On the Mountain of the Lord

by Ray Bentley

  He propped his bristly chin on one hand, tossed the unopened bag of chestnuts on the table, frowned at the empty chair, and ordered tea. So, what did Lev want? Funny. He recognized Lev’s voice over the phone right off, even though it had been several years. It was a lousy time of day to schedule a meeting with a guy he hadn’t seen since Obama was first elected president.

  Jack and Lev, both on the college wrestling team, graduated with degrees from Baylor University. Thereafter their paths took them in completely different directions.

  Jack won a Rhodes Scholarship to Oxford and then earned his PhD in political science. A full professorship at King’s College was followed by his appointment to an advisory chair on the ECMP—the European Committee for Mid-East Policy—as a specialist on refugee issues.

  His first marriage ended in divorce. Then came Debbie and their boy. For a time the world looked bright and wonderful. All things seemed possible.

  Lev’s yearly newsletters kept Jack up to speed on the life of his old friend. Lev Seixas, a Messianic Jew, was descended from the first American-born rabbi, Gershom Seixas. The summer after college, Lev flew to Ireland to intern as a youth pastor. There he married a nice Irish girl named Katy, who played the fiddle and toured with Riverdance. She gave it all up for Lev. They had four red-haired kids, one after another—boom, boom, boom, boom. Lev was now a committed Zionist and the pastor of an impoverished evangelical church that occupied space in an industrial complex in San Diego, California.

  Jack glanced toward the revolving door as Lev pushed through. Levi Gershom Seixas attended Baylor on scholarship as a lightweight varsity wrestler. He was still a legend among the Bears. He ripened into a powerfully built man. Unlike Jack, he was dressed appropriately for a meeting at the Savoy. With his navy business suit, Lev sported a muted, green-and-gold Baylor alumni tie. Broad shoulders and a thick neck made him seem larger than his five-nine height. A thick thatch of dark hair did not conceal the cauliflower ears, proof of hard fought victories on the wrestling mat. Wide-set, brown eyes scanned the Savoy Grill room for Jack.

  The maître d’ inquired Lev’s name, then pointed in Jack’s direction. Lev’s craggy face split in a wide grin as he waved. Jack stood and motioned for Lev to join him.

  The string quartet played a familiar Christmas carol. Though the lyrics remained unsung, and probably unremembered, by the average citizen, Jack knew the words of the Issac Watts hymn. The Christian message behind the music blared in his memory.

  Joy to the World!

  The Lord is come!

  Let earth receive her King

  Let every heart

  Prepare Him room

  And heaven and nature sing…

  The too-bright melody squeezed Jack’s heart. He wished all Christmas carols were banned; he wished he didn’t know the verses.

  He wished he could have a drink. . .

  There was no king on the way; no hope of heaven and nature singing. No joy to the world anymore. Like the fake packages around the tree, Jack’s life was empty.

  Lev strode through the crush of tables and, ignoring Jack’s outstretched hand, hugged him and clapped him on the back. “Hey, Jack! So, Dr. Garrison. Look at you!” He tapped Jack’s tie. “Still an Iron Man?”

  “It’s been a while. A couple years. You have to keep up with it to compete.”

  “I was coaching junior wrestling back home. That’s about as competitive as I want to be.” Lev sat down, then gave a low whistle as he spotted the tree. “Where I come from we call that a Hanukkah bush.”

  “Yeah. The Brits know how to do Christmas.”

  A moment of awkward silence was broken as the waiter approached. Lev ordered a glass of Pinot Noir.

  Jack leaned across the table. “Seems we have had this conversation before—like an awkward script: small talk and then. . .”

  Lev nodded, “Politics. Eight years ago.”

  Jack continued, “. . . then Obama’s Mid-East policy—Israel’s right to occupy.”

  “Israel’s right to survive.” Lev’s eyes flashed. “But—that’s long enough, isn’t it? I mean long enough for us to stay angry because we disagreed?” Silence. “Jack, I heard about Debbie and your boy, and I’m sorry. I wanted you to know. . .”

  “Thanks.” Jack’s tone was bitter. “Is that why you wanted to meet with me today?”

  “No. Well, partly—I wanted you to know I am praying for you and—”

  “Save your prayers.”

  “Jack, I am here for you if you need to talk. I feel—I mean it was wrong to destroy a friendship over. . .”

  “Over land for peace? And now this madness of an American president declaring Jerusalem as the capital of Israel? Despite every warning! Every objection. Telling the whole world he intends to move the U.S. embassy to Jerusalem? Have you changed your mind? Because I haven’t changed mine. You’re a Jew. Naturally you favor what you perceive is the best thing for Israel. But what’s best for the rest of the world is still a matter of debate. You and I hold vastly different opinions about where the world is heading, Lev.”

  “I don’t have to change my opinions in order to remember you were once my closest friend.”

  “I’m not sure any friendship can survive a difference of opinion on Middle East policies. The expanse between us is as wide as the Persian Gulf! You are religious—I am not. You would say I lost my faith, I would say I found my faith. My faith is in men working out their problems. Negotiation. Compromise—I believe dogmatic religion divides people and nations. It does not unify.”

  “The British withdrawal from the European Union? Brexit? How does that affect your position on ECMP?”

  “It doesn’t. We’re a think tank. We consult, investigate and report as neutral observers. . .”

  “Hardly neutral.” Lev shook his head.

  Jack sat back in his chair. “Look, Lev—we have to agree to disagree or. . .”

  The music played, sans lyrics, but both men knew the words:

  Oh Come, Oh come Emmanuel,

  And ransom captive Israel

  Which mourns in lonely exile here

  Until the Son of God appear…

  Lev paused to choose his words carefully. “I’ve been thinking about that day, our conversation—our argument—thinking about it a lot.”

  Jack waved his hand at the music in irritation. “I haven’t thought about it at all. People who actually believe the Bible or ancient prophecies have anything to do with current world politics are just…” Again a dismissive wave. “Well, preachers and prophets and holy rollers are not on my short list of people who can change the world. Neither President Obama nor his State Department are interested in Jewish Messiah myths or the Bible. Here in Europe, the Committee consults me about refugees. I tell them the Palestinian conflict is as old as history itself and may never be settled—unless there is great compromise.”

  Lev did not reply to the insults. His wide mouth curved in an enigmatic smile. Jack recognized the meaning of that smile. Lev always smiled like that when he had some secret wrestling move he was going to use to pin his opponent in the first five seconds of a match.

  Lev replied quietly, “You’ll be in Israel soon, I hear. Policy discussions.”

  “You hear? From whom?”

  Lev shrugged. “This stop in London is just a layover. I’ll be leaving for Israel next Wednesday. It’s a small country. Very small.”

  Jack cautiously conceded, “I won’t be traveling to Israel as a tourist.”

  “Neither will I. We’re making Aliyah; moving to Israel permanently. My wife and I—the kids—were called to Jerusalem.”

  “Called? Who called you?”

  “The Lord.”

  “Ah. The Lord. I see.”

  Lev drew himself erect. “I am descended from Gershom Seixas. A Sephardic Jew, and a Levite. Jack, my family was exiled from Israel in the first century. We lived in Portugal, Holland, England, Philadelphia…but the new millennium is beginning. Time for this Seixas to return home
to Israel, where my family’s journey began.”

  “So. You are moving to Israel in the name of your ancestors?”

  “Returning. Yes. Permanently.”

  “We have ancestry.com to blame for this madness. That would be like me moving back to—France, say—somewhere on my grandmother’s branch of the tree.”

  “France wouldn’t want you, and I may be the only Jew in Israel who will be glad to see you arrive. So? I wanted to let you know you will be welcome at my table in Jerusalem—any time.”

  That explained the smile. Lev slid a business card with his Jerusalem phone number, address, and email across the table. “Partners with Zion,” the business name read.

  Jack sat back in his chair and laughed. “What are you, Mossad, or something?”

  Lev shrugged. “No. I’m not the Israeli Secret Service. I’m just your friend. Still your friend. We were brothers, Jack, and I have not forgotten.”

  “Alright, then. So maybe we’ll have coffee in Jerusalem. We’ll talk about the old college days. We’ll steer clear of discussing two state solutions, and Israeli settlements, and the Golan?” Jack glanced at Lev’s Old City address. Near Christ Church. “But hey, just a warning. If some Israeli official thinks you can change my mind? Or thinks I will influence the Committee because we are friends? Tell him to forget it. You’re not going to change my mind, Lev.”

  “I don’t have to change your mind. I will leave such business to God.”

  The rest of Jack’s conversation with Lev was about old friends: “Whatever happened to…?”

  Then abruptly—awkwardly—it was over. Jack left Lev with the promise to see him in Jerusalem. He barely avoided making a joke out of “next year in Jerusalem.” If Lev was taking his Jewish heritage seriously he might not appreciate Jack making fun of the Jewish longing for their so-called ancestral home.

  Accepting Lev’s offer to pay for the wine and tea, Jack stood and left the Savoy. At the passage into the lobby he glanced back. Lev was studying him thoughtfully, raising a hand in silent farewell.

  The rain slashed down harder than before. It was impossible to see across to the other side of the Strand. The doorman inquired if Jack wanted a taxi, indicating a line of waiting black cabs. For a moment Jack considered it, then decided he didn’t need the extra expense. Waving away the suggestion, Jack returned to Embankment Tube station and plunged down a succession of escalators into the bowels of the earth.

  The heat on the platform was oppressive. Even after years in the UK, Jack still didn’t understand the British aversion to fresh air. The entire nation had a morbid fear of cold, which translated into boiler room temperatures on the Tube all year round. And if that weren’t enough, the Brits holidayed in places like the Canary Islands and Crete—in mid-summer.

  This journey was so automatic Jack found his way to his accustomed place on the northbound platform, noted the next train was two minutes away, and reminded himself to pick up a pint of milk before walking home—all without conscious thought.

  Instead he was still pondering Lev’s comment about not needing to convince Jack, but leaving that up to God.

  Jack snorted and covered the sound with a fake cough, which made two fellow travelers edge away from him. As if there really were some cosmic deity. And even if there were, what interest could he possibly have in Jack? Life was what the seven billion inhabitants of planet Earth made of it—nothing more.

  It made Jack irritated with himself that, while certain of his position, he still wondered what Lev meant. Convince him of what? Convince him of Israel’s right to exist and to build settlements on Palestinian territory? Convince him the modern Jewish state was promised its land by God? They really were somehow a chosen people with a divine destiny both foreshadowed and confirmed by magic prophecies?

  It was all nonsense an educated, twenty-first-century human could not—should not—tolerate.

  Glancing toward the countdown clock, now registering only one more minute to wait, Jack’s gaze slid across a hundred faces without really seeing any of them. Black was the predominant color of clothing. Everyone had an umbrella and toted a plastic bag of groceries and a newspaper. They all sported vacant, introspective expressions; the same demeanor Jack was certain he wore.

  It took something unusual to draw his attention: a Japanese music student lugging a cello case bigger than he was; the bearded man balancing an empty bird cage in one arm and, Jack smiled, a roasted chicken in a plastic container in the other; the woman from whose overcoat three pairs of legs sprouted as two children were all but hidden from sight below her waist.

  Of the man wearing black-framed glasses and a tweed hat and coat standing three places to Jack’s right he took no notice at all.

  Chapter Two

  The Bakerloo train lurched out of the Oxford Circus station. Barely anyone got off, but it seemed a million shoppers and clerks, eager to get home for supper, pressed aboard. A cloud of steam rose from the late arrivals. The entire carload of soggy wool coats and wool sweaters and wool mufflers smelled like wet dog in the most oppressive way.

  Jack rode standing, holding the upright support. Regents Park, Baker Street, Marylebone, Edgware Road, Paddington, and then finally Warwick Avenue and home. Jack ticked off the number of stops remaining. He made this journey so many times he believed he could have fallen asleep and still awakened after the correct number of stations. He never actually dozed, instead mentally subtracting one each time as if he might somehow miss the right exit.

  OCD, he thought. I really am. Debbie teased me about it. I wish I had her around to tease me now.

  No anxiety about the proper station apparently bothered the Goth kid across the aisle from Jack. Paratrooper boots crossed at the ankle, the student leaned back in his seat, head tapping slightly on the window. He was snoring. His mouth hung open, displaying a large, silver tongue stud.

  The sight was singularly unattractive and Jack turned away—just in time to see a man in dark-framed glasses look down abruptly as if caught staring at Jack.

  Jack studied the man. It was no one he recognized. Brown tweed coat with upturned collar and matching hat. Necktie loosened and askew at the shirt collar. Swarthy complexion, though little of the face could be seen.

  OCD and paranoid, Jack thought. Wouldn’t Debbie have made something out of that? Jack shrugged. Overwork was what was behind this nonsense. Maybe he was the one needing a trip to Crete or Tenerife.

  At the stop for Marylebone station, once again more passengers crushed in while way too few got out. Now it was really hard to breathe. Jack looked over the top of the Goth kid’s head at a travel poster curved to fit the wall of the Tube tunnel. “Visit Turkey,” it suggested. “Istanbul for L69 one way.” The poster displayed an image of the Hagia Sophia. Once a Christian cathedral, then a mosque, and now a museum. That was the way the modern world should treat ancient superstitions, Jack thought.

  The train jerked again and Jack’s gaze once more flicked across the car.

  The man in tweed was staring at him. He looked away at once, but Jack had no doubt about it: he was being studied intently.

  Now what? Jack wondered. Do I approach him and ask? What exactly am I accusing him of? There are over a hundred bodies stuffed in this metal cylinder. He has to be looking somewhere—doesn’t he?

  Edgware Road came and went without Jack doing anything or even deciding if there was anything to be done. Even so, it was a relief when the train rattled into Paddington station and tweed coat got off with the crowd exiting the car.

  Jack chided himself for being stupid. Paddington was a main rail station and also the connection to Heathrow airport via the Heathrow Express. Tweed coat was a businessman getting out of the city—or flying off somewhere. Nothing to do with him at all. The anticipation of seeing Lev had put him on edge. Their inability to break through the political tension and get back to their old, easy familiarity made the meeting a frustrating disappointment.

  A glass of wine was called for; that was
the answer. Home was now just one stop and a short walk away.

  Jack was the only rider to exit from his car at Warwick Avenue. He tramped up the stairs, noting with satisfaction the rain had stopped.

  He was just a block from home when he remembered the milk. The market was back the other way, but he was suddenly hungry. There was nothing much in the flat to eat. So, it was back to the market to pick up a roast chicken and some ice cream too.

  Something moved in the gloom of the shadow where the bulk of St Saviour’s Church blocked the light from the street lamp. A figure in a tweed coat darted around the angle of a wrought-iron railing and disappeared from sight.

  Now what? Jack thought. Do I go after him, demand to know why he’s following me? Do I call the cops? Glancing down, Jack saw he already held his cell phone in his hand. He didn’t remember pulling it out of his jacket pocket.

  The London police had enough on their plate already. Suicide bombers and knife-wielding truck assassins were real threats. This wasn’t even a threat—yet.

  On the other hand, why was Jack being followed? If tweed coat ducked off the Tube train only to change cars so he could pursue Jack unobserved, that argued something sinister, didn’t it? It didn’t seem wise to lead the man directly back to his flat. Now what? he asked himself again.

  The answer presented itself in the form of a street sign pointing the opposite direction from home: Clifton Gardens. Jack strolled the avenue leading toward the Clifton Nursery. The goal was simple: find out if he was really being followed or if this was all imaginary. If tweed coat reappeared there was still the phone and a 999 call to the authorities. Maida Vale police station was less than a half-mile away.

  Looking back over his shoulder—several times—produced nothing except a profound sense of foolishness. And I accused Lev of being Mossad, he thought. Here I am, acting like a secret agent in the worst pot-boiler spy fiction ever.

  There was no point retracing his steps. It was just as close to walk home right from there, so Jack advanced toward the nursery at the far end of the street.