“That’s what keeps me invisible. That’s how I get to walk through the heart of a conflict, to watch everything, to see and see and see, then pack up my images and walk away. In return, nothing. A ghost. Sensed but not seen. That’s the whole trick.
“Staying alive,” she says, “means never blinking and never taking sides.”
“I didn’t look, didn’t want the dreams. I went the long way around so not to see.”
“Unimportant. Not how you see, but the distance that counts. The simple fact of exposure to death. Same principle as radiation or chemotherapy. Exposure to all that death is what keeps you alive.”
“I feel old from this,” I say.
“Good,” she says. “World-weary is good, just what you should be trying for. Go play the expatriate at your café. Go be the witty war-watching raconteur. Cock an eyebrow and have them spike your coffee. Ignore the weather and put on a big, heavy sweater. Pinch the waitress on her behind.”
I was raised on tradition. Pictures of a hallowed Jerusalem nestled away like Eden. A Jerusalem so precious God spared it when He flooded the world.
I can guide you to the valley where David slew Goliath. Recite by heart the love songs written by Solomon, his son. There have been thirteen sieges and twenty downfalls. And I can lead you through the alleys of the Old City, tell you a story about each one.
This is my knowing. Dusty-book knowing. I thought I’d learned everything about Jerusalem, only to discover my information was very very old.
I move through town, down the street of empty windows and blackened walls. The cobblestones are polished. Even the branches and rooftops have been picked clean. Every spot where a corpse lay is marked by candles. Fifty here, a hundred there. Temporary markers before monuments to come.
I make my way into the café. I nod at the owner, look at all the people out to display for the cameras, for each other, an ability to pass an afternoon at ease.
I sit at my table and order coffee. The waitress goes off to her machine. Cradling my chin, I wrestle images: unhinged mouths and clouds of smoke. Blasts like wild birds.
Today is a day to find religion. To decide that one god is more right than another, to uncover in this sad reality a covenant—some promise of coming good. There are signs if one looks. If one is willing to turn again to his old knowing, to salt over shoulders, prayers before journeys, wrists bound with holy red thread.
Witchery and superstition.
Comforts.
A boom that pushes air, that bears down and sweeps the room. My hair goes loose at the roots.
The others talk and eat. One lone woman stares off, page of a magazine held midturn.
“Fighter,” the waitress says, watching, smiling, leaning up against the bar.
She’s world-weary. Wise. The air force, obviously. The sound barrier broken.
I want to smile back at her In fact, I want to be her. I concentrate, taking deep breaths, studying her style. Noting: How to lean against a bar all full of knowing. Must master loud noises, sudden moves.
I reach for my coffee and rattle the cup, burn my fingers, pull my hand away.
The terrible shake trapped in my hands. Yesterday’s sounds caught up in my head. I tap an ear, like a swimmer. A minor frequency problem, I’m sure. I’ve picked up on the congenital ringing in Jerusalem’s ears.
The waitress deals with me in a waitress’s way. She serves me a big round-headed muffin, poppy seeds trapped in the glaze. The on-the-house offer, a bartering of sorts. Here’s a little kindness; now don’t lose your mind.
Anchors. Symbols. The owner appears next to me, rubbing my arm. “Round foods are good for mourning,” I say. “They symbolize eternity and the unbreakable cycles of life.” I point with my free hand. “Cracks in the windows are good too. Each one means another demon has gone.”
He smiles, as if to say, That’s the spirit, and adds one of his own.
“A chip in your mug,” he says. “In my family it means good things to come. And from the looks of my kitchen, this place will soon be overflowing with luck.”
The waitress pushes the muffin toward me, as if I’d forgotten it was served.
But it’s not a day for accepting kindness. Inbar has warned me, Stick with routine. Lynn has warned me, Don’t blink your eyes.
And even this place has its own history of warnings. One set accompanying its every destruction and another tied to each rise. The balance that keeps the land from tipping. The traps that cost paradise and freedom, that turn second sons to firstborn. A litany of unburning bushes and smote rocks.
A legion of covenants sealed by food and by fire. Sacrifice after sacrifice. I free myself from the owner’s hand and run through the biblical models.
Never take a bite out of curiosity.
Never trade your good name out of hunger.
And even if a public bombing strikes you in a private way, hide that from everyone lest you be called out to lead them.
For the Relief of Unbearable Urges: Stories Page 18
