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, spices, 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-”
“Silence!” Father closed his book and pointed a trembling finger at her. “You speak of women? You are no woman. Barren as a field of rocks.” He spat on the floor.
She stepped closer. “You’re wrong.”
Father waved a bony hand. “A woman bears children, not political fantasies.”
Her hand rested on her midriff. “I can do both.”
His eyes fell from her face to where her womb pulsated with life.
“I am doing both, Father.”
He made a croaking sound. His eyes blinked a few times.
She waited, letting him digest the news. “Your first grandchild.”
He didn’t exactly open his arms to her, but she didn’t expect him to show affection in front of the others.
Imam Abdul asked, “Is your husband an infidel?”
She did not respond.
The bearded man asked, “When is the baby coming?”
“Five, maybe four months.” Elizabeth knew she must leave the more difficult facts for a private discussion with her father. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to return to my hotel now. I’m tired and hungry.”
Father whispered something to the Imam, who asked, “Hajj Mahfizie wants to know why your husband did not ask for his permission?”
Anger swelled again inside her, but she controlled it. “I will explain to my father after the award ceremony.”
“What’s his name?” Imam Abdul glared at her. “Surely your husband has a name?”
They were pushing her into a corner. “This is a family matter.”
“But we only ask for his name,” the bearded man joined in. “He must have a name.”
Elizabeth shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. This baby will have a wonderful life, including a grandfather.”
“And your husband?”
“There’s no husband!”
For a moment, she thought Father took it well. In fact, a wisp of a smile touched his lips, but then it progressed to a twitch that turned his mouth into an ugly grimace. He rose, supporting himself on the table, and uttered a groan so loud it caused the others to grab his elbows. And while his mouth was wide open, sucking air, she noticed Father was missing most of his teeth and thought of taking him to Phoenix, where her dentist could fit him with a full set of dentures.
“Why today? Why now?” Rajid groaned in frustration. “Couldn’t you wait until tomorrow? Don’t you see what’s going on?” He pointed in the direction of the Jaffa Gate, where loudspeakers played Israeli music to the gathering crowd.
“The month of Ramadan is over tomorrow.” Silver spoke Arabic, keeping his voice low from the tourists and shopkeepers nearby. “I must pray today. It’s a call I can’t ignore.”
“But you can ignore orders?” Rajid kept looking over his shoulder, scanning the market alley. “Do you realize how precarious our achievement is at this moment? The fate of Palestine is hanging in the balance!”