A Love and Beyond

by Dan Sofer

  Jay stepped into the void. He slid down the rope, through the shaft of moonlight. In the inky blackness around him, exit signs glowed and, as his eyes adjusted, the edges of partition walls and cabinets materialized in the gloom.

  The rubber soles of his shoes touched the floor.

  Fifty seconds.

  He broke a glow stick strapped to his chest, quickly covered the six paces to a tall display case, and unfurled his equipment pouch on the floor.

  Forty seconds.

  He pressed a suction pad against the center of the glass pane and flipped the vacuum lever. He attached the metal arm, unsheathed the diamond-edged cutter, and traced a perfect circle around the suction pad.

  Thirty seconds.

  Slower than their best rehearsal time, but still good.

  The glass around the sucker gave way. Jay laid the contraption and the glass circle on the floor and reached an arm through the hole. First the clay cap, then the jar.

  Twenty seconds.

  Enough time to place the jar in the padded specimen bag, secure the bag to his harness, and climb the rope.

  Bzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

  An electronic hum rang from every direction.

  Jay’s heart sank to his stomach. His mouth dried up. Metal cogs whirred and heavy security gates thumped to the floor.

  Impossible.

  Had he miscalculated the times?

  Then it hit.

  Obvious, you ning-nong!

  There must have been sensors beneath the jar.

  John’s silhouette peered down from the skylight hole. Jay urged him away with a wave of his free arm. John hauled up the rope.

  A switch clicked. Bright light flooded the museum.

  Jay hit the floor and rolled to the nearest cubicle wall.

  Footsteps echoed on marble, far behind him, from the direction of the entrance.

  An electric motor whirred and then halted.

  The footsteps grew louder.

  Jay’s future stretched out before him. Jail. Extradition. Persecution.

  Oh, Father. Please. Not again.

  Was the world still not ready? Would he again sacrifice his destiny for an unworthy planet?

  The footsteps stopped behind the partition. Jay heard the guard’s uneven breath.

  Then, another sound.

  Meow.

  “Kishta, Chatula!” the guard said. Scat, cat!

  Little paws scampered and skidded over polished marble.

  The guard grumbled in Hebrew and shuffled off. His footfalls faded. Jay’s pulse still galloped.

  The security doors rose. The lights dimmed.

  He exhaled long and slow. The countdown had reset.

  Patience, my son.

  Finally, the stars had aligned behind Jay. Destiny smiled.

  ***

  Morning light washed over the white stone façade of the City of David Institute. Dave wore sunglasses against the glare and followed Mandy through the arched threshold and the sweet scent of jasmine.

  He felt like a criminal returning to the scene of the crime.

  A crowd of elderly Japanese tourists in shorts, colorful shirts, and cameras filled the courtyard and listened to their guide jabber away.

  An arm waved above the crowd and Ben waded toward them. He wore a cap embroidered with the David’s harp emblem. For the first time, Dave glimpsed the Ben that tour groups knew: a bald, rounded Brit, all smiles and boyish passion for archaeology. Endearing. Harmless.

  If they only knew.

  “We meet at last,” Ben said to Mandy. “You’re Dave’s best-kept secret, you know?”

  “Watch out,” Dave said. “Ben has a sense of humor and he’s not afraid to use it.”

  She giggled. “That’s OK. I like English jokes.”

  “Then you’ll love Dave. Come on. If we hurry we’ll make the next screening.”

  They watched the 3D documentary in the movie theater, climbed to the rooftop observatory, and then hiked through the knee-deep icy waters of King Hezekiah’s tunnel.

  Dave waited for a knowing wink from Ben.

  None came.

  Was Ben toying with him? Pretending he knew nothing?

  “This place is amazing,” Mandy said. “I have so many questions.”

  They sat on couches in the refreshment lounge Erez used to entertain his VIP groups.

  Ben gulped down a plastic cup of Coca-Cola. “Shoot.”

  “What can you tell me about the Jebusites?” she asked.

  “Not much. Some identify them as Hittites. They ruled a large area around today’s Turkey. Their kingdom declined shortly before David’s time.”

  “Uriah was a Hittite. What was a Hittite doing in David’s army?”

  Ben poked Dave on the shoulder. “The girl’s a real catch.”

  “Thanks,” Dave said, through clenched teeth. Mandy blushed.

  Ben explained. “King David accepted many nations into his ranks and he had close ties with the northern kingdoms. But Hittites is just one theory.

  “More recently, scholars have identified Jebusites with Amorites, a far older Semitic nation and native to the region. In fact, the ceramic evidence in the City of David goes back to the Copper Age, over six thousand years ago, and Jerusalem may have served as an ancient holy city, predating even the Jebusites.”

  “Wow, that’s really interesting.” She looked at her wristwatch and frowned. “I should get going before the stores close. Continue another time?”

  “How about lunch tomorrow?”

  Dave cleared his throat. “I don’t know about that.”

  “We don’t want to impose,” Mandy said.

  “It’s no trouble,” Ben assured her. “Yvette is dying to meet you. I think you’ll get along great.”

  “The thing is…” Dave searched desperately for some reason to decline the invitation. “We already have plans for lunch.”

  Mandy looked at him and shrugged. “Nothing we can’t get out of.”

  Dave fumbled for an excuse; Ruchama was a good backup plan, but no contract etched in stone. He sighed, defeated.

  Mandy smiled at Ben. “We’d love to.”

  She collected her handbag and waved goodbye at the door. Dave would drop off her gym bag of soaked clothes later.

  He helped Ben dispose of the plastic cups and refreshments and followed him to his office, closing the door behind him.

  “We need to talk.”

  Ben shuffled the paperwork on his desk. “Are we breaking up?”

  “I’m serious, Ben.”

  Ben’s lips curled into a smile. Dave had his full attention.

  How to say this?

  “I went to a football game this week.”

  Ben stared at him. “And?”

  “And I enjoyed it.”

  “I’m very happy for you.”

  “Since when do I like football, Ben?”

  “Is there a point to all this? Friday is a short day.”

  “Ben, what’s happened to me? And Mandy? One minute she’s about to dump me. The next, she can’t get enough.”

  Ben leaned back in his chair. He shook his head. “You are one screwed-up puppy, Dave. I’ll tell you what’s happened to you. You’ve been single for too long. Your life is changing and it terrifies you.”

  Dave put his hands on his hips.

  “So this is just fear of the unknown?”

  “Yes. That and the Groucho effect.”

  Dave rolled his eyes. “The Groucho effect?”

  “Groucho Marx said he would never join a club that would have him as a member. Mandy likes you, so something must be wrong with her. Snap out of it! Mandy’s a great girl. She loves you. Deal with it. ‘You’ve been born into royalty, baby. Now you just gotta wear the ring.’”

  Ben recited the last bit in an American accent. He had stolen the line from a movie. Everything about Ben was a lie and Dave was sick of it.

  “This isn’t another dating crisis, Ben. This is real.”

  Ben laughed. “You know wh
at? You haven’t changed a bit, Dave. Paranoid as ever.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “Whoa.” Ben spread out his hands and glanced at the shut door. “Dave, calm down.”

  “Don’t tell me to calm down. What happened that night at Ornan’s?”

  “I said, calm down.” Ben looked at the door again.

  Dave leaned forward, his fists on the desk. “Tell me what’s going on.”

  Ben worked his jaw like an ox chewing the cud. “OK,” he said. “You want a secret. I’ll tell you a secret. Here it is: Nothing is going on. Ornan’s is just a restaurant.”

  Dave folded his arms. “So this is pure coincidence?”

  “No, Dave. Not coincidence. More of a lucky coin. Magic feather. You were falling apart at the seams. I gave you something to believe in. Add a pinch of ambience and a glass of wine and voila.”

  A part of Dave clung to Ben’s words like a drowning man to a lifesaver.

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “All right,” Ben said, losing his patience. “Tell me how you did it. Did you slip her a love potion or wave a magic wand?”

  Dave had obsessed over every detail of that night. He had considered everything from drugs in the air vents to hypnotic suggestion, but nothing added up.

  Even Ornan raised no red flags. The little manager had reminded Dave of Manuel from Fawlty Towers. Obsequious. Comic. Pitiful.

  Dave said, “Something’s not right with that place.”

  “‘Something’s not right with that place,’” Ben repeated. “You’re not being rational.”

  Dave ignored the insult.

  “You’re the archaeologist. Someone must have dug beneath Ornan’s. What did they find?”

  The mention of archaeology defused Ben and shifted him into lecture gear.

  “Hard to tell,” he said. “The excavation site was destroyed.”

  “Destroyed? How?”

  “When you dig, you damage. That’s why you document everything. Layers. Artifacts. Everything. And you never excavate an entire site. You leave something for future archaeologists and their more advanced techniques.

  “Anyway, Kathleen Kenyon excavated large sections of Ir Da’vid in the sixties and she destroyed them.”

  “She never wrote things down?”

  “She never published her findings. For all practical purposes, the site is lost. But if she had found anything momentous, we would know by now. Shortly afterwards some local Arabs moved in and built over the site.”

  Dave sensed a maneuver. The sensation occurred whenever he played chess with Ben, and it always preceded a checkmate. Dave had moves of his own.

  “All right,” he said. “If that was all a mind game, why the secrecy? Why the threats?”

  Ben looked disappointed. “Would you have believed me otherwise?”

  Dave ground his teeth. If you miss the head, aim for the heart.

  “So you tricked me? You betrayed my trust?”

  “That’s what friends are for,” Ben said. “Don’t mention it.”

  “Then you won’t mind if I tell Yvette?”

  Ben shrugged. “Be my guest. You’re the one who swore an oath.”

  “OK. Then I’ll have a word with Ornan. He should be able to set the record straight.”

  “No way. Do you have any idea how fragile our relations with the local Arabs are? All we need is you poking your nose around, making accusations, and we’ll have riots on the streets. Decades of delicate symbiosis down the drain of your twisted imagination.”

  Dave opened his mouth. He closed it.

  Checkmate.

  Ben leaned forward.

  “Can’t you see? You’ve done nothing wrong. You got the girl. Just ride off into the sunset. Happily ever after.”

  Dave’s vision blurred.

  Was Ben right?

  Was the conspiracy theory all in Dave’s mind?

  Ben had opened the escape passage and Dave longed to crawl through.

  “I wish I could believe you, Ben,” he said.

  Ben sagged in his chair. “Ouch. I do have feelings, you know?”

  “I’m sorry. But I know what I know.”

  Ben ran his fingers over the cracks in the wooden desktop. He pushed back in the chair and studied the ceiling, his head resting against the wall.

  This had been a bad idea. Now he had to sit through a Shabbat lunch with Ben and Mandy and Yvette and pretend he had said nothing.

  Ben sat up. He clicked the joints of his neck. “What if I have proof?”

  “What?”

  “What if I prove to you that no magic in the world can make someone fall in love?”

  “How?”

  “I know a guy in Me’ah She’arim. A Cabbalist. Not some haggard old baba selling red strings. The real deal. If there’s a way, he’ll know. He’s a real genius.”

  An unbiased third party. Dave liked the sound of that. It was the closest he would get to scientific certainty.

  “OK. When do we meet him?”

  “He doesn’t have a phone so we’ll have to try him tonight and hope we get lucky. He only talks Cabbala on Shabbat anyway.”

  Ben drummed his fingers on the desk and chewed his lip.

  “What’s the matter?”

  Ben glanced at him. “Like I said, the guy’s a real genius.”

  “So?”

  “Have you ever met a real genius?”

  ***

  Mandy climbed the road along the Old City walls and psyched herself up for the task ahead.

  First stop: the Western Wall.

  I need all the help I can get.

  She passed beneath the tall arch of Dung Gate and along a walkway that overlooked the remains of stone foundations and broken pillars arranged among tidy patches of green grass, tall cypresses, and pergolas. Together they formed an unlikely landscaped garden at the foot of the Southern Wall of the enormous stone block that was the Temple Mount.

  At the women’s entrance, she opened her handbag for the security guard and stepped through a metal-detector.

  She had made a good impression on Ben, she was certain. For immigrants, friends were family. Today Dave had done the equivalent of taking her home to meet the folks.

  And Mandy had a plan to bump their relationship up one more level.

  Unless it backfired, that is.

  She entered the expansive Western Wall plaza. Pigeons fluttered over the long tiles of white stone and the small pockets of tourists. In the markets, stores, and kitchens of the city, Jews bustled about their Sabbath preparations but the ruined enclosure wall of the Second Temple basked in sunlight and quiet.

  A tiny, wrinkled woman approached her. Whispers of gray hair strayed from the kerchief on her head. She extended an olive-colored hand while Mandy fished in her bag. The woman pocketed the five-shekel coin, muttered a blessing, and shuffled off.

  Mandy entered the women’s section of the outdoor synagogue. As she drew near the Wall, the golden roof and pine trees of the Dome of the Rock dropped out of view. She selected a book of Psalms from a trolley and found a vacant plastic chair.

  She reached out her hand to touch the ancient wall. The stone felt smooth and cool on her fingertips. Thousands of folded paper notes filled the cracks between the enormous stone slabs.

  Mandy turned to a page at random and whispered the Hebrew prayers. Her mind filled with gratitude for the present, acceptance of the past, and trust in the future.

  The sun warmed her back and caressed her hair. Overhead, swifts dived and darted, and found refuge in bushes between the upper boulders.

  Each of God’s creations had a time and place. Mandy had found hers.

  She kissed the book and returned it to the trolley. She crossed the square toward the turnstile where taxis idled.

  As she walked, she heard a sound, the soft strum of a harp. Then another. Two more followed, louder now, as she veered toward the source of the music.

  The melody mingled hope and regret in a romantic, unrushed trickle th
at whispered of flowing brooks, thick forests, and medieval castles.

  At the foot of the staircase to the Jewish Quarter, she found the source. The man wore a white toga lined with gold. Biblical sandals strapped his feet. A glittering plastic crown sat on the ginger curls of his head. Long, thin fingers plucked the strings of a wooden David’s harp.

  Mandy drew closer. Sparse, rust-colored beard; milky skin; eyes closed in rapture. A few coppers lay in the upturned hat at his feet. The tune rose, quickened, and then ended.

  Mandy clapped. “‘Greensleeves,’” she said. “Great song.”

  The man blinked at her and smiled. His eyes were pale blue and now they intensified. His mouth moved as if to ask a question.

  A memory jolted her. She had passed him on the campus corridors of the University of Texas ten years ago. Loner. Pothead. Mandy searched for his name.

  “Damian, right?” she said. “It’s Mandy. Mandy Rosenberg. We were in Art History together. At UT.”

  The man shook his head.

  “David,” he said. “Son of Jesse.”

  Mandy laughed. Still in character. The guy was good.

  “What brings you to Jerusalem?” she asked

  Damian’s face contorted with emotion. He pointed a finger at Mandy.

  “I know you,” he said, far too emphatically.

  Don’t weird out on me, Damian.

  “Bathsheba!” he said.

  A shudder rippled down her back. Damian was either an excellent actor or seriously disturbed.

  OK. Time to go.

  She glanced at her wristwatch.

  “Gotta go. Nice to see you again.”

  Mandy turned around and made for the turnstile.

  “Wait!” Coins tinkled. Sandaled feet slapped the tiles. Slow, at first. Then faster.

  She pushed through the iron bars of the turnstile. She dove into the nearest cab and locked the door. After the car pulled off, she looked back. Damian stared at her from the curb, his face a mix of confusion and anguish, the David’s harp at his heart.

  Mandy took a deep breath and told the driver the address.

  That was creepy.

  Damian had made a journey of his own, it seemed. She preferred to stay out of it.

  By the time the cab stopped, she’d calmed down. She’d passed this busy street and office block many times on the way to She’arim.

  She paid the driver and climbed out of the cab.