He thought about her question. Did you search my Corvette? The TV reporter must have told her. The fax from the lawyer had arrived with perfect timing. Masada’s transparency of emotions was endearing, the absence of a calculated facade was almost juvenile. The truth was, Masada was a tortured soul. Death would be a relief for her, a favor.
Too irritable to sleep, he removed his glasses and tested the blotch on the palm of his hand. It seemed smaller. Excited, he picked up the plastic bottle with Dr. Asaf’s experimental drops and held it over his eye. His hand shook, and the bottle let out more than he intended, some trickling to his lips.
“Schlemiel!”
He hurried to the bathroom, expecting a foul medicinal taste to spread inside his mouth. He opened the cold-water tap, filling his joined hands, leaning forward to slurp a mouthful.
He paused.
There was no unpleasant taste in his mouth, only mild saltiness.
Holding the bottle upside down, he plugged it with his thumb, which he then sucked. The liquid tasted like tears, a bit salty, melting away in his palate. He held the plastic bottle up against the vanity lights. The liquid was clear.
He found the original glass bottle Dr. Asaf had given him and turned it in his hand. There was only his name, handwritten on a white sticker. Flavian Silver. No list of ingredients, no chemical formulas, no warnings or instructions for the patient. In the corner of the sticker he noticed tiny letters: PL
Placebo!
“Allah’s curses on you!” He snatched the plastic bottle and put it to his lips, taking a sip, swishing the liquid between his teeth, under his tongue, in the back of his mouth, until even the trace of salt was gone. He spat, threw the bottle at the mirror, and yelled, “Filthy Jews!”
Barely making it to the bed, he collapsed, holding his face in his hands, trembling. The world was going dark, closing in on him.
A voice in his head mocked him. Blind!
He commanded the voice to shut up.
Blind! Blind! Blind!
He yelled, “Why, Allah? Why?”
As if in response, a muezzin whined mournfully over the roofs of Jerusalem, summoning Allah’s faithful to prayers.
Silver stumbled to the window, where the calls of the muezzin reprimanded him for his long absence from Allah’s worship. “I am observing Ramadan,” he pleaded. “I’ve lived as a Jew for our people, for Allah’s glory.”
But as he bargained for divine leniency, his heart told him he could have been a better Muslim, even in secret. Tears filled his eye, and he opened his arms, admitting his depravity, begging for Allah’s forgiveness. For a brief moment, the blotch was gone, and he no longer heard scorn in the muezzin’s chants.
The front desk clerk allowed Rabbi Josh to use the computer in the office. He Googled the words: End Days Israel. One of the sites showed a bearded man blowing a ram’s horn, a string of words emerging from it: End of Days = Israel’s Salvation! Below was a block of quotations from Ezekiel 38: At the End of the Days, when my people return from the many nations of their exile and settle back on the barren hills of Israel; Gog and Magog shall attack them from the north; all the nations of the world, many horses and great battalions and large armies; I shall try Gog and Magog in blood and rain and rocks and fire; destroy him and the nations with him; it shall be known to all the nations that I am God.”
The web site went on to explain that Ezekiel’s End of Days prophecy meant that Armageddon would be an attack on Israel by all the nations of the world, led by the U.N., UNIFIL, NATO, the OIC, and other international organizations-the modern version of Gog and Magog, an amalgamation of gentiles converging to destroy Israel. The war would end with a spectacular victory of God, destroying all the gentile armies and saving Israel. That victory would be followed by the arrival of the Messiah, the revival of the prophet Elijah and all the righteous Jews, and the rebuilding of God’s temple in Jerusalem. At the bottom it said: It is the duty of every Jew to rise, instigate, promote, and incite by all available means the gentiles’ animosity toward Israel so as to hasten the End of Days. Give $$$ to hasten the arrival of the Messiah! Donations accepted in cash, check, credit cards, or PayPal.
The counter showed that more than seven million visitors had frequented the site. Rabbi Josh calculated that, if one visitor in ten gave ten dollars, the group would have collected seven million dollars to use in hastening the End of Days.
Questions chased each other in the rabbi’s mind: Was this the source of money used to bribe Senator Mahoney, followed by exposure to incite rage in America against Israel? Was Professor Silver an End of Days believer? He regularly referred to gentiles negatively, as if they were all anti-Semites. His constant quoting from the Torah and the sages revealed his literal interpretation of the Jewish scriptures. Even his book about the Evian Conference had a similar theme-the German Jews being rejected for immigration by all the nations of the world. What was he writing now?
The whole chain of events could be explained if Levy Silver indeed was an End of Days fanatic, working with others to actively instigate a showdown between Israel and the rest of the world. Had he arranged for Al to deliver the bribe and leaked the information to Masada to create the scandal? That would also explain his surreptitious attempts to defame and sabotage Masada, who presented the biggest risk of exposure! It also meant that he had lied about hearing Masada and Al together!
Rabbi Josh stood up. Masada should be aware of this possibility. Neither of them had known Silver for long, but she was a professional, capable of investigating. Could Silver’s warmth and intelligence hide such extreme ideology?
He heard voices in the lobby. The front desk clerk said, “Sure, Professor, use the phone in the office.”
The rabbi glanced at the desk, where a telephone rested by the computer screen that displayed the End of Days web site.
They led Elizabeth through a corridor, past a kitchen lit by the blue glow of a TV, under an arched entrance, and into the main sanctuary of the mosque. When her eyes adjusted to the bleakness, she saw three men seated at a table. Father was in the middle, hunched over an open book, murmuring. She was made to stand before them, the odorous blanket draped on her shoulders.
The man on the left, with a red band securing a checkered kafiya to his head, asked, “Why did you come here, woman?”
She recognized him. Imam Abdul, the school principal in her day. “I provided a service for our national cause. Our leaders invited me to be honored.”
“Where?”
“A senior Palestinian official will present me with an award at a ceremony in the main plaza on Wednesday. They must have notified you.”
Father shook his head, his lips continuing to silently recite from the book.
“Nobody knows about this honor.”
She felt her face flush. “I’m a very important lawyer in America. You think I would waste my time coming here to be treated like this? Pick up the phone and call Ramallah.”
“Silence!” Imam Abdul pointed at her. “Do not issue orders to this tribunal!”
Elizabeth was about to snap when the baby moved. “Father,” she said, “I didn’t mean any disrespect with my inadequate dress. I didn’t expect to meet you here, in the mosque. I looked for you at our home. But it’s in ruins. At least we can rebuild our relationship, right?”
Imam Abdul glanced at her father, who stopped murmuring and looked up from the book.
“I apologize,” she continued, “and wish to start my visit afresh. I will dress appropriately when I return. We do have an exciting event coming up, and-”
Father whispered, and the red-banded Imam asked, “What service?”
Elizabeth balked. “Excuse me?”
“What did you do for Palestine?”
“I am not at liberty to discuss it, but it’s of great value, which is why I’m being honored.”
“The honor, yes.” The imam showed the yellow teeth of a habitual smoker. “And who asked you for that service?”
“Actually,
my father did.” She unzipped her purse and took out the photo, placing it face up on the open book before her father.
Father’s lips stopped moving. He bent closer, examined the photo, and shook his head.
“Turn it over. There’s a note in your handwriting.”
Father glanced at the scribbled message and grunted.
“A forgery.” Imam Abdul took the photo. “Who is this man?”
Elizabeth felt weak. Why was Father denying his own writing?
“He is my father’s friend. Don’t you see the request on the back?”
“Hajj Mahfizie doesn’t know this man.” The imam threw the photo on the floor between them. “You were tricked. Foolish woman!”
She picked up the photo. “This man is Abu Faddah, a brilliant Palestinian who is running the most important operation in our national history.”
The imam and the bearded man exchanged rapid whispers over Father’s head while he continued his recital of the holy book. The bearded man said, “We’ve never heard of this Abu Faddah.”
They whispered to each other again, nodding in agreement.
Imam Abdul declared, “You’re an Israeli spy.”
“Or an American spy,” the bearded man added. “Or both.”
Professor Silver entered the office and paused at the sight of Rabbi Josh hunched over the desk, his back to the door. “Hello, Joshua,” he said.
“Oh, hi there.” The rabbi turned, the computer screen going blank before Silver could see what he had been looking at.
There was an awkward moment, and Silver asked, “Will you go to the rally later?”
“I’m still in the shiva period. No festivities allowed.”
“Hardly a celebration. It’s more of a national protest.”
“Why not celebrate? The suspension of American aid means true independence, right?” Rabbi Josh’s voice had a touch of sarcasm, as if it were a trick question.
“That’s an interesting-”
“Kind of a biblical isolation? A preordained fulfillment of Israel’s destiny?”
The rabbi’s tone was contentious, but what debate was he trying to win? Silver sighed. Between these three Jews-Al, Masada, and the rabbi-a psychiatrist could have kept busy for years. “Joshua, I’m not sure what you’re talking about. May I use the phone, please?”
“Sure. We’ll talk later.” Rabbi Josh left the office.
Silver called Ezekiel to arrange a ride to Mount Masada at 2:30 a.m. He reminded the driver that a lady friend would be joining. “Please don’t ask her questions. Her life is in shambles. She is fragile.”
“Of course,” Ezekiel said. “Say no more.”
“It’s important that you understand.” Silver assumed the cabby would be questioned by police after Masada’s death. “I’m worried about her. I told her not to go, but she insists. What good would it do, to open up old wounds? She’s so depressed as it is. Who knows what can happen?” Silver sighed. “Two thirty in the morning then.”
Masada stood in line at a food market down the street from the Ramban Hostel, holding a basket with oranges, apples, and dried figs. A wide-screen TV mounted above the cashier reported that large police forces were gathering in preparation for more than a million Israelis expected to attend the national rally in Jerusalem to protest the vote in the U.S. Senate. The anchor mentioned the rumor that the writer Masada El-Tal, who recently made aliyah after losing her American citizenship, might speak at the rally tonight. Her photo appeared.
“The goyim kicked you out.” A man with wild white hair rattled a bunch of grapes he was holding. “We should crucify you at the gates of the city, like we used to do with traitors.”
“Oh, shush!” a fat woman in the back of the line said. “Leave her alone! What do we need the goyim for anyway? They can keep their money.”
“America is not the goyim,” the cashier said with a Russian accent, moving items over the bar-code reader. “America is a Yiddisher country. Who do you think calls the shots in the White House? The smart Yids with PhDs, that’s who. Like Kissinger.”
“Henri Kissinger?” The fat woman laughed. “He retired thirty years ago. Is he still alive?”
“That’s what the anti-Semites say.” A bespectacled man looked up from his newspaper. “The Elders of Zion control the world. It’s absurd. We’re the victims!”
“We are victims of Jews like her.” The first one rattled his grapes at Masada again. “Spreading lies, telling the goyim that Israel pays dirty money for a pound of legislation. That’s anti-Semitism! Shame on you!”
Rabbi Josh stood by the office door, eavesdropping on Professor Silver’s conversation. Why would he take Masada to the memorial service? Why was he telling the driver she was depressed? The professor’s protective tone contrasted with the ominous falseness of what he was saying.
A terrible possibility occurred to Rabbi Josh. If Silver had been behind the bribe as part of an End of Days conspiracy, then he had also directed the attacks on Masada-the brownies, the rattlesnake, the gas explosion, the shootings. Was Silver planning to murder Masada and make it look like a suicide? The few people who really knew her would never believe she killed herself, but the Israeli police could see the logic-her life destroyed by a series of misfortunes, the writer bids farewell to her dead brother and jumps off Mount Masada.
The whole idea seemed unreal. Levy Silver, the bad guy? Rabbi Josh felt as if he’d caught a glint of the devil in the eyes of a beloved friend.
Inside the office, the professor hung up the phone.
Rabbi Josh retreated into the ladies’ room, his mind swirling with doubts. A woman was powdering her nose at the mirror. He kept his back to her, his foot stuck in the door, and watched Professor Silver cross the lobby and exit the hostel.
“Hey,” the woman said behind him, “are you lost?”
“Completely! Lost and confused!” He hurried through the lobby, down to the sidewalk.
Silver was strolling toward downtown, his head swaying from side to side in the slow manner he had developed lately. The rabbi fell behind, keeping a distance. His feet, bathed in anesthetizing ointment, squeaked inside his shoes. Buses and trucks rumbled by, pedestrians rushing on their midday errands.
Police barricades blocked motorized traffic to Jaffa Street. The wide thoroughfare was filling with thousands of people in advance of the rally. Many wore yellow shirts, some of them big enough to fit over the ultra-Orthodox black coats. Vendors were selling flags and whistles and yellow plastic hammers. An old man wearing a wool sac and rope sandals held a sign: Jews Who Don’t Pray Keep the Messiah Away.
The professor stopped by a cart of drinks and ice cream, lingered by a hot dog stand, and chatted briefly with a youth selling sugared peanuts, who proffered a brown bag. But he bought nothing and walked on, unaware of the middle finger the youth raised behind him. Rabbi Josh’s mouth watered at the appetizing smells as he kept up with Professor Silver.
Close to the walls of the Old City, the crowd grew denser. The Jaffa Gate had been decorated with Israeli flags and yellow ribbons. A stage had been erected against the walls. Expecting Silver to find a shaded spot to wait for the rally, Rabbi Josh hung back. A group of noisy youth passed by, blocking his view. When they moved on, the professor had disappeared.
Rabbi Josh hopped onto a garbage bin and searched the wide avenue, catching sight of the short figure with the black beret entering the Old City through the Jaffa Gate. But he wasn’t alone. A man followed Silver through the gate-tall, with black hair and a black yarmulke, resembling the fragrant driver who had argued with Silver and grabbed his arm.
The rabbi ran after them. Inside the gate, he searched the sea of hats, yarmulkes, kafiyas, and bare heads. He proceeded up the street, past the entrance to David’s Tower, where pedestrian traffic thinned out. He ran back to the gate area, slowing by each storefront, glancing inside.
They were gone.
A narrow market alley greeted him with dim light and the dense aroma of smoked meats, s
pices, and dried fruits. He ignored a pleading vendor and went deeper down the alley, filled with tourists and goods overflowing from shallow stalls.
Three women were chatting in German while a fourth tried on a kafiya. Next to them, he saw Silver and the other man arguing in hushed voices.
The rabbi pretended to examine a copper teapot, turning away to hide his face. The Arab merchant said, “You like?”
He nodded.
The professor and his companion walked slowly down the alley.
“Sixty dollar,” the Arab said, and tore a sheet from a roll of brown wrapping paper.
“Fifteen.” The rabbi glanced at them.
“Forty, okay?” The shopkeeper held ready the wrapping paper. “Very good price.”
Rabbi Josh peeked over the tray to see where they were heading. “Fourteen.”
“Thirty!” The Arab raised two fingers. “Cheap!”
They allowed Elizabeth to use the bathroom while Father and the other two discussed the ludicrous idea of her being a spy. She relieved herself in a reeking hole in the floor and rinsed her face in the single faucet over a plastic bucket. She moistened her hair and brushed it behind her ears.
Back before them, she decided to take control of the situation. “As an experienced lawyer, I assume Islamic law requires evidence to convict a person of a crime.”
Father returned to muttering the verses. The bearded man said, “We are fighting a jihad. You serve the American Satan. Do you deny it?”
“Satan?” Elizabeth had to laugh. “The United States is a country with millions of free citizens who vote to elect their representatives and officials-”
“Women too?” Imam Abdul sneered.
“That’s right! You can mock America, but Palestine and the rest of the Arab world will never thrive until women are allowed to participate in political and economic life. We are like a person trying to run on one leg. Our women will double our national-”
The Masada Complex Page 35
