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

for his father who worked like a mule to put bread on the table.
    Now he entered Damascus Gate and walked on a downward incline along the main street that was filled with only his people, the scent of his Arab brothers, the bustle of their stalls and vendors and little shops. He bought three
kanafeh
pastries of sweet cheese and pistachio from an old woman and ate them as quickly, faster than his twisted throat would let him. The food turned to mud in his pipes, turned to cement. “Water!” hechoked out. She handed him a glass of carob punch, and he slugged the stuck
kanafehs
down. He thanked her without words. His head was hurting too much, all the crazy words batting about in his skull:
pomegranate, Arabs, Jews, King Solomon, life, death
. But he had done a good job, setting the professor and the rabbi straight about the Koran. He had answered them well, even with all the knowledge and verses they had to confuse him. He had shown them, hadn’t he?
    In his rented space on David Street, he made instant couscous from a box. He was tired and ate slowly. But now, alone in his room, the events of the day struck him in a different, terrible light. The professor and the rabbi had mocked him. He saw the looks they had given each other, looks of pity or impatience when they thought he wasn’t watching. The rabbi had fooled him, too, getting him to take things off the mountain like that. Tricked him like any Jew would! In the tiny grains of couscous, he tasted shame and humiliation, and his throat burned with every swallow.

CHAPTER EIGHT
    Isaac sat up on his bed and flicked on a light. He looked at his watch: 12:30 a.m. His head ached. He tried to ease into a comfortable spot, but sleep wouldn’t come. Fear kept him awake. The rebbe, just turned eighty-three, was sicker, frailer than ever. Shaindel Bracha had to hire a part-time nurse just last week. Between the three of them, they cared for him. Any moment the rebbe could leave them—the thought repeated like the banging of a shovel.
    He went to the bathroom. Such a plain room with two blue towels, a mirror the size of a woman’s fist, a washing cup, but look at all the books stacked high next to the toilet:
Civilization and its Discontents, Quantum Theory, The Varieties of Religious Experience, The Unbeatable Yankees, Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, Anorexia and the Starved Soul
. His eyes went up and down the titles. The rebbe’s bathroom university. The rebbe had once explained, “People come from all over. A man must talk to everyone in his own language.” Isaac flushed the toilet and washed his hands. None of these books could help him tonight.
    He entered the rebbe’s study, opened his Gemara and tried to let the tides of Talmudic logic pull him in, but the thick scent of jasmine flowers filtered through cracks in the shutters and fused with his worried thoughts. The rebbe could die with a blink, a sneeze, a hiccup, just like that.
    His soles prickled, and he got to his feet and began to pace. How could the rebbe die? Again he felt that banging against his temples. Not possible. He pressed his fingers deep into his forehead. The rebbe was like an oak tree, sturdy, long-lived. Underneath its branches, a person could feel safe, enveloped in goodness. The rebbe was his friend, his teacher, his world, his everything. The man had no airs. If a floor needed washing hegrabbed a mop even though ten others would have gladly spared him the chore. He enjoyed a salmon steak, a symphony, his own recipe for herring. And yet what a recipe for a human being, a blend of heaven and earth, earth and heaven. Many times Isaac’s skin became soothed just being around the rebbe, near him, tending to him. He paced back and forth until the prickling sensation and the pounding in his head subsided and he sat down.
    The rebbe had told Isaac he would have a chance to fix things. “God isn’t a miser,” the rebbe promised. “He’ll throw many opportunities your way. You’ll