by Dan Sofer
Just pick a hero. Abraham. Isaac. Jacob. Moses.
“Elijah,” he said, surprising even himself. “Direct line to God. Miracles. Chariot of fire. And he never screwed up.”
“It’s OK to screw up. It’s what I like about King David. His flaws make him real. He’s a hero because he overcame his failings.”
“Nah,” Dave said. “Screwing up is overrated.”
He had meant to be witty but he sounded jaded and cynical. His hard-earned points crumbled to dust.
His neck itched against his collar. Had they turned up the heat?
Mandy placed her empty cup on the table.
“What do you do?” she asked him.
She had steered the conversation back to safe, familiar waters, probably out of pity.
“Hi-tech,” he said with pride and waited for the awed sigh.
Mandy looked confused. “Hi-tech is a big field. Can you narrow it down?”
Dave swallowed hard. “QA. Quality assurance at a software company.”
“Ah. You’re the guys who test the code. I worked in HR in New York. QA is always hard to find. They keep burning out.”
Ouch. So much for impressing her. She probably knows how much I earn too. Perfect.
“How long have you been at it?”
“Seven years.” Dave looked at his hands. “Ever since I moved here.”
“And your current job?”
“Five.”
Five years.
That sounded long. Too long. Dead-End-Job long.
Mandy, however, seemed upbeat. “That’s great job security,” she said.
“Yes.”
Another lull in conversation.
Ask about her!
“Do you have family in Israel?”
“Nope. My mom’s in Houston and I’m an only child.”
Mandy hadn’t mentioned her father. Were her parents divorced? On bad terms?
“And your father?”
“My dad died fourteen years ago.”
“Oh,” he said. “I’m sorry.” Great job, Dave.
“It’s OK.”
He needed a change of direction.
Compliment her but don’t overdo it.
Her hair? Too personal. The jacket?
The glass door of the restaurant caught his eye again and fear rippled through him. A woman had just walked in. Unruly hair, so blond it was almost white. Toothy smile. Crazy eyes. Dave didn’t know her name. He didn’t want to. In his mind, she was simply The Katamonster.
The Katamonster scanned the coffee shop with hungry ferret eyes. Deep within Dave’s brain stem, primal synapses triggered and he ducked his head to the tabletop.
“Is everything OK?” Mandy asked.
A waiter approached Katamonster and blocked her line of sight.
“Yes,” he said, straightening slowly.
A year ago. Friday night. Outside Ohel Nechama. The aging spinster had accosted Dave on the street and, by way of introduction, asked for his home address. He had managed, with difficulty, to brush her off. He ran from her ever since.
The waiter directed the woman to a table about ten feet away.
Was the Katamonster on a date? A blind date, no doubt. The bloke was in for a surprise.
Mandy looked over her shoulder, toward the door, then turned a quizzical expression at Dave.
“An ex?” she asked.
“No! No.”
How to explain this without sounding pathetic?
“More like a stalker.”
Mandy’s eyes widened. Then she raised a skeptical eyebrow.
His point balance hit zero and kept falling. He squeezed his brain for another of Ben’s dating nuggets.
Change location!
He waved to the waiter like a drowning man and scribbled in the air, the international gesture for “check, please.”
Mandy looked surprised. Or disappointed. Did she think Dave was bailing on her?
He said, “Shall we go for a walk?”
Dave stepped out of Café Atara, onto the cracked sidewalk and into the crisp night air. He held the door for Mandy, who wrapped a gray scarf about her neck and swung the end over the shoulder of her leather jacket. They waited at the light as cars lurched up Gaza Street toward the city center. Mandy’s perfume smelled fruity and fresh. Dave regained his composure. Best to pretend nothing had happened.
In the unreality of the Pickup Artist’s Bible, a change of location involved questions like “your place or mine?” Seclusion with a girl was not an option for Dave, so Ben had found a substitute for him.
“Have you been to Yemin Mosheh?” Dave asked.
“No.”
“It has a great view of the Old City. A bit far by foot. My car’s around the corner.”
“OK,” she said.
They got into his Ford Focus, cruised up Gaza, then turned right at France Square onto Keren Hayesod.
Display value.
He had almost forgotten that point.
Reveal your added value, the qualities that raise you above the pack.
Dave had a car. Not many Anglo new arrivals did. Dave was established. And knowledgeable.
“Yemin Mosheh,” Dave said, “was one of the first neighborhoods outside the Old City. Sir Moses Montefiore built it and named it after himself. Quaint stone houses.”
Mandy didn’t say anything. Since the Katamonster debacle, she had spoken in monosyllables. Had he freaked her out? Or was she just comfortable?
The possibility that he had blown the date calmed him. He had nothing left to lose.
“I’d be nervous to drive in Israel,” Mandy said. “People are so aggressive.”
“The rules are simple. Never indicate. Never give way unless death is the only alternative. You get used to it. Frankly, I think the locals have to watch out for me now.”
Mandy laughed. Dave heard the cha-ching of bonus points. Perhaps he hadn’t blown it after all.
They crossed King David Street, drove down the tree-lined cul-de-sac of Yemin Mosheh, and parked opposite Montefiore’s windmill. They walked onto the wide stone promenade under the expanse of starry sky.
Across a short valley, the buttressed walls of the Old City glowed in gold spotlight, immense and majestic. A young ultra-Orthodox couple sat on a metal bench under a street lamp and engaged in a whispered conversation. Dave and Mandy continued to the low wall at the edge of the promenade and absorbed the view.
A soft breeze animated the tendrils of Mandy’s hair.
“It’s beautiful.” She turned to Dave and the streetlight caught her smile.
God bless you, Ben Green.
“So that,” she continued, “is where it all began. The Jerusalem of King David.”
“Actually,” Dave said, “King David never lived in the Old City.” For once Dave was glad for Ben’s archaeological prowess. “And the so-called Tower of David”—he pointed to a lone minaret on the left—”has nothing to do with King David either. Suleiman the Great set up the Old City walls against the Crusaders. The original city of Jerusalem lies just south of the walls. It’s known as the City of David.”
Mandy didn’t say anything for a while. Had he bored her?
“Wow,” she said, eventually. “That is interesting.”
“The inhabitants at the time of King David,” Dave said, spurred on, “the Jebusites, or Yevusim in Hebrew, felt so secure behind the walls that they guarded them with the blind and the lame. Eventually, David conquered it by—”
“By sending a man through the water duct,” Mandy said. She winked at him. “Favorite biblical character, remember?”
Ouch.
He had not been listening.
“But I didn’t know about the City of David. You’re a walking encyclopedia.”
Ouch again.
Dave felt a need to apologize.
“A friend of mine is a program co-coordinator at the City of David.”
Mandy seemed strangely contemplative. “Your Hebrew seems pretty good.”
&
nbsp; “Thanks.”
“My Hebrew sucks. You probably understood Rabbi Levi’s shiur last week.”
She had remembered Dave at the shiur. Was that an Indicator of Interest or had he made her feel stupid?
“Not really,” he said. “Not all of it. Well. Most of it. Except the poetic bits.”
Mandy sighed.
“OK,” she said. “Time for the big question.” She inclined her head playfully at him.
“The big question?”
Mandy had a litmus test of her own.
“Yes,” she said. “Man United or Liverpool?”
Oh, crap.
Of all the single women in the world, he had landed a soccer groupie.
“Um. Ah. Well. You see. As it happens. I’m not much of a football fan.”
“You’re kidding me.”
“Nope. I kid you not.”
“You don’t like soccer?”
“Never have.”
“What kind of a Brit are you?”
His reserve of witty comebacks ran dry.
“Not a very good one? I used to play in school but never quite got the hang of spectating.”
He was apologizing again, another Pickup Artist no-no. He wished they had built the promenade wall higher so he could bash his head against it.
He scrutinized Mandy’s silhouette. She stared out at the Old City walls, her mood unfathomable. He no longer had a clue whether he was in the black or the red.
Mandy drew a deep breath.
“I should get back,” she said. “Early start tomorrow.”
She had passed her verdict, but had she found him innocent or guilty?
“Right. I’ll drop you off.”
“That’s OK,” she said. “My apartment isn’t far. I’ll walk.”
***
Jay pulled the drawstrings on his hoodie and traipsed along the damp sidewalk. His stomach ached for food. Night had fallen over downtown Jerusalem and the moist air threatened more rain. Tall walls of weathered stone hedged the street in on both sides.
John kept pace with him in silence. Jay knew what he was thinking. Jay thought it too. They were low on cash and the Teacher had sent no word since their meeting in the back of a transit van that night in Talpiot. Jay’s emails bounced back as though the Teacher had been a daydream.
Great things, a woman’s voice whispered. You will do great things. Jay wasn’t so sure anymore. The situation was bad. Very bad. Otherwise, Jay would never have agreed to this.
They paused at an intersection. The plaque across the road read Street of the Prophets. A white taxicab cruised by.
“This it?”
“Yeah,” said John. “First left and then a right.”
A busker on Ben Yehuda Street had given them directions. Keep this up and Jay would have to work the streets as well. He had played the guitar once but his fingers remembered nothing. He wasn’t much for dance or song. He could preach.
Keep a low profile, the Teacher had said.
John stopped at a large hole in the wall. Rusted metal doors stood open on each side and sagged against the hinges. Rubber flaps dangled like the strip curtains of the walk-in freezers they kept on sheep farms.
John gawked at him, waiting for the go-ahead. Jay inhaled. “OK.” He tightened the hood over his head. “Let’s make this an in-and-out job.”
They pushed through the strips. The interior felt warm and musky and glowed with dim, amber light. The oblong hovel contained four wooden tables, two a side. Behind the counter at the back, people got busy at tinfoil trays and large pots. A microwave hummed.
The two men walked between the tables to the counter. White rice filled one of the pots and a tantalizing whiff of sweet-and-sour chicken made Jay salivate.
An immense woman frowned at them, her gray, frizzled hair tied in a bun.
“New ones,” she said to herself and huffed. “Go on and sit down there with Sid. Sid!” she yelled.
“Yes’m,” said a dark bundle of rags and blankets at the table by the door.
“Sid. Take care of these young fellas. I’m Maggie,” she added and smiled for a split second. “Go on now and have a seat.”
Jay obeyed, stepping away from the counter. He had stumbled into the saloon of a hick town in the Wild West.
Jay and John swung their legs over the wooden bench opposite the ragman. Sid had a face like a black raisin and good white teeth. “Over here they serve it out,” he said, all whispers and smiles.
“Who does?” said Jay.
“Them young ‘uns. Volunteers. They got Chinese tonight. From that place on Ben Seera. Mmm-mmm-mmm!” He rocked from side to side and licked his lips. The old man liked to talk. This would be a long night.
Sid nodded at the counter and lowered his voice. “Maggie got a heart o’ gold. Jus’ don’ piss her off. Where you from?”
“Far away,” said Jay.
The old man wrinkled his nose. The mongrel had caught a scent. “Australia?”
“Thereabouts,” said Jay through clenched teeth. New Zealand was the correct answer. People always got it wrong.
Sid laughed. “I seen Australians here. Russians. South Africans too.” He eyed John with suspicion. “Your friend here ain’t no aborigine.” He turned to John. “What are you then? Mexican? Ain’t no Mexicans round here. Say, what cat dragged you to the Holy Land? You Jewish?”
A girl of twenty in an ankle-length skirt and hair down to her shoulders appeared at their table. She filled out her sweater well enough but Jay’s eyes fixed on the tray in her hands, the steaming rice and chicken pieces, and that dizzying sweet-and-sour sauce. The girl slid a heaped disposable plate and a plastic cup of cordial before each of them. Jay grabbed a plastic fork.
“Thanks, Malki,” Sid said. “You got ketchup?”
Jay looked up at the girl. An aura of gold light enveloped her head. The fork paused halfway to his mouth. He knew her. But where? When?
“Mary?” he said. “Is that you?”
The girl’s eyes opened wide and she hurried back toward the counter. The spell broke.
“Hey!” Sid hissed at him. “You crazy? You harass the girls and Maggie’ll send you packing. What’s with you?”
Jay resisted the urge to slap the old man.
Instead, he said, “I forgive you.”
“You forgive me,” Sid repeated and hooted. “Who d’you think you are? Jesus Christ?”
Jay dropped his fork on his plate. He sat erect and peeled back the hood. In the bathroom mirror, Jay had monitored the progress of his hair. Down his neck. Over his shoulders. The brown oily locks, wispy beard, and gaunt cheeks matched the likeness known around the globe. Understanding hatched in Sid’s black rheumy eyes.
“Holy crap,” the old man said. “Hey, Maggie! Got us here another crazyass thinks he’s Jesus Christ. Ha!”
Jay pulled the hood over his head and stood. He collected his plate and cup. “C’mon, John.”
The two men walked the damp street and ate in silence. The Teacher was right. The world wasn’t ready yet. Jay would have to be discreet. Until the End of Days. He liked the sound of it. He’d like to see Sid’s face then.
“Jay,” John said on Rabbi Kook Street. “It’s not too late. We can get on a plane. Start over.”
Jay slammed the remains of his meal into a garbage bin. He had lost his appetite. “We’ve been through this, John. We can’t go back.”
Only chaos waited behind that door. But John wasn’t giving in.
“There’s a flight to Greece,” he said. “We can just about afford it. Find an island. Jobs—”
“John,” Jay said. “Our job is here. Our destiny. This was our home. Is our home.”
John stared at the cracked sidewalk and said nothing. He had gone through fire and ice for Jay but now he needed a sign and a miracle to stoke his faith. Jay was running low on both.
Teacher, where are you?
“A week,” Jay said. “Let’s give it another week and then we’ll talk about planes. OK?�
�
They stopped at the Internet café off Ben Yehuda. Behind the desk, the balding Israeli owner didn’t look up from his newspaper. A Chinese man in sunglasses sat in Jay’s regular spot playing roulette, so Jay moved two seats down. An empty seat on either side was all the privacy he would get.
He signed in to his Gmail account. At the top of his inbox waited an unread message. Jay’s heart galloped. The Teacher had sensed his distress.
Jay read the message.
“Oh, bugger,” he said, and won a glare from the Chinese.
The End of Days had not arrived. Instead, Jay had received another mission. This one would not be so easy.
Chapter 4
Never call the next day.
Dave stared at the Standard Test Document on his flat-screen monitor. Page thirty-two stared back. The clatter of busy keyboards in the other cubicles circled his head like a swarm of plastic bees.
Two hours into the day and still on page thirty-two.
In his mind’s eye, Mandy Rosenberg brushed a stray lock of hair behind her ear. Her silhouette gazed at the Old City walls. He searched her every word and gesture for hidden meanings.
Never call the next day.
Ben’s advice, copied word-for-word from the Pickup Artist’s Bible, made sense. Let her stew a while. Don’t appear desperate. But Dave wanted to know—he needed to know—where he stood.
Dave logged into his Frumster account and suspended his profile.
Yes, they had just met. And, yes, she was an American. But a girl had walked into his life and she was normal, religious, and cute. Mandy Rosenberg was a statistical impossibility.
He eyed the phone on his desk. He picked it up. He put it down. He picked it up.
He had not felt this way since…
Since Shira Cohen.
He put the phone down again.
Rule Number One: It’s a game. Do not become attached.
But this game toyed with his future happiness.
A quick call to say “hi, I had a good time” seemed harmless enough. Expected. Good manners.
He’d call her after work. Right now, he needed to get through the day.
He browsed the Jerusalem Post online. Still no follow-up on the City of David.
A Google search for the Copper Scroll returned photos of flattened metal sheets with rough, weathered surfaces and vertical incision lines. He recognized Hebrew block letters among the rows of carved symbols, and an occasional Greek symbol, but not the older Ktav Ivri of Ben’s scroll jar.