In the Courtyard of the Kabbalist

by Ruchama King Feuerman

  “You’ll be there. You’ll be there,” he repeated, as if to reassure himself, too. “Shani will point you out when he takes Mustafa off the Mount. He’ll see you and know that we came for him, out of love. We have to save his life, Tamar.”

  She said nothing, but he could see her mouth working as she chewed this over.

  His eyes followed a mother pushing a double stroller across the walkway. “So what happens to all the things he collected?” she asked angrily. “We just forget about them?”

  “Tamar,” he said, in a near groan, “what else can we do?” He steadied himself as she revved up the scooter. “The one good thing is,” he called to her over the engine’s rising noise, “this whole event, it’s too public. Those artifacts can’t be kept hidden much longer. Shani knows the game is up. Probably why he released me.”

  “Okay,” she said so quietly he almost didn’t hear her. “I guess it’s the only way.” She peeped at him from under her helmet. “I’m with you.”

  Isaac smiled.

  Now she made a swerving turn downhill, into the Gai Ben Hinnom Valley. They were going at high-speed. Long-necked date trees whipped by. He heard a sound like waves crashing in his ears. Maybe, maybe … An uncle had once said to Isaac: In the old days, we didn’t look for a perfect fit. If the shoe was a little tight or a little loose, we made it fit. Isaac nodded to himself. The leather and the foot are the same, they are both of the flesh. Skin and skin will get along.

  Now they were going uphill. A verse from Psalms passed through his mind: “The mountains and hills will burst into song before you, and all the trees of the field will clap their hands.” He threw his head back and laughed out loud, despite everything.

  “What’s so funny?” she called out.

  Now they were passing the Kidron Valley and Siloan’s Pool.

  “Not funny, but wonderful.” He paused. “You. Me. Us.”

  She didn’t answer. He stared worriedly at her. Her mind was elsewhere.

  He could feel it. Any moment they’d arrive at the Kotel. They’d pass through Dung Gate, then they’d part ways, he to the men’s side, she to the women’s.

  “I want to go out with you.”

  She didn’t answer. Or maybe she didn’t hear?

  Just ahead, an old Bedouin was noodging a few sheep across the speedway. The sheep protested; they baaaed and bleated loudly. Behind them, Shani honked. Isaac shouted, “I want to have more of a life with you!”

  Silence except for the bleating of the animals. She turned her head toward him and found her words. “How do you love a man who prefers himself?”

  Her words stunned him. Were they the truth? He pleaded, “It’s you I prefer.”

  She didn’t seem to hear. “You have a problem with pleasure, Isaac. You’re”—she shook her head—“constricted. All locked up.”

  “So?” he said. “Maybe you’re the one who’s meant to open the door.”

  She pulled down on the throttle. The tachometer shot up to six, revving up the engine to a big noise.

  “Are you trying to drown me out?”

  She laughed and shook her head.

  He loved her laugh. Tears you can see but laughter you can only hear, he thought.

  They passed under the arch at Dung Gate and parked in the open lot crammed with buses, cars, and taxis parked at odd angles. Tamar and Isaac climbed out of the scooter and side car. Two slouching soldiers at the turnstiles suddenly stood alert as they saw Shani leaving his car, yelling into a police phone as he ran, the gun in his holster jostling at his hip.

  Tamar, Isaac and Shani met up at the turnstiles and stood in a huddle.

  “How will I find this Arab?” Shani said. “This better not be some wild-goose chase.” With the back of his hand, he wiped sweat from his forehead.

  “He’s got a got a neck like this.” Isaac pivoted his head over his right shoulder.

  Shani’s eyes turned stupid with shock.

  “He’s a janitor and his name’s Mustafa,” Isaac added. He took out a note from his jacket and folded it in half. He kissed it and held out the paper. “Give this to him.”

  Shani collected himself, grabbed the note, pushed through the turnstiles without even waiting to get checked by the soldiers, and sprinted toward the ramp leading to the Mugrabe Gate.

  Tamar and Isaac glanced at each other. “We better go,” she said. She walked quickly ahead of him and as she swerved through the turnstiles into the plaza area, she remarked, “You know, I’m not into fixing relationships.”

  “Who would want to fix you?” he blurted. “It would be like trying to fix a waterfall.”

  She whirled around just before slipping into the women’s side, grinning so hard her cheeks bunched up like little toy balls.

  It didn’t seem right to feel so hopeful with so much at risk, but he floated to the men’s side, borne by dreams of a Shabbos table in his own home, their home, Tamar lighting the candles, moving her arms at her side as if she were gathering up their children. He should be so lucky.

  He went past tourists snapping pictures, past an old Moroccan man who was blowing a long, twisted shofar for no reason at all, and Isaac positioned himself in the back, where no one else sat, so he could stand out to Mustafa. His eyes trained upward toward the top layer of rock that met sky. It was 9:25. No Mustafa, no bag. But then it was early. The wall was packed with worshippers. He picked up a book of Psalms. A yellow, oppressive haze simmered in the air. He wished he had a water bottle.

  Over the plastic-slatted fence divider, he caught sight of Tamar on the women’s side. Mazal was close by, circulating among the worshippers, sticking out her hand for money. And—could it be? He saw a plump lady, a glowing white face—Shaindel Bracha. Was this how Deborah the prophetess looked sitting under a date palm, doling out wisdom, nudging, ruling the people of Israel with a feather touch? Seeing Shaindel Bracha, he could believe she received divine wisdom in the wee hours. There in the courtyard, where people may still smell of their sins, she held out hope for purity and repentance, like a priest in the courtyard of the Temple. The sun had burnished the Muslim globe, making it glisten. The heat slapped his cheeks. Not that far away, he saw a leathery woman hawking red strings to guard against the evil eye. Mustafa, Mustafa.

  He tilted his head back, sweeping his eyes over the stones he knew so well. There was no shade except for that cast by a tall man who swayed in front of him. He asked him the time. 9:35. Mustafa was late. Where was he? Where was Shani? A pigeon settled on a prong of the fence divider. The sun beat down. Bodies shifted. The Kotel released the stale air of hundreds of people who had prayed too long in the heat. He closed his eyes.

  “Mustafa, forgive me for stopping you,” he mumbled to himself, “but your plan is a terrible one. Where would you go if you were found out? You’d be a pariah; worse, you’d be killed. There would be no place left for you in this world. I’d take you in, you have to know that, but Mustafa, you never wanted my world. Mustafa, why do this crazy thing? Don’t do it. Listen to the policeman. Let him take the bag. Be safe, be well. Be loved. I love you.” He uttered the words under his breath, then stopped. He had never even told the rebbe that. He touched his beard in surprise. It was wet with his tears. At this point, he didn’t care if Shani alerted the entire police force, if it would get Mustafa off the mountain safely. “Just let him live,” he whispered.

  He glanced over the fence divider once more and saw Tamar praying. Foolish girl, he thought, brushing at his eyes. This was no time for prayers. He watched her briefly, the way she moved her lips, bowed her head. “Hashem,” he murmured. “Let me be included in her prayers.”

  Standing at the very edge of the Al Buraq wall, Mustafa looked down and scanned the crowd of Jews. Too many, he despaired. He would never find her. Or maybe she never came. His heart lost hope. He held the burlap bag so tightly a few plastic bubbles popped underneath. And then, his eyes caught on something—yes … yes! —standing there by the wooden table of books: Miss Tamar with her red
hair! And Mazal the beggar was with her, too. And—he squinted—that old woman with the shiny scarf. Could it be the holy old rabbi’s wife? His eyes swung over to the men’s side. So many black hats. He couldn’t recognize anyone from there. But what did it matter? Miss Tamar and the others had come for him—the janitor Mustafa. They loved him. He looked down, dizzy. He saw a sea of worshippers. The feet pounded toward him, close, closer. Soon they would climb the steps. Soon they would get him. He had no time. His toes curled in his worn-out shoes; his calves tensed as he prepared to lower the bag over the wall. And there to his side, crouching, appeared the large-lipped, dark face of Hamdi. “You are crazy, brother!” Hamdi observed and reached for his ankle. Mustafa pulled back violently, and suddenly, there was no ground, only air, and the bag clasped tight against his chest. He twirled through the air, holding the bag, legs spinning. “Oma!” he screamed. “Alahu Akbar!”

  Mazal shouted and pointed upward. Isaac’s eyes followed the tip of her finger. Next he heard a clumsy, terrible sound like a giraffe falling off a cliff and then a sound of a thousand tiny balloons popping. The mechitzah fence collapsed flat into the women’s section. A great noise whirred and buzzed all around him. No. No, it can’t be, don’t let it be. “Mustafa!” he heard Tamar scream above all the others. “Mustafa, Mustafa!” Isaac’s lungs closed down. Ceased working.

  A man hollered, “Petzatza!” Bomb. Isaac stood there, a rock in a stream, as bodies rushed past him and surged into a wave. An old Yemenite man was chanting, “Hear oh Israel!” while he jabbed his flinty elbows and tried to dig through. Isaac dimly registered a pink-lipsticked woman reaching out her arms, wailing for her children: Esti! Yair! Adina! Shoshi!

  Isaac pushed his way toward Mustafa. He wedged his way between the contorting people, bodies flailing, heaving, getting nowhere; the Kotel Plaza was too packed. Up ahead, Mazal had almost reached Mustafa, and Isaac saw Tamar fighting against the press of kicking legs and shoving arms, until she finally wiggled through.

  Suddenly, there he was. Mustafa lay facedown, slumped over the huge bag, his arms clutching the bag in a horrible embrace. No, no. Isaac stepped over the fallen fence. Mustafa didn’t move. Tamar screamed and pulled at her face. Isaac gently, gently eased Mustafa over and laid him flat on the ground, the custodian’s head in his lap. A leg tilted the wrong way, as if loosened from its hip. A desolate brown toe protruded from his dusty shoe. A small amount of blood seeped from his neck. His eyes stared straight up at the sky.

  Isaac took hold of his wrist, feeling and listening with his fingertips. “He’s alive,” he whispered after a few moments. “Hashem!”

  “Ya’allah,” the custodian said in a voice as quiet as the batting of a butterfly wing.

  Mazal lifted her voice and let out a string of piercing, guttural sounds. “A miracle! He lives!”

  “There’s no bomb,” Tamar shouted into the air, her words falling uselessly as people frantically pressed past.

  Mustafa let out a faint, “Ah …”

  Tamar crouched at his side, making soothing, crying noises. “Oh my God, do something!” she said to Isaac.

  Isaac whipped off his jacket, then his shirt as the worshippers surged by. He covered Mustafa. “Mustafa,” he wept. “My friend, my habibi.”

  Mustafa mumbled, “Oma, Oma …”

  “Do something,” Tamar moaned to Isaac, who wore nothing but his tzitzit, now flecked in blood. Then he tore them off, too.

  “Here,” he wedged the tzitzit tassel under Mustafa’s torso. “Pull. To stop the blood.” Her fingers scrambled under the bleeding flesh and found the tassel and pulled it through to the other side. He moved aside his jacket and shirt and wound the tzitzit around his lower abdomen. She cried, “Do some—” She broke off and looked at him in wonder, as if seeing him anew.

  Shaindel Bracha appeared at Mustafa’s side, kneeling, stroking his hair. She crooned to him a Yiddish lullaby.

  “Ah, Mother, Mother,” Mustafa murmured, his head moving in a delirium. “What is that delicious smell of soup? Is it freka?”

  “Yes, Mustafa,” Shaindel Bracha said tenderly. “I will give you soup.”

  As if from underwater Isaac heard yelling, a shofar blowing madly, the slapping feet of soldiers and police officers pouring out of every cranny. There was a great noise and clamor rising up and falling all around them. Above, a row of men with kaffiyehs looked down and jerkily shook their fists. Isaac saw Shani pushing through a pack of old women, his eye alight on the burlap bag. An angry spray of pebbles from the Temple Mount hit the worshippers below.

  Mustafa was muttering words. Arabic, English, some Hebrew. Isaac knelt and moved his head closer. “Tell my mother,” Mustafa’s eyes squeezed shut, “tell Oma I am a good Muslim. Tell her, my neck”—the words were too heavy to hold in his mouth—“fixed now,” he groaned, his voice slurring. His hand lifted off the ground toward his throat but lost strength and dropped. His dark eyes roamed in his face and found Isaac’s. “See, Rabbi? See how … you”—he took another ragged breath—“fixed it?”

  Isaac gently touched his fingers to Mustafa’s broken neck, now straight.

  By the time an ambulance arrived, Mustafa had been gathered to his people.

  EPILOGUE

  He was buried in his village cemetery. Miles away, Isaac grieved and chanted the Song of Ascents for Mustafa.

  What is man that thou dost consider him? Is he not like the dust that scatters, a shadow that passes, a dream that fades? And yet man is granted grace and sweeps for awhile … until he too is swept. We are left to hope for another world when all we have in our hands is this fleeting one.

  Author’s Note

  A fragment of a stone vessel with two birds carved in it was found in excavations at the southwest corner of the Temple Mount, dating from the Second Temple period. The fragment bears the inscribed Hebrew word Korban—sacrifice.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I am deeply grateful to my fabulous agent, Anna Olswanger, who inspired, encouraged, edited and midwifed this novel into the world. Anna is a saint.

  Much thanks to Sue Halpern for selecting my novel and for being such a brilliant editor and extraordinary person. I’m glad to be in the capable hands of Linda Hollick, the publisher of NYRB Lit, and Nick During, who have done a superb job in publicizing my novel. My thanks, also, to Evan Johnston, NYRB’s production manager, who did a wonderful job on my book.

  It takes a village to write a novel. I’m deeply indebted to the following people whose assistance was invaluable:

  For help with Arabic culture and Islamic practices: Nasser Rahlal, Waleed, Adam Sweidan, and my dear mother, Lily Bran, who answered my food and Arabic slang questions at all hours of the day.

  For details about prison life in Israel: Shmuel Sackett and Tomer Einat.

  For guidance in criminal and judicial matters in Israel: Ilan Benhaim, Advocate.

  For people’s stories about meeting kabbalists, wonder rabbis and rebbetzins, and various teachers: Elana Friedman, Mindy Ribner, Ira Berkowitz, Julian Barnett, Yoni Gershan, Rabbi Chaim Feuerman, Miriam Kalchstein, Rizel Hubert, Bracha Goetz, Rabbi Tzvi Mandel and Gila Manolson.

  For the talented writers who read this novel at various stages: Sherri Mandell, Charlotte Forbes, Yitta Halberstam Mandelbaum, Sharon Friedman, Leslie Ruder, Eve Grubin, Yisrael Feuerman, Susan Dalsimer, Fran Schumer, Sharona Shapiro, Rebecca Shapiro, and Nama Frenkel Schabb—may her memory be for a blessing.

  To my wonderful peer writing group, the NJ5, now in its fifth year: Heather Newman, Caprice Garvin, Julie Randolph, and Fran Schumer.

  To the Christopher Isherwood Foundation and the New Jersey State Council on the Arts. The generous funding they provided me was critical, and the vote of confidence in my novel even more so.

  Finally, I want to express my deepest thanks to my husband, Simon Yisrael Feuerman. Without him, this novel would have just been a conversation, a cloud, a prayer.

  READING GROUP GUIDE

  1. In a way this nove
l is about numb people who wake up. What role can religion and culture play in sedating you, and what role can they play in waking you up?

  2. Why could Isaac only find relief from his woes in Israel? What was there that he could not find in the vibrant Jewish community of New York?

  3. If such a thing were possible, would you seek out the kabbalist or his wife, Shaindel Bracha, for advice?

  4. Does Shaindel Bracha’s stance toward her spiritual gifts reveal a feminism or an anti-feminism?

  5. How does the Jerusalem portrayed in the novel differ from the Jerusalem of your own perceptions?

  6. Do you see Mustafa as a betrayer of his people or as loyal to himself and to the true principles of his religion?

  7. What is Isaac’s view of manhood? Does it change?

  8. To whom does an ancient artifact belong—the one who unearthed it or the people whose story it tells?

  9. Would you call this novel a political book? Or perhaps an anti-political book?

  10. What lessons can we take for our owns lives from the relationship of the Rebbi and Rebbetizin to each other and to those who come to the courtyard?

  RUCHAMA KING FEUERMAN was born in Nashville, grew up in Virginia and Maryland, and when she was seventeen, bought a one-way ticket to Israel to seek her spiritual fortune. Her first novel, the highly acclaimed Seven Blessings (St Martin’s Press), praised by the New York Times and other publications, was a Hadassah Book Club selection. Dubbed the “Jewish Jane Austen” by Kirkus Reviews, Feuerman has had stories and essays in many publications, and is a winner of the 2012 Moment Magazine Short Fiction Prize, selected by Walter Mosley. She lives with her family in New Jersey.