In the Courtyard of the Kabbalist by Ruchama King Feuerman Page A

job.”
    “Of course not,” they both said quickly. Mustafa wondered: Were they lying?
    Rabbi Isaac was wrapping up the fruit in the kitchen towel. The professor watched him with an angry, despairing look. “What are you going to do with it?”
    The rabbi glanced up, with a baffled expression. “Frankly, I’m not sure. All I know is, I need to safeguard it.”
    “Well, don’t take it in that
shmatta
,” the professor said in a resigned tone. He sorted through different-size receptacles and chose a blue one. “If anything happens to the pomegranate, Isaac, I will never forgive you.”
    Later, they stood outside, Mustafa and the rabbi, silently waiting for the taxi. The air between them prickled with the unspoken.
    “You should know,” Rabbi Isaac said at last, “I don’t want to harm or destroy anything. Only to protect.” He stroked the plastic container that held the fruit. “As for you, Mustafa, I don’t know why you did this.” He rubbed his eyes, as if the events of the day had exhausted him.
    “I thought you’d like it,” Mustafa repeated, but now he was wondering if he should ask for it back. In the end, they took a bus, not a taxi, which made him sadder still.
    Back at the courtyard, the rabbi seized Mustafa’s hands and held them in his own.
“Hashem yivarekh otcha
,” he uttered with conviction. God will bless you.
    “Allah yivarek fik
,” Mustafa blessed him back politely, in his own language, yet with no heart.
    Mustafa said good-bye. Sadly, he could not find the bus transfer, and set off on foot. He walked down Ninveh Street, his foot dragging a little as he clomped along. Panting, he climbed up Strauss Street and passed swarming hordes of Jewish children with their side curls and black knickers. The right side of his neck ached, even more than usual. The pills for headaches never seemed to help the pain in his neck. He wiped the sweat beading on his skin. After this good deed, all he got was a thank-you?
Ya’allah
. Not even chicken soup. It wasn’t as good as his mother’s
freka
soup, but he would have liked some, even on this hot day.
    As he wended his way through the souk, a terrible childhood memory returned to him. He had been helping his younger sister Samira with a jigsaw puzzle, a picture of a groom and bride, and he idly wondered out loud what kind of wife he might marry one day. He was twelve at the time. Samira had joked, “Better not marry, Mustafa. How’ll you kiss your bride?”
    “I don’t know,” he said. It made his head hurt just to think about it.
    Then his mother, who was cutting vegetables, came over and said, “Of course he won’t marry. Then he’d have children”—she touched the side of her neck—“like him.” She stared at him suddenly, still holding the knife. “Swear to me you will never marry!” He looked at her, terrified, and said nothing.
    That night in the dark, as he lay in bed sleeping, he became aware of a bad smell. Through half-closed lids, he saw his mother, a shawl draped over her, sprinkle specks of ash over his body. She was softly moaning strange words. He wanted to scream, yet some instinct kept his mouth clamped shut, and he closed his eyes. He became aware of a heat on his body, and he glimpsed his mother with a pointy contraption in her hands—did Samira use it to curl her hair?—going round and round his most private part, almost touching it, then moving away while she prayed her black words. She brought her head close and blew into his ear. When he awoke the next morning, he was sure he had dreamed it all. Then he saw the pointy contraption on the counter. He asked his mother what it was for, and she shouted fearfully, “Go sweep the porch!” After that there was no more desire. Gone. As if his privates had been burned away. Her prayers had worked. He never thought about marrying again, or at least not very hard. Once he almost told his father what his mother had done, but what good would that bring? Only more troubles