Larry & the Dog People

by J. Paul Henderson

  It appeared that getting the finer points of English pronunciation across to people whose first language was Hebrew was no less difficult than getting the finer points of grammar across to Wayne, whose first language was English. He decided he may as well just get used to the idea of being called Maccabee while in Israel.

  Larry ate his evening meal in the Garden Restaurant and chose a table on its terrace overlooking the hotel’s private gardens. He ordered hummus as an appetiser and gefilte fish for his main course. He toyed with the idea of ordering a glass of wine but decided against it and stuck to mineral water. All in all the meal was enjoyable, but probably not special enough to warrant a mention to Laura when he wrote her a postcard. He called for the check, swallowed hard when he read it and asked for the meal to be charged to his room. He left shekels on the table for the waitress and headed for the concierge’s desk. It was time to make enquiries.

  Larry had first read about Masada as a boy. He’d been thumbing through the magazine section of a Sunday newspaper when he’d chanced upon an article on the ruined fortress. It was the photographs that had first caught his attention, but the accompanying story had been no less remarkable and prompted him over time to read further. Although no expert, Larry had been versant with the history of Masada for more than fifty years and was excited by the prospect of actually seeing it in the flesh.

  The concierge was used to arranging trips for hotel guests and knew of two tour operators specialising in excursions to Masada. He suggested that if Larry wanted to avoid the complications of the Shabbat he should visit the site on Thursday, the day after next. Larry agreed and the concierge placed a call.

  ‘All set, Professor Maccabee. The BeinHarim representative will meet you in the lobby at 7:30 Thursday morning.’

  It was as simple as that. But then, a moment later and after Larry had left the desk, it became a lot more complicated.

  A passing bellboy had caught the tail end of the conversation and overheard Larry’s name mentioned. The concierge was dealing with another guest now, but details of Larry’s trip were visible on the desk. The bellboy glanced at them: BeinHarim – Masada – Thursday – Maccabee – Lari – 312. He waited while the concierge finished his conversation and then asked him the vital question – the missing piece of the jigsaw taking shape in his head.

  ‘Was that Dr Maccabee you were talking to earlier?’ he asked.

  The concierge glanced at his notes. ‘Yes, I have him down as Professor but that’s the same thing as Doctor in the United States – and that’s where Professor Maccabee is from.’

  ‘Dr Lavi Maccabee?’ the bellboy persisted, who’d misread the concierge’s misspelling of Larry.

  Aware that the bellboy had problems pronouncing his R’s and not wishing to draw attention to his impediment, the concierge nodded. The bellboy thanked him for the information and walked outside the hotel to a place where he could speak without being overheard. He took out his mobile phone and punched in a number: ‘He’s here,’ he said. ‘He’s already arrived. He’s going to Masada on Thursday.’

  The next morning Larry rose late. He’d slept poorly that night – the consequence of jetlag he supposed – and left the hotel behind schedule. Rather than eat breakfast in the restaurant he returned to the cafe he’d visited the previous afternoon and again ordered coffee and a piece of cake and sat at the same outdoor table. There was nothing in Larry’s life more comfortable than routine.

  He left the eatery through the back entrance and retraced his steps to the Armenian Quarter, through Hurva Square and down the steps to the plaza and the Western Wall, Judaism’s most sacred site. The wall had been built to retain the Second Temple but was now all that remained of the Second Temple, and hence its significance. It was sixty feet high, though only the first seven levels dated to the time of Herod: huge limestone blocks weighing anything from eight to 250 tons. (If building pyramids in Egypt hadn’t been the happiest of times for the Israelis, they had at least provided them with a useful apprenticeship for constructing large monuments.)

  Larry mingled with small groups of Orthodox Jews dressed in frock coats, white shirts and black felt hats: a style with proven appeal and one that had remained in vogue for three hundred years. Some wore prayer shawls and tasselled belts, and others had small tefillin boxes tied to their foreheads and arms. All had beards – some trimmed, some bushy and others in existential crisis – and Larry was reminded of the time he’d grown a beard and been mistaken for Leon Trotsky. A group of schoolboys with cropped heads and sidelocks danced in a circle, first clockwise and then anti-clockwise, their arms locked around each other’s shoulders and their voices rising in praise. Larry joined in with bystanders and clapped his hands in time to their movements. Why couldn’t everyone be as happy as the Israelis!

  He noticed a swarm of tourists approaching from Dung Gate – the drop-off point for day excursions to Temple Mount and the Western Wall – and decided to get ahead of them. He approached the men’s prayer area with deference, taking off his baseball cap and replacing it with the paper yarmulke handed him. He’d seen the Western Wall so many times on television it was like going to a friend’s house. He found a small gap between two men rocking their upper bodies and reciting psalms and squeezed into the space. He had no prayers to offer a deity but was more than happy to have a chat with Helen. He rested the palm of his hand against the wall’s ancient stone, and taking a cue from his neighbours began rocking to and fro.

  ‘You won’t believe the hotel I’m staying in, Helen. It’s called the King David and it’s not a bit like the Days Inn. To tell the truth it’s a bit grand for me and I’m nervous about going into the main restaurant. There are names of famous people engraved on the ground floor tiles, a bit like the Hollywood Walk of Fame, and they’re all people who’ve stayed at the hotel at one time or another. People like the Dalai Lama and Billy Graham, Nelson Mandela and Hillary Clinton and a descendant of Napoleon Bonaparte who’s shortened the family name to Bono. It’s like a Who’s Who of bigwigs and there’s a good chance that my name might join them if my address to the symposium goes well and the Hebrew University of Jerusalem puts in a good word for me. I just hope they manage to spell my name right. You wouldn’t believe the problems I’ve been having…

  ‘Anyway, with the exception of the woman who stands outside the hotel and asks people who they are and what their business is, everyone has been very pleasant, and the concierge was kind enough to book me an excursion to Masada. I’m going there tomorrow and I have to be in the lobby at 7:30am. I’m at the Western Wall now, which is a bit like Willow Columbarium but a lot bigger and not in as good condition. Some of the slabs are eroding, but considering they’ve been here for 2,000 years I suppose that’s to be expected. I think the man who built the wall made the mistake of using stones from different quarries and mixing fine- with thick-grained blocks. There are crevices everywhere and people put small prayer notes into them. Look, I’ll show you.’ He pulled the breakfast receipt from his shirt pocket and wedged it into a crack, reminded by it of something else he needed to share with Helen. ‘And you’re not going to believe the prices, Helen. They charge more for a cup of coffee in Jerusalem than they do on M St! And the cake’s no different. I bought a piece…’

  Larry stopped midsentence, inexplicably seized by an urge to lick the wall. He cut his conversation short and immediately moved away from the stones. If he was caught putting his tongue on Judaism’s most sacred site he’d be thrown out of Israel – and how would he explain that to the Hebrew University of Jerusalem and his friends back home? He had no idea what had overcome him. Had the Western Wall been made of sandstone he might have understood the craving but it wasn’t, it was made from limestone, and when in life had he ever been tempted to put a pinch of lime in his mouth?

  He left the plaza in a state of agitation and headed for the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, forgetting to hand back the yarmulke and covering it with
his baseball cap. He walked up Chain Street to where it became David Street, turned right on Souk El-Lakhamin and then left on Souk El-Dabbagha. The approaches to the Church bustled with tourists and commerce: shops selling crosses, candles, rosary beads and statues; everything in fact but hammer-and-nail sets. Larry stopped and asked a vendor if he sold dog collars, but the man said he didn’t and so he kept walking and soon arrived at his destination.

  The exterior of the Church of the Holy Sepulchre was surprisingly unprepossessing, down at heel almost, and apart from the multitudes entering and exiting, easy to mistake for just another old building. Larry took off his baseball cap and yarmulke as he went into the church and waited for his eyes to accustom to the gloom. He was jostled from behind and in front, and moved to the side and stood beneath a dim lamp while he oriented himself.

  The church was a maze of chapels and worship spaces administered by monks of six different denominations: Roman Catholic, Greek, Armenian, Coptic, Syriac and Ethiopian. They wore dark robes and long beards and looked like Hell’s Angels. Larry knew of their reputation for brawling and gave them a wide berth, preferring to follow the advice of his guidebook than risk a punch on the nose. He turned to his right – as the book and his own proclivity suggested he do – and climbed the narrow flight of stairs to Calvary and the site of Christ’s execution. Next he made his way to the Unction Stone where Christ’s body had been wrapped and anointed for burial, and then to the wooden Rotunda that housed His tomb – the Lord’s last known mailing address on earth.

  The distance from Golgotha to the aedicule was little more than 90 feet, but pilgrims were many that day and queues long and it took Larry three hours to cover the ground. He emerged from the Church close to four o’clock and calculated that his average movement inside the shrine had been no faster than six inches per minute – slower, in fact, than a Negev tortoise. He repaired to the cafe again and though recognised, remained unacknowledged. He ordered a small sandwich and a bottle of mineral water, careful not to spoil his appetite for dinner. His usual table was occupied and so he sat inside the restaurant and updated his journal there.

  It struck him that events of great significance happened in proximity in Jerusalem, and not just inside the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. Temple Mount, for instance, was not only the location of the world’s Foundation Stone, but the place where Adam had been created, where Abraham had offered his son Isaac in sacrifice and where Muhammad had ascended to Heaven on a night journey. And, as he now recalled, the location of the Last Supper was but one floor above the tomb of King David! As a tourist destination Jerusalem had it all: not only thousands of years of history and religious significance, but also convenience. The city was a miracle of twenty-first-century tourism.

  Larry returned to the hotel, a fifteen-minute walk from the cafe, and was again stopped and questioned by the woman in blue uniform. He went to his room and took a short nap and then showered and went down to dinner. He returned to the Garden Restaurant, sat on the terrace and again ordered hummus as an appetiser and gefilte fish for his main course. This night, however, he drank a glass of white wine. Routine was one thing he believed, but he had no intention of falling into a rut while in Israel.

  Larry was in the lobby by 7:15 the next morning, sitting in an armchair facing the door and rising expectantly every time it opened. He had a small rucksack with him containing a litre of water, a packed lunch prepared by the hotel, a tube of sunscreen, his paper yarmulke and his journal. The morning was chilly and he wore a thin windbreaker over his short-sleeved shirt.

  The representative of BeinHarim walked through the door at precisely 7:29 and announced himself: ‘BeinHarim for Professor Maccabee!’ Larry rose from his chair and held out his hand. Amah Efros shook it and led Larry to a curtained minibus waiting on the street. There were five people in the bus, a driver and two couples, one from the Netherlands and the other from Germany. Larry exchanged early-morning smiles and chose a single seat immediately behind the driver.

  The bus made three further stops and another fifteen passengers climbed on board. Amah then called roll and handed each person a name tag. The journey would take 90 minutes he told them. They’d travel through territory belonging to the Palestinian Authority, along the shores of the Dead Sea and arrive at Masada by ten. Unlike most other tour operators who travelled to Masada, BeinHarim didn’t stop at the Dead Sea. The Dead Sea was for tourists Amah explained, and Masada for explorers! And like all explorers they would take the cable car to the top of the mountain and not waste time climbing the Snake Path, which in his opinion was for low-budget tourists and donkeys.

  The bus headed out of Jerusalem on Route 1, stopped briefly at a checkpoint on the border between Israel and the Palestinian West Bank and then continued on Route 90 and descended into the Judean Desert, a barren land of terraces, escarpments and deep canyons. As Amah had promised the bus arrived at the eastern entrance of Masada at 10:00am. They were advised to use the toilet facilities before they ascended Masada and to wear hats and drink plenty of water while on the mountain. The ride in the cable car was fast and smooth, and five minutes after entering the gondola Larry was standing on Masada. It was a dream come true, not only for him but for the Sicarii dignitaries who were already gathered there.

  Amah, whose name translated as having the answer, was well suited to being a tour guide. He spoke knowledgeably about the history and geography of the fortress, led his party from one site to the next and gave them time to browse and take in the views. They explored the commandant’s residence, the storeroom complex, the Northern and Western Palaces, the water cisterns and bathhouse, the synagogue and the rebel dwellings, and then, as they were about to return to the cable car, a man of about Larry’s age approached Amah and indicated the lines of chairs placed close to the eastern observation point. The man was Talmai Oshkeroff, leader of the Party of the Sicarii.

  Amah’s eyebrows rose. ‘I had no idea, sir. Yes, a momentous day indeed!’

  Having made this pronouncement, Amah – along with other tour leaders – guided his group towards the chairs and then went looking for Larry, who had seemingly disappeared. He found him crouched in the Byzantine monastic cave apparently tying his shoelace.

  ‘There you are, Dr Maccabee. I must apologise for not recognising you earlier. It’s not every day I have the pleasure of guiding a man of your authority.’

  Larry was caught off guard, as surprised by Amah’s sudden appearance as he had been by Wayne’s on his first visit to the park. And the circumstances were no less similar.

  Larry had sloped off to the cave after spotting a small drift of sand earlier in the day, and presumed his disappearance had gone unnoticed. He was on his second mouthful when Amah disturbed him and in no position to answer immediately. He swallowed the grit as best he could and washed it down with the last of his water, all the time wondering what Amah had meant by a man of your authority. He could only think that Amah was referring to his standing in the Desert Land Act community, but why would he know this?

  ‘It’s very kind of you to say so, Amah,’ Larry said, ‘but how did you know?’

  ‘There are people from Jerusalem here today, Dr Maccabee, important people, and it was they who told me. They said you weren’t expected until next week.’

  ‘That’s true,’ Larry said, presuming that the important people from Jerusalem were the ones organising the symposium on Desert Reclamation. ‘I came a few days early to do a bit of sightseeing.’

  ‘I’ve been asked by Mr Oshkeroff if you would be willing to give a short presentation while you’re here. There could be no better setting.’

  Larry completely agreed with this sentiment. Where better place than the Judaean Wilderness to give a short presentation on the Desert Land Act?

  ‘I’d be happy to, Amah, but it’s a big subject. Is there anything specific Mr Oshkeroff would like me to talk about?’

  ‘Yes,’ Amah replied.
‘He’d like you to talk about the Sicarii.’

  Larry was puzzled by the reply. How did Mr Oshkeroff – whose name he still couldn’t pinpoint – know that he was even capable of talking about the Sicarii? He’d never hidden his interest in Masada but neither had he broadcast it, and was about to question Amah further when he remembered the blog on the Great Revolt he’d contributed to almost nine years earlier – and then it clicked. Yes, that would be it: Mr Oshkeroff had read the blog and wanted to hear more of his thoughts on the subject and save his formal presentation on the Desert Land Act for the symposium.

  ‘Tell Mr Oshkeroff I’d be happy to,’ Larry said.

  ‘Excellent!’ Amah said. ‘And after you’ve spoken he’d like you to join him for dinner in the main restaurant of the King David Hotel.’

  ‘I’d be pleased to,’ Larry said, buoyed by the idea of not having to walk into the restaurant alone.

  Larry followed Amah to the eastern observation point where more than 200 people were gathered. Talmai Oshkeroff and his party – very similar in appearance to the men he’d mingled with at the Western Wall – were sitting on the front row and stood and applauded when he stepped on to the makeshift stage. Larry waved to them and smiled. Amah tapped the microphone and then spoke.

  ‘It’s my honour to present to you a man who needs no introduction: Dr Lavi Maccabee.’

  Larry was by now used to being addressed as Maccabee and too wrapped up in the occasion to notice Amah’s mispronunciation of his first name. He took off his baseball cap and revealed his paper yarmulke, there to protect his head from any rays that penetrated his hat.

  ‘Thank you, Amah,’ Larry said stepping to the microphone. ‘And thank you for a splendid and informative tour today. I’ve dreamt of standing on Masada for fifty years and it’s a privilege to be doing so at long last. I’d also like to thank Mr Oshkeroff of the Hebrew University of Jerusalem for allowing me the opportunity of speaking to you about my interest in the Sicarii.’