by Amy Gottlieb
“You’ll hurt yourself standing like that,” says a nearby woman with a British accent. “Those chairs are flimsy.”
“Done,” snaps Rosalie. “All tucked in.”
A leggy woman with cropped hair and cat-eye glasses offers Rosalie her hand, helps her down. “No one reads these notes, pussycat. They fall to the ground, eventually. Picked up by beggars or swept into a sewer. Believe me, your words won’t find their way into a geniza and God isn’t reading them either. Are you religious?”
“I’m not religious but I’m not not religious,” says Rosalie. “I’m a rebbetzin.”
“Oh dear. An intrinsic contradiction. Proximity to the rabbi does not make anyone religious; it often inspires the desire to rebel.”
“You’ve found me out.”
“I share your fate, sweet pea! Madeline Rosenblum. Reform rebbetzin, visiting from London. The usual trappings of a rabbi’s wife, plus I’m a hobby publisher. My little enterprise is as ambitious as knitting sweaters, but it makes the congregants proud. As you can see, I’ve got a big religion problem. You?”
“Not enough of one. My whole life is a riddle.”
Madeline and Rosalie saunter arm and arm through the Old City, their strides perfectly in sync. Madeline confesses her struggles with infertility despite her excellent sex life, her flirtations with women, and the irony of spending her life as the rebbetzin of a London synagogue, when she would rather be working in a bank, where the terms of the transactions are obvious and clean.
“I like talking to you,” says Madeline. “I hope we stay in touch.”
Rosalie smiles. The women of Briar Wood flatter her and offer generous morsels of gossip, but they will always be congregants, not friends. Rosalie tugs on Madeline’s arm and blurts, “His name is Walter and I have his address. I can’t contact him and I can’t not contact him and I can’t—”
“Oh dear,” says Madeline. “It sounds like you have a situation.”
“You could call it that.”
“You’re on the pill, I hope.”
“Now I am, yes. Thank God for the little blue box. Three boys are enough for the rabbi and his wife, don’t you think?”
“I only wish I had such an overload,” says Madeline.
“I’m sorry,” says Rosalie.
“Every life has its parameters.”
“I’m not good at understanding that.”
“That’s obvious,” says Madeline. “This must be terrible for you. Fenced in by impossible love.”
“Not very freeing, is it?”
Madeline leads Rosalie by the waist. “Let’s give you some relief, pussycat. This is Jerusalem! You can either be burdened by ancient history or become transformed by something visionary. So tell me, rebbetzin, what do you wish to hold in your cup?”
“I’m sure you know the answer already.”
“Have you been introduced to Madame Sylvie?”
“Who?”
“The French kabbalist in Old Katamon. Her courtyard is just down the street from where I’m staying. Everyone goes to see her—the new Jerusalem ritual, as popular these days as slipping a note into the Western Wall.”
“I don’t need a fortune teller.”
“You just need to tuck notes between deaf stones.”
Rosalie smiles. “At least I met you.”
Madeline takes Rosalie’s arm and leads her through a maze of streets. They approach a blue door framed with bougainvillea and enter a crowded courtyard ringed with chairs. Madeline kisses a white-haired woman on both cheeks, and whispers to Rosalie, “All these people have come to receive one of Madame’s astonishments—a powerful visualization or a dollop of bullshit, depending on your attitude.”
“Who are they?”
“American rabbis, mostly. Sprinkle in a few housewives, backpackers, academics, an occasional shrink.”
Madame Sylvie announces that she will open the dam that has been closed within each of their bodies. No one volunteers to receive the first astonishment. Madame Sylvie looks around the circle and rests her eyes on Madeline. “Close your eyes, ma chère. A small bird rests in your hand. Pick it up and hold it close to your heart. Allow the bird to sniff and nibble at your skin, then nuzzle instead. Watch this procedure with bemusement; do not be afraid. Now allow the bird to separate your heart from its connective tissue. This is painless and quick. The bird carries your old heart in its beak and flies off. Your chest is now open. A new heart rests within, waiting to receive goodness and mercy. You are free. Now open your eyes.”
Madame Sylvie parcels out little astonishments like a short-order cook. Imaginary birds fly off with hearts made of stone. A camel walks off into the desert sands carrying a mute throat in its load, leaving a blocked opera singer free to sing. Doors open and close and open again, garden gates fall off their hinges, tumors melt, the lame can walk. Two men in the circle burst into tears. One woman storms off, furious at what she calls shameful manipulation.
Madame Sylvie scans the circle of faces. “Our session is over,” she says.
Rosalie raises her hand. “You forgot about me.”
“Not yet, ma chère. For you I need more time. Please come back later in the week. What you need will be clearer to me then.”
The next afternoon Sol’s class ends early and he strolls the streets of Old Katamon, looking for a place to buy a volume of commentary. Studying with other rabbis in Jerusalem reminds him of what he’s missed since he left the Seminary; once again he yearns to crawl between the Hebrew letters and immerse himself in the conversations that stretched over centuries, a she’elah in one era, answered by a teshuvah in another. With the right chavrusa, the words will close the gates of this world and reveal an infinite vineyard. It is a torment to love religion as much as you do, Walter once said to him. The distance between your life and the one you crave will only make you suffer.
Sol steps past an open blue door and hears the sounds of laughter. He lingers at the entrance to a courtyard rimmed with chairs, then takes a seat. Madame Sylvie smiles and instructs him to close his eyes.
“You are standing close to a mighty sea that rages with words. You want to jump in and swim, grasp the letters as if they are fish that will carry you out and return you safely. But the words are illusions that vanish in the water and dart away. The words you love are carried out to the sea. Now open your eyes.”
When Sol looks up, Walter stands before him, beaming. In a button-down shirt, linen pants, and sunglasses, Sol barely recognizes him.
“My God! Is that really you? You look so different!” Sol reaches for Walter’s hands.
“I never thought I’d see you in a place like this,” says Walter. “You’ve morphed into a higher version of yourself.”
“I am the same man you knew at the Seminary, only now I am a pitiful suburban rabbi.”
“You could have written.”
“It felt impossible—”
“Do you really think you’re so pitiful?”
“Only half the time,” says Sol. “The rest of the time I think I’m close to God. Both views seem like a dance of mirrors and I end up totally confused.”
Walter laughs. “That sounds about right. Gurus, rabbis, imams, priests. The same messy brew of imposed grace.”
“Imposed, yes. I’m not sure about the grace.”
“You’re not alone, Sol. I do research on this. A person who gets paid to make meaning for others wonders if he lives in a house of cards. It starts off quite innocently. First he is flattered when people ask him burning questions about God. Then he falls in love with the sound of his own answers, the phrases that float in his mouth like elegant water lilies. He gets hooked on the adulation of his flock, yet begins to wonder why he answered their questions with such certainty. After all, he eats cereal from a chipped bowl just like they do; he ponders ultimate truth just like they do. Who gave him the right to be so confident? An education? A teacher? A brilliant insight? But then it’s too late. The flock won’t let him be less than a cler
gyman, and he has no choice but to reach for more beautiful phrases, more meaning, more words to frame the essential mystery. He becomes stuck between the seduction of his words and the futility of his work.”
Sol nods.
“He can deal with this conflict by finding a way to live with doubt, or he can deny everything and cloak himself with arrogance. This is the subject of my new book.”
“I look forward to reading it.” He places his hand on Walter’s shoulder and leads him out to the street.
“Do you have time to walk with me?”
Walter glances at his watch. “I have a few minutes.”
“I never imagined you would wear a watch.”
“Life moves on, rabbi.”
“I’ve missed you terribly,” says Sol.
“Me too,” says Walter. “How is Rosalie?”
“We have three boys now.”
“Congratulations.”
“And a synagogue, the centerpiece of our lives.”
“Your wife. Is she happy?”
“Our lives are very full. And we have fallen in love with the symphony. Your chavrusa is smitten with Mahler. Have you heard Bernstein’s recordings?”
“You haven’t answered my question, Sol.”
“What question?”
“Is Rosalie happy?”
“I believe she is. We have created something worthwhile.”
“You have a family,” says Walter.
“And a shul!”
“So you got what you wanted.”
“I miss what we had,” says Sol. “Our learning together.”
“I am no longer the study partner you once took me for.”
Sol squints at Walter. This man is the only person in the world who remembers what he is capable of. His flights of mind. His way of navigating a text, mining the ancient words for the brightest jewels, the most elegant nuances of meaning. Walter knows the part of Sol that lives inside the words. The part of him that leaps through the text with the elegance of a ballet dancer. The part of him that once believed he could teach people, that he could prosper in the holiness trade.
“Neither am I,” says Sol. “Two men who fell from grace.”
“I never had your grace. I was the strange refugee who blew in by way of India.”
So strange and so beautiful, thinks Sol. He tries to remember the first time he saw Walter in the Seminary, how his hair was filthy and how he quoted some Indian poet whose name he can’t recall.
“You’ve come quite far, it seems,” says Sol.
“Most of the time I just figure it out as I go, like learning a new language.”
“Do you have time to get a drink?”
“I wish,” says Walter, “but I have to return to my conference. I’m only here for another two days.”
He perches his sunglasses atop his head and for a moment Sol stares into Walter’s eyes. Is this all he has? Five minutes in Madame Sylvie’s courtyard and a brief stroll? A few minutes that will fade away like a dream?
“How about dinner?” asks Sol.
“The three of us?”
“Why not? I’m sure Rosalie would love to see you.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” says Walter. “I’m rather busy.” He strides off and Sol rushes to keep up.
“We can at least try!” calls Sol. “Where are you staying?”
Walter stops walking, hesitates, then turns to face Sol.
“The American Colony Hotel. I leave in two days.”
The Jerusalem streets remind Walter of Bombay, though with fewer beggars and less crowds. Dry powdery dust sticks to his shoes and the pungent smell of za’atar itches his nostrils just like the Indian spices once did. He has become a man who delivers academic papers at conferences on religious thought, an American who wears short-sleeved shirts, linen pants, sunglasses, and a wristwatch. No one would suspect he is still lost, looking for the one place he can call home, longing for the only woman he desires. Why hadn’t Rosalie written? Surely Sol shared the note with her. Walter feels dizzy. He looks around, half expecting to hear Paul calling his name, but when he turns he sees Sol, standing under an archway and crying into the crook of his arm. Walter stops and considers approaching his old friend, but he knows why Sol cries and he has no words or gestures to offer.
Back at the apartment that evening, Sol arranges a plate of sliced mangoes, olives, feta, and warm pita. He scowls at the haphazard jumble he created. If Rosalie were arranging this, he thinks, the mango would be evenly sliced and the warm pita would be placed in a separate basket. Where are the baskets in this apartment anyway? Sol opens and shuts the kitchen cabinets and then plops the pita on top of the food.
I’m not made for this, he thinks. Not for arranging plates, not for stumbling upon a former chavrusa who babbles on about the sad lives of clergymen, not for receiving astonishments from a strange French woman who surrounds herself with lost souls in a Jerusalem courtyard. Dinner with Walter and Rosalie would be so sweet; sharing a meal with the two of them would make him feel like an ilui again. Walter would ask him if he remembered their daring flights through the text and Rosalie would behold him with pride. Sol would feel less like a scam artist in the impossible holiness trade and more like an actual rabbi. Rosalie would never agree to it, of course. They were here for such a short time; the boys were occupied with new friends and were rarely at the apartment. His wife was free here. She could spend her time buying embroidered tablecloths and ornate silver candlesticks. She could explore the Old City and place a note at the Western Wall. It wouldn’t have to be an actual prayer; a few jottings would do. The names of the boys. A prayer for peace. A she’elah that begs an answer, a line from a psalm, an acrostic on her name. He would suggest this to her; he was her rabbi, after all.
He brings the food out to the balcony and sits beside her.
“What’s with the sudden gesture of hospitality? Are you suffering from Jerusalem syndrome?”
“No hallucinations yet. How about you?”
“So far, no,” says Rosalie. “And I love your little spread. I’m famished.”
“I went for a walk today.”
“Of course you did, Sol. I strolled all over this city too. Ancient stones and Arabs and Hebrew slang and dusty confusion. All holy and perplexing and beautiful.”
“He’s here, Rosalie.”
“Who?”
“Walter! He’s here for a conference. I ran into him.”
“When?”
“I stepped through a garden gate and found myself in a class taught by a crazy French kabbalist. She’s all the rage.”
“You were at Madame Sylvie’s?”
“That’s where I found him.”
Rosalie smirks. “Did Madame astonish you with a river, or did she gift you with a bird?”
“Rivers, birds, camels, maybe a snake or two. I can’t remember the details. You would like her.”
“I’ve already been.”
“Of course,” says Sol. “You would have found her on your own.”
Rosalie picks up a slice of mango and takes a bite.
“He’s staying at the American Colony for two more days.”
“Who?”
“I just told you! Walter! I thought the three of us could have dinner together before he leaves.”
Rosalie brushes her skirt and stares at her hands.
“The three of us.”
“Yes! When I saw him, everything came back to me. The Radish’s class, the cloth shoes, the way he and I learned together.”
“You lost interest in him, Sol. Don’t you remember?”
“That was a mistake. He was so much smarter than the others.”
Yes, he was a genius, thinks Rosalie. A seductive genius.
Rosalie gazes into her husband’s eyes, not comprehending why this invitation comes from him. For Sol, seeing Walter would be a reunion of their student days, before they became parents, rabbi and rebbetzin, the holy chef and his devoted line cook. Walter is a few miles away, unde
r the same dusky Jerusalem sky. And what kind of astonishment had Madame Sylvie dispensed to her husband? Did she astonish him with the image of the three of them gathering in a circle like deer in a forest, or sitting in the lobby of the American Colony Hotel and toasting their good fortunes to be meeting again? Did she open their hearts to receive a banquet set for three that Rosalie could not possibly survive?
“I’m sure it all came back to you,” she says. “You were quite the ilui.”
“I was so confident back then. Did I ever tell you that the Radish called me a swimmer in the waters of faith?”
“Yes,” says Rosalie. “That suited you.”
Sol smiles.
“How did he seem?” asks Rosalie.
“Who?”
“Walter! How did he look?”
“The same and different. He’s gained some weight, cut his hair. Kind of resembles George Balanchine instead of a skinny Indian hippie. He’s a beautiful man.”
My beautiful man, thinks Rosalie. Mine. She gazes at the rooftops and balconies radiating out over Jerusalem. How can she find her way to the airport? Is there a car service that can take her back to Lod? Rosalie wouldn’t have to go home to New York; she could hide out in the region, take a side trip to Cyprus or Turkey. Surely Madeline would be up for an adventure. Anything but being alone in this strange city, its unrelenting calls for prayer, the strands of Arabic and Hebrew that weave their ancient music into her brain and spin her around until she can’t find her way. The alleys fall off at odd corners and the bougainvillea that grows on garden walls blocks the house numbers. In some parts of town Rosalie is accosted by beggars; in others elderly women smile at her and smooth her hair. She averts her gaze in the neighborhoods where bearded men patrol the streets with their hands clutched behind their backs as their eyes measure the length of her sleeves.
He is staying at the American Colony Hotel. Sol is merely the messenger and now Walter waits for her response. The world is wide open, thinks Rosalie, and I am a frozen woman sitting on a Jerusalem balcony in the setting sun, thinking of nothing but how my fingers have aged, how my waist has spread, how the memory of his touch lulled me to sleep at night all these years.
