In the Courtyard of the Kabbalist

by Ruchama King Feuerman

  He began to walk toward the commander. I’m no warrior, not a rabbi, either—the words flitted through his mind, but then he shook them off. In these men’s eyes, he already was a rabbi, and he would become their rabbi—with God’s help. A faint flush spread across Shani’s cheeks when his eyes met Isaac’s. Then he lowered his gaze. Good, Isaac thought. As long as a person could blush, there was hope.

  “Excuse me, Commander Shani.”

  Shani glanced up. “What is it, Markowitz?” Then he concentrated on a sugar packet he was trying to open.

  Isaac coughed. “I’m not here to make small talk. There’s a man’s life in danger.”

  “Yes, there are many men’s lives in danger.” Shani twisted open another sugar packet with his teeth.

  “This one you’ll want to know.” Isaac licked his dry lips. “It’s a matter of urgency.” He flashed back to any thriller he had ever read to find the right words. “A man’s life hangs by a thread.” Pathetic. “You’ve got to release me.” Also pathetic.

  Shani stirred his coffee with the stem of his fork. His thick pelt of hair gleamed under the fluorescent lighting. “Because only you can save him, right?” he said with a sardonic lift of his black brow.

  “It’s not a joke,” Isaac said sharply. “That Arab worker—the one who brought me the pomegranate—he’s in terrible danger.”

  Shani stopped stirring. He set down his coffee so hard it scalded his fingers and he winced. “What’re you saying?”

  “If I tell you, you’ll send your whole police force to stop him. Every Arab in Jerusalem will be after him.” A headache came pounding at Isaac full force. “But if I don’t say anything, he could get lynched anyway.”

  Shani took a step closer. “You mean a bomb?” He pulled Isaac close by the collar. “Don’t fool around, Markowitz. Is it a bomb?”

  The assistant cook turned with his serving spoon held in midair to look at Shani and Isaac. A few prisoner heads swiveled.

  Isaac leveled a look at Shani until the commander released his grasp. “Not a bomb. I’m talking about the Temple Mount.”

  Shani’s tanned cheeks went taut. “Tell me,” he demanded, and took a gulp of coffee.

  “How can I know if you’ll do the right thing?” Isaac stalled.

  Shani gripped his coffee cup. For a second Isaac feared the commander would throw the scalding liquid in his face. Instead, he just fixed a stony gaze at Isaac, who chose that moment to take off his glasses and rub away the smudges with the tip of his shirt.

  “What are your terms?” Shani said roughly.

  “That only you and I go to stop him,” Isaac said, and carefully put on his glasses. “You’ll find him on the Temple Mount, and I’ll be waiting down below in the plaza area where everyone prays. He’s got a bag he’s lowering down.” Isaac hesitated. Maybe he was revealing too much. But he had to give something. “You can stop him beforehand—discreetly. No one in his Arab community needs to know. This way, he won’t lose his job or—his life,” he finished. “But we have to stop him.”

  Shani tapped an impatient finger against his baby lips. “I agree to your terms. Now tell me when it’s taking place.”

  Isaac grasped his shedding beard. If he told the commander, what cards would he still hold? His mind raced, wove in and out Talmudically. “All right. It’s today, at the Kotel, in, say”—he looked at the cafeteria clock—“just under an hour.”

  Shani took another gulp of coffee and threw the rest into the garbage. “This is moronic. Give me a description of the Arab, and I’ll call one of the policemen stationed on the Temple Mount, and he’ll get him.”

  “ ‘Get him’,” Isaac repeated dully. “You’re breaking the terms already.” Shani’s a liar, went through his head. How could he have trusted him? “I won’t let any random policeman cart this Arab man away in front of everyone. He’ll be a marked man. This has to be”—he groped—“finessed.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” The commander made a backward hand flip. “I know how to handle these things. It’s what I do.” But Isaac wouldn’t budge.

  “You think you can do better?” The commander’s thick brows hiked up with incredulity.

  “He knows me.” Isaac felt a cramp under his rib. “That’s the difference.”

  Shani looked with longing at the coffee urn, then turned his head abruptly toward Isaac. “Why do you care about this Arab? He’s just a lousy informer doing whatever he did for money, right? A betrayer of his own people.”

  “You don’t know him,” Isaac said in a tight voice. “He’s not a betrayer.” Isaac knew that better than anyone.

  Shani snorted. “So you won’t give me a description of the Arab.”

  “I will. When we get there,” Isaac said, half-amazed at his gall.

  The commander folded his stocky arms and glowered at him. “I could squash you, you know. Like this.” Shani ground the toe of his shoe into the floor several times, for emphasis, making him look for a moment as if he were doing the cha-cha. The image made Isaac smile, despite himself. And suddenly Shani came at him, pushed Isaac against the wall, Shani’s broad nose and forehead ramming into his. Shani’s nose pressed so hard against his own, Isaac thought it would crack. Ah! He was too frightened to move, to breathe. All the bullies he had ever known compressed into that one blunt schnoz. He felt the violence of the officer’s every shift of his body. Gottenyu, Isaac screamed inside, but made no movement or sound, only hardened himself. Just as suddenly, Shani stepped back and brushed his hands against his pants. “All right. There’s no time.” He twisted his neck this way and that, releasing the cricks. “Let’s get going.”

  “Wait.”

  Shani’s eyes narrowed. “What now, Markowitz?”

  “Drop the charges.”

  A curl of the commander’s upper lip. “Why should I?”

  Isaac’s heartbeat still hadn’t returned to normal, but he said, “Because it’s just, and you know it.” His eyes locked in with Shani’s reddened ones. The commander was tired, he saw. “The world functions and exists only in the merit of justice.”

  Shani worked his lower lip. “Okay, but”—he thrust a hard finger at Isaac, right between his eyes—“no pomegranate. It’s state property. Or it belongs in a museum. Not with you.”

  “I don’t want it,” said Isaac. It was never his to keep or Mustafa’s to give. He just wanted it safe. “But there’s a certain young woman who needs to come with us.” He coughed into his fist, then gained strength and a bit more. “She knows the Arab worker, too, and he listens to her. Her name’s Tamar. I suggest we call her now.”

  Mustafa rolled up his sleeve and checked the time on the watch he had bought just for this day. Nine fifteen. He scooped the bag up in his arms, the rope lying in a coil on top, and he started to walk toward the wall of the Jews.

  Hamdi’s head popped up over the stone ledge. “Ya, Mustafa.”

  Mustafa’s skin jumped. “Ya, Hamdi,” he said evenly, though his heart careened this way and that, like a bike out of control.

  Hamdi reached over and drank the remainder of Mustafa’s Coca-Cola resting on the ledge. He wiped his fleshy lips on the back of his wrist. He pointed at the bag in Mustafa’s arms. “You have pictures in there. From my magazine. They’re mine.”

  “No,” Mustafa said. Stupid JC Penney, he thought. “That’s not true.” His arms tightened around the bag.

  Hamdi poked his dark head over the wall. “Let me see what’s inside,” he half-demanded, half-begged. One big arm shot out and tried to grab the bag, but Mustafa was too far away.

  “No.” Mustafa took a few steps back. “It’s not for touching.”

  “Why not?” Hamdi grinned at Mustafa. A gold tooth caught the light off the Dome of the Rock.

  His mind went dark and blank. And then: “There’s blood and mess. See, I found a dog up here.” Mustafa added, “Sheikh Tawil made me kill it.”

  “Square Head made you kill a dog?” Hamdi’s pupils glowed with bewilderment and delight. “There
’s a dead dog in there?”

  Mustafa nodded. “No dogs are allowed up on the Haram. Then he found out it belonged to his daughter who was keeping it as a secret pet,” he improvised, his heart knocking against his ribs, “so he realized he could get into trouble, you see, his own daughter disobeying the rules.” Hamdi was nodding. “That’s why he asked me to kill the dog,” Mustafa finished. Allah surely had blessed his mouth today to think so quick.

  “So why are you walking around with a dead dog?” Hamdi tilted his large, rough hands outward in a sensible way.

  “Well, a dead dog has no place up here on this holy ground. I have to remove it.”

  Hamdi’s head drooped, defeated by this logic. “Oh.” A moment later his head lifted. “But why are you jumping like that, nervous, you know, Mustafa?”

  “Because Sheikh Tawil wants no one to know.” He was getting impatient. He had no time to waste. He flicked his wrist. “Now go ahead. I will buy you an ice cream in the souk. Or a new magazine, a better one than JC Penney. I have to go.”

  Hamdi took a few shuffling along steps, his shoulders slouching, and looked back. “Maybe you’re lying,” he sang out with a happy slyness.

  Mustafa had no time for this nonsense. It was getting late. Miss Tamar was surely waiting below. All his hard work would get lost. “Just go, Hamdi,” he said sharply. “I’m busy.” He began to walk quickly. Hamdi shambled after him, making a detour around the wall. Here, Mustafa darted for the olive trees. Hamdi walked in his direction and crooned, “Show me what’s in the bag!” Mustafa wove among the trees. He quickened his gait, and so did Hamdi. Like a game. But it was no game. Mustafa panted under the weight of the bag. He began to run fast, faster, even with his heavy load, leaving the olive trees behind. He ran, so sure of his way he didn’t move sideways but forward, seeing with his feet every mound and pillar. He, slow, awkward Mustafa. Allah must have put blessing into his feet, too. He was quicker than Hamdi, who was too heavy and dull to maneuver the rocks and boulders and low walls and trees and rubble blocking the way. But Hamdi carried nothing while he had a bag.

  I must go toward the wall of the Jews, he thought as he ran and dodged. Fat droplets of sweat wet his kaffiyeh, trickled down his neck, went between the blades of his shoulders. He heard the pieces moving in the bag as he ran. They were getting disturbed! No. He had wrapped the treasures too well. But now, with Hamdi chasing him, how would he be able to lower the bag? An olive branch clawed his back as he hurtled by. Too late to dodge a small boulder, he leaped over it. Then it was quiet. No feet chasing after him. Still, he ran toward the Jew wall. Miss Tamar. What if she wasn’t there? Maybe she and the rabbi didn’t love him. She better be there, he raged, a tear flinging against his cheek. She better be. If not, everything was a trick, and nothing counted, there was no love in the world. He banged his exposed toe hard against a rock. He heard shouts and the distant tock tock of a cane, and Sheikh Tawil screaming from far away, “Where are you, ungrateful boy who I treated like my firstborn son? What are you stealing from me?”

  Mustafa’s neck stiffened and he continued running toward the protection of the cypress trees near the Jew wall. More feet were chasing and pounding after him. They will beat me up, they will kill me, he panted. He ran toward the wall, past the cypress trees.

  Isaac stood outside the Russian Compound, blue jail tote bag in hand, squinting in the hot, hard sun like some fish belched out of a whale’s belly onto a scorched beach. Shani stood beside him, barking into a phone. Isaac smelled bad. He hadn’t had a chance to even brush his teeth, it all had happened so fast. Mustafa. Tamar, Mustafa. He was restless, on shpilkes.

  “You’re one hard-nosed Jew,” Shani commented as he clicked off his phone.

  Isaac turned his palms upward slightly.

  “Where is this Tamar?” Shani lit up a cigarette. “You sure she’s necessary?”

  “Oh yes. A woman’s touch. She’ll be here soon,” he said quietly.

  “So did you think”—Shani took a whiff and let out a long exhale—“you’d come to our little jail and teach these criminals some Torah?”

  Isaac stared at him. A shock of black hair fell over one of Shani’s bloodshot eyes.

  “Oh, I know all you rabbis. Everything is pretty and make-believe. This jail, these criminals, this Jewish state, eh? You don’t believe in this state, do you? You believe in your own state.” Shani tapped a thick finger against his temple. “The one up here.”

  Isaac let the commander go on with his rant.

  “You know, there’ll come a time all you black hatters”—he waved his cigarette to include a large swathe of those kind of Jews—“you rabbis will yearn for a mamzer like me who fights all your battles.”

  “Could be,” Isaac replied, slightly averting his head from the smoke. “Zionists like you, you’re a dying breed.”

  “You’re talking out of your armpit, Markowitz.” Shani tossed his cigarette. “Just be glad I dropped the charges.” He bent to reclaim the cigarette that had missed the garbage can. “Is that her?” he said in a wondering voice, and Isaac’s head sharply turned.

  As if in a mirage, Tamar stood swinging her helmet beside a huge Herodian column near the parking lot. Her hair was neatly braided in two, just like the first time he had met her at the courtyard. She was even wearing the same frumpy, flouncy skirt, and it made him beam even harder as he walked toward her.

  “You have no idea how good it is to see you,” he said.

  Before she could even open her mouth, Shani broke in, “This is no time for smiles. Bo. Come. My car’s over here.” He jerked his thumb backward.

  “Actually,” Tamar piped up, her braids glancing off her shoulders “we have our own transportation.” She hooked her thumb toward where she had parked. “D’ya mind?” She was already sprinting toward the street. Without thinking, Isaac followed her.

  Shani stared after Tamar. He lifted his cap and gave a scratch or two.

  “We’ll beat the traffic better in my scooter,” she called back.

  Shani made an ah-forget-it motion with his wrist and then dashed toward his car, his powerful thighs pumping. “I’ll be following you every turn you make!” he shouted from the window of his gold Subaru.

  Isaac tried to keep abreast of Tamar, but after twelve days in jail, his limbs moved stiffly, as though in need of oiling.

  “What’s with the police,” she said under her breath as she ran.

  “What choice was there?” he said, panting between words. “He tries to pull that stunt at the wall, he’ll get blown to bits. We can’t let Mustafa risk his life for these artifacts. Eh, excuse me, but it’s ridiculous.”

  She was silent, which he took for agreement.

  A few feet away he saw her Vespa, and right next to it, another scooter, with no handlebars. Strange, he thought. Two scooters side by side, attached by metal bars. “What’s that?”

  “A sidecar!” she said over the traffic noise.

  He stared dubiously at the strange contraption. “Am I getting into that?”

  “Yeah!” She threw a leg over the seat of her Vespa, and her flouncy skirt parachuted outward over her knees and calves. “Come on!”

  He clambered into the sidecar and threw his tote bag near his feet.

  She pushed away the kickstand and pulled the throttle, and they took off, she steering in the scooter, and he looking out from his sidecar. Shani stayed a car or two behind, his gold Subaru nosing in and out. She skidded down a small side street, then took a reckless left, and his own car skidded in sync with hers. They passed Zion Square and the post office, and the noise of traffic and wind and the scooter came between them. The wind splayed his beard and hair every which way. His skin didn’t itch anywhere. The blood was rushing through his calves and legs and arms. He was alive. Such movement, such freedom after the forced constriction of jail was a shock to him. A wonderful shock. He closed his eyes and murmured from Psalms, “ ‘From a narrow place I have called out to you, and you have answered me with
great breadth and expansion.’ ”

  “How’d you get out?” she shouted into the wind.

  “Miracles,” he shouted back. With guts he never knew he had.

  “Wish I could’ve been there to see it,” she sang out.

  He could hardly believe it himself. He had spoken to Shani like a different man.

  They passed a slew of old men in Russian-style caps playing chess along a shady sidewalk area off Jaffa Road. At the light, the old men stared at Tamar and Isaac, and a few Russians tipped their caps at him. He lifted his hat back, dazed.

  Above, the swallows were flying in formation, toward the Kotel, as they always did around midday. One swallow fell behind, and as he watched, it seemed the other birds glided in place, waited for it to catch up. Even birds cared for each other.

  “Take off that hat!” Tamar called as they sped up. “It’s going to fly away.”

  He flung it to the floorboard. “Good?”

  “Good!”

  They passed the pretzel maker sitting behind his stall at Tzahal Square. A pigtailed Hassidic girl at the corner pointed at the two of them and guffawed.

  “So what’s the plan, Isaac?”

  “I have a note I wrote to Mustafa.” He had to nearly shout the words. “I begged him to stop, told him I don’t want the presents, I just wanted him safe and alive.” He held his hand against the glare of the morning sun as they rattled down Jaffa Road. “The plan is, Shani will track him down on the Temple Mount and give the note to him.”

  Suddenly the scooter was idling at the light at Jaffa Gate. Shani’s car hummed directly behind them. A cluster of tourists crossed a street.

  Tamar turned her head, stricken. “But Mustafa was counting on me,” she said in an anguished voice that cut right into him. “I’m supposed to take the bag.”