he repeated, “I saw it myself.”
“Oy vah voy!” The archeologist blanched. “It’s like using an ax to perform eye surgery. Don’t they realize, it’s the most important archeological site in Israel, if not the world? A disaster.”
“That’s the least of it,” the rabbi growled. “It’s a desecration, a violation!” He pressed his fingers so deep into the bridge above his nose, Mustafa feared his eyes would pop out.
The professor studied Mustafa’s face. “So, what made you not leave it there?”
“I thought he”—Mustafa swiveled his chair so that his body turned toward the archeologist while his face angled toward the rabbi—“he’d like it.”
The archeologist fell into his seat. He stared with great concentration at Mustafa. “You are a good man. You’ve no idea what you bring to us. Proof to the ones who say our temple didn’t exist.”
Mustafa stared at the archeologist and then the rabbi. In agitation, he twirled once, twice, in the wondrous chair. He burst out, “There never was a Jewish temple up there! Only the Noble Sanctuary and nothing else.”
Professor Minkus looked at him with sad eyes. “Who told you that?”
Mustafa shrugged. “Everybody knows.” He gave the archeologist a pitying look. “A sheikh once told me. Also I heard it from the imams in my village. Even little children know this.”
The professor emitted a gentle, philosophic sigh. He opened his hands in a what-can-you-do gesture while looking at the rabbi. “Unfortunately, that’s the trend these days. Saying it never existed. Temple denial. The Jerusalem mufti said so recently. Your grandfather never would’ve said that.”
“You met my grandfather?” Mustafa exclaimed.
The professor gave an embarrassed smile. “You’re right, I never met him. But I do know what is written in your Koran.” He left the room and came back a minute later with a thick black book that Mustafa sadly realized had to be the Koran. Only Muslims were allowed to touch its holy pages, but what could he do? Grab it away and run from the house?
“Look what we have here. Chapter seventeen, verse seven.” The professor’s finger landed firmly on the verse. “See here how the Koran talks about Allah’s punishment of the children of Israel for their sins? See how it writes of the destruction of our temple?” The pink tip of his finger hovered over temple. “If it was destroyed, it had to have existed once, no?”
He pushed the book toward Mustafa who, distracted by the professor’s knowledge of both Arabic and the Koran, scanned the verses. “And here, chapter thirty-four, verse three,” the professor continued, “and ten others like it. Muslim tradition is one hundred percent clear about the existence of Solomon’s Temple.”
The rabbi, now standing near the window, called out, “Professor, I didn’t know you were such a talmid chacham.”
“I have to be a Torah scholar, in this profession.”
Mustafa finished reading the verses and lifted his eyes. “Oh, Professor, you didn’t understand my words,” he said slowly, straining hard to remember what his mother’s cousin once said. “Your Temple couldn’t have been here, on the Noble Sanctuary, where our mosque and shrine are.” He nodded. “I think that’s what I meant.”
“Ah, then let’s go back to chapter seventeen, verse one. The sanctity of the Noble Sanctuary derives from this Koranic verse: ‘Glory to Allah who did take his servant for a journey by night from the sacred mosque to the farthest mosque.’ ” The professor left his finger on the last word like a post. “And what is the farthest mosque?” he asked. “The commentator, Abdullah Yusuf Ali, sums up the traditional Islamic understanding. He writes that the farthest mosque must refer to the site of the Temple of Solomon in Jerusalem on the hills of Moriah.”
“I don’t know this Abdullah fellow,” Mustafa said, and made a slow, tentative chair twirl.
“Oh, he’s pretty standard.” The professor frowned, and the long valley ridges in his cheek dug in deeper. “Anyway, I have many other sources to prove it to you from your own Koran. If you doubt the Temple’s location, then you have to doubt your own mosque’s location, too. Don’t worry, Mustafa, there’s room for both of us to exist, your mosque and our temple.”
Mustafa held his forehead. Words and more words. His head was beginning to ache. Ya’allah. “I will think about it,” he mumbled.
“But isn’t there an Antiquities Authority to protect the site?” Rabbi Isaac, who had been pacing, now stopped. “They’re destroying our past. How can the Waqf do this, and how can the government let them?” At the word them the rabbi gave a look of apology toward Mustafa.
Mustafa pivoted his chair to face the professor. He also wanted to know the answer to the rabbi’s question. Crazy Jews, he scoffed. Talking, always talking. Simple. It meant the mountain wasn’t truly theirs.
Professor Minkus said, “This reminds me of the famous story of King Solomon.” He nodded at Mustafa, “Maybe you know it? Two mothers come to King Solomon, each claiming that the live baby is theirs and theirs alone. King Solomon says, ‘Let’s split the baby in half, a piece for each of you,’ and the true mother calls out, ‘Let her have the child.’ Her love transcends her claim to the child. Let the child live even if will it go to another, to her enemy. The false mother says, ‘Let neither side have it. Split it in two like you said.’ Her pleasure is in death and in depriving the other one. Both histories—Jewish and Muslim—are getting destroyed here, and the Islamic authority doesn’t care.”
“Excuse me, Professor Minkus. It’s not that the Waqf administrators don’t care. They care very much,” Rabbi Isaac said sharply. “Who, after all, wants to have archeological evidence of another religion on their very same site of worship? A religion that preceded theirs by at least two thousand years? Judaism has a way of arousing insecurities, you know.”
The professor gazed down at the pomegranate. “So you say it’s deliberate vandalism?” He stroked his forehead, lost in thought. “Then you must take this precious fruit to the police commission in the Russian Compound. I’ll write a note and give you a proper container for it.” He took out pen and paper and scribbled something. “Maybe we can get them to stop or at least to monitor the digging. Here.” He handed the paper to the rabbi, then stopped, smote his forehead. “Ah. How can I let such an important relic out of my sight? No, Isaac. It can’t leave my office. Anyway, it needs testing.”
“Excuse me, Professor.” Isaac stood right next to the pomegranate. “I have to remind you, it’s not yours to decide.”
The two men took each other’s measure. The professor said, “Still, it was Mustafa who—” He put an arm on the custodian’s shoulder (his good one), but Mustafa was far away, thinking about his mother who always had a reason not to see him.
“The true mother never lets the child go,” Mustafa blurted, “even if the child should die! The true mother”—his eyes darted around the room—“it’s the other one! The one who says ‘mine or no one else’s.’ ” He raised his fist. “A Muslim doesn’t fear death, not his own or his child’s.” A verse from the Koran sprang from his lips, the one his mother’s cousin was always quoting: “ ‘L
ong for death, if ye are truthful. But they—the Jews—will never long for it. And thou should find them greediest of mankind for life and greedier than idolators.’ ” He nodded with satisfaction, that he could recall the verse so well. Now, no one could say he was stupid.
The rabbi looked at him with a face both sad and amazed. The professor was shaking his head. “It’s a different culture, a completely different way of viewing the world. The more they long for death, the more it attests to their belief in the world to come.”
Mustafa smiled and swiveled again in the chair. The professor, though not religious, understood.
“You should read your own Koran!” the rabbi called out. “God told Abraham to take his son off the altar. To live for him, and not to die for him! He doesn’t want your blood!”
Mustafa shuddered the rabbi’s words away. “I’m just a janitor, but even I feel in my heart that to die for Allah is a great thing.” Just then he looked down at his dingy no color work clothes, the color of dust. “But did you say you’re going to the police? Then don’t mention my name,” he entreated, now anxious to leave. He reached and held the professor’s lower arm. “They, the Waqf, will be angry at me for telling the police about the shovels. They would send me off the mountain. I don’t want to lose my job.”
“Of course not,” they both said quickly. Mustafa wondered: Were they lying?
Rabbi Isaac was wrapping up the fruit in the kitchen towel. The professor watched him with an angry, despairing look. “What are you going to do with it?”
The rabbi glanced up, with a baffled expression. “Frankly, I’m not sure. All I know is, I need to safeguard it.”
“Well, don’t take it in that shmatta,” the professor said in a resigned tone. He sorted through different-size receptacles and chose a blue one. “If anything happens to the pomegranate, Isaac, I will never forgive you.”
Later, they stood outside, Mustafa and the rabbi, silently waiting for the taxi. The air between them prickled with the unspoken.
“You should know,” Rabbi Isaac said at last, “I don’t want to harm or destroy anything. Only to protect.” He stroked the plastic container that held the fruit. “As for you, Mustafa, I don’t know why you did this.” He rubbed his eyes, as if the events of the day had exhausted him.
“I thought you’d like it,” Mustafa repeated, but now he was wondering if he should ask for it back. In the end, they took a bus, not a taxi, which made him sadder still.
Back at the courtyard, the rabbi seized Mustafa’s hands and held them in his own. “Hashem yivarekh otcha,” he uttered with conviction. God will bless you.
“Allah yivarek fik,” Mustafa blessed him back politely, in his own language, yet with no heart.
Mustafa said good-bye. Sadly, he could not find the bus transfer, and set off on foot. He walked down Ninveh Street, his foot dragging a little as he clomped along. Panting, he climbed up Strauss Street and passed swarming hordes of Jewish children with their side curls and black knickers. The right side of his neck ached, even more than usual. The pills for headaches never seemed to help the pain in his neck. He wiped the sweat beading on his skin. After this good deed, all he got was a thank-you? Ya’allah. Not even chicken soup. It wasn’t as good as his mother’s freka soup, but he would have liked some, even on this hot day.
As he wended his way through the souk, a terrible childhood memory returned to him. He had been helping his younger sister Samira with a jigsaw puzzle, a picture of a groom and bride, and he idly wondered out loud what kind of wife he might marry one day. He was twelve at the time. Samira had joked, “Better not marry, Mustafa. How’ll you kiss your bride?”
“I don’t know,” he said. It made his head hurt just to think about it.
Then his mother, who was cutting vegetables, came over and said, “Of course he won’t marry. Then he’d have children”—she touched the side of her neck—“like him.” She stared at him suddenly, still holding the knife. “Swear to me you will never marry!” He looked at her, terrified, and said nothing.
That night in the dark, as he lay in bed sleeping, he became aware of a bad smell. Through half-closed lids, he saw his mother, a shawl draped over her, sprinkle specks of ash over his body. She was softly moaning strange words. He wanted to scream, yet some instinct kept his mouth clamped shut, and he closed his eyes. He became aware of a heat on his body, and he glimpsed his mother with a pointy contraption in her hands—did Samira use it to curl her hair?—going round and round his most private part, almost touching it, then moving away while she prayed her black words. She brought her head close and blew into his ear. When he awoke the next morning, he was sure he had dreamed it all. Then he saw the pointy contraption on the counter. He asked his mother what it was for, and she shouted fearfully, “Go sweep the porch!” After that there was no more desire. Gone. As if his privates had been burned away. Her prayers had worked. He never thought about marrying again, or at least not very hard. Once he almost told his father what his mother had done, but what good would that bring? Only more troubles for his father who worked like a mule to put bread on the table.
Now he entered Damascus Gate and walked on a downward incline along the main street that was filled with only his people, the scent of his Arab brothers, the bustle of their stalls and vendors and little shops. He bought three kanafeh pastries of sweet cheese and pistachio from an old woman and ate them as quickly, faster than his twisted throat would let him. The food turned to mud in his pipes, turned to cement. “Water!” he choked out. She handed him a glass of carob punch, and he slugged the stuck kanafehs down. He thanked her without words. His head was hurting too much, all the crazy words batting about in his skull: pomegranate, Arabs, Jews, King Solomon, life, death. But he had done a good job, setting the professor and the rabbi straight about the Koran. He had answered them well, even with all the knowledge and verses they had to confuse him. He had shown them, hadn’t he?
In his rented space on David Street, he made instant couscous from a box. He was tired and ate slowly. But now, alone in his room, the events of the day struck him in a different, terrible light. The professor and the rabbi had mocked him. He saw the looks they had given each other, looks of pity or impatience when they thought he wasn’t watching. The rabbi had fooled him, too, getting him to take things off the mountain like that. Tricked him like any Jew would! In the tiny grains of couscous, he tasted shame and humiliation, and his throat burned with every swallow.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Isaac sat up on his bed and flicked on a light. He looked at his watch: 12:30 a.m. His head ached. He tried to ease into a comfortable spot, but sleep wouldn’t come. Fear kept him awake. The rebbe, just turned eighty-three, was sicker, frailer than ever. Shaindel Bracha had to hire a part-time nurse just last week. Between the three of them, they cared for him. Any moment the rebbe could leave them—the thought repeated like the banging of a shovel.
He went to the bathroom. Such a plain room with two blue towels, a mirror the size of a woman’s fist, a washing cup, but look at all the books stacked high next to the toilet: Civilization and its Discontents, Quantum Theory, The Varieties of Religious Experience, The Unbeatable Yankees, Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, Anorexia and the Starved Soul. His eyes went up and down the titles. The rebbe’s bathroom university. The rebbe had once explained, “People come from all over. A man must talk to everyone in his own language.” Isaac flushed the toilet and washed his hands. None of these books could help him tonight.
He entered the rebbe’s study, opened his Gemara and tried to let the tides of Talmudic logic pull him in, but the thick scent of jasmine flowers filtered through cracks in the shutters and fused with his worried thoughts. The rebbe could die with a blink, a sneeze, a hiccup, just like that.
His soles prickled, and he got to his feet and began to pace. How could the rebbe die? Again he felt that banging against his temples. Not possible. He pressed his fingers deep into his forehead. The rebbe was like an oak tree, sturdy, long
-lived. Underneath its branches, a person could feel safe, enveloped in goodness. The rebbe was his friend, his teacher, his world, his everything. The man had no airs. If a floor needed washing he grabbed a mop even though ten others would have gladly spared him the chore. He enjoyed a salmon steak, a symphony, his own recipe for herring. And yet what a recipe for a human being, a blend of heaven and earth, earth and heaven. Many times Isaac’s skin became soothed just being around the rebbe, near him, tending to him. He paced back and forth until the prickling sensation and the pounding in his head subsided and he sat down.
The rebbe had told Isaac he would have a chance to fix things. “God isn’t a miser,” the rebbe promised. “He’ll throw many opportunities your way. You’ll see.” But if the rebbe weren’t there to make him see, how would he recognize an opportunity when it came? Had there been opportunities? A decade ago he’d had a chance to buy an apartment in his mother’s building for bubkes. Through pure orneriness he’d said no, though he had the money. It later turned out, everyone who had bought an apartment saw their Lower East Side investment triple within four years. Then he had an offer to teach a Torah class in the evenings to troubled teenage boys. Ah, his old dream of reaching wayward young men. What had stopped him? He wasn’t qualified, that’s what, not even a rabbi. He wavered and delayed, and in the end, the offer went to someone else.
And what about the women he had dated? A stream of Rochels and Leahs and Mindys and Yocheveds passed through his mind, a decade and a half of shidduchs, bleak blind dates. But what about Dvora, for instance, with the bright brown intelligent eyes and the touch of sarcasm. He had liked her. More than liked her. And yet he had sat opposite her, waiting for something to happen, for a certain feeling to carry them both to the next stage, but the feeling never came. He realized later that he was supposed to make it happen, do something, say something, but why should finding the right person and getting married be an act of will? Shouldn’t he feel as though he had no choice, as though swept out to the ocean by strong currents? It was as if his desire gave off the most muted, faraway signals like a distant foghorn on the open seas. Dvora complained later to the matchmaker, “It’s as if he wasn’t there. Flat.” And Isaac could only agree—he felt the same flatness, too.
In the Courtyard of the Kabbalist Page 8