In the Courtyard of the Kabbalist Read online

  PRAISE FOR IN THE COURTYARD OF THE KABBALIST

  “A sophisticated and engaging book that treats an endlessly tangled topic—relations between Palestinian Arabs and Jews—with intelligence and originality.… a manifestly terrific novel.”

  —Barton Swaim, The Wall Street Journal

  “Feuerman tells a tale of human beings who seek to make connections with each other against all odds.… One of the great pleasures of her novel … is her rich and vivid evocation of contemporary Jerusalem, and especially the people and places in Jerusalem that would not be out of place in a novel by Isaac Bashevis Singer … She may be the Jewish Jane Austen, but she is also something of a Jewish Graham Greene.”

  —Jonathan Kirsch, Los Angeles Jewish Journal

  “Feuerman’s novel has the most vivid, alive characters, like [the] big huge novels from India by Rohinton Mistry.”

  —Bill McKibben, Boston Globe

  “A beautiful novel that coils the history and mystery of Jerusalem into a private and vivid tale of personal dignity, ownership, love—and the overlap of all three, the space we call the soul.”

  —Dara Horn, author of Guide for the Perplexed

  “In the Courtyard of the Kabbalist is ultimately a story of love transcending deformity, both inner and outer … a book that speaks of seeing beyond appearances: beyond large entities such as the Arab or Jewish collectives to the individual standing before us … extraordinary, delicate and memorable.”

  —Yael Unterman, Ha’aretz

  “[A] testament to the power of the imagination … a rare talent.”

  —Beth Kissileff, The Jerusalem Post

  “In The Courtyard Of The Kabbalist is a beautifully written, emotionally evocative novel enriched by fascinating characters and an unparalleled portrait of the magical city that is Jerusalem.”

  —Jonathan Kellerman

  “The descriptions of Jerusalem and its inhabitants in Ruchama King Feuerman’s new novel … are so beautifully detailed and vivid that it’s almost as though the city carries its own voice in the narrative. While political turmoil always exists in Feuerman’s Jerusalem, it rarely takes center stage. The story is a delicate balance of courtship tale and thriller … I strongly recommend it for anyone who appreciates fiction about Israel, traditional Jews or the Mideast conflict.”

  —Rebecca Stumpf, Dallas Morning News

  “[Feuerman] creates a compelling world within a world in Jerusalem. She conveys spiritual longings and the yearnings for human connection, all informed by the heavenly city and its mysteries.”

  —Sandee Brawarsky, Jewish Woman Magazine

  “In her irresistible novel In the Courtyard of the Kabbalist, Ruchama King Feuerman writes with such contagious affection for her characters that they’re likely to supplant your own family until you finish the book. Her Jerusalem, riven though it is by tensions between the sacred and profane, remains an intoxicating place, where diffident lovers inhabit an atmosphere as romantically charged as The Song of Songs.”

  —Steve Stern, author of The Book of Mischief

  “The emotions in Feuerman’s small but gripping story are love and fear.… The tour through [these characters’] hearts and minds, particularly Isaac’s and Mustafa’s, makes for some of the most deeply interesting, challenging reading of the year.”

  —Marakay Rogers, Broadway Books World

  “Ruchama Feuerman combines qualities of I.B. Singer touched with the melancholy humor of Sholom Aleichem and Bernard Malamud, sparked with magical realism worthy of Isak Dinesen. Her vision is large and generous. In the Courtyard of the Kabbalist is exactly the kind of book I wish I’d written myself.”

  —Liz Rozenberg, author of The Laws of Gravity

  “Whose holiness matters? Whose claim on the land is longer, more lasting, more vital? Whose God is best? These most vexing of questions, which trap otherwise smart and even liberal-minded people in boxes they can’t seem to get themselves out of, emerge from this one spot in this one city. But what if, Feuerman wonders, a Muslim would offer irrefutable evidence of the Jewish presence on the Temple Mount? And what if a religious Jew would open his heart to save the life (and soul, presumably) of the Muslim? Could the boxes be broken? What if the answers lie right beneath our feet?

  “Feuerman asks these most delectable questions in the form of a fable … infected, like the novels of Meir Shalev, with a kind of Jewish mystical magical realism. She is a wonderfully empathetic and perceptive writer … masterful.”

  —Nathaniel Popkin, Cleaver Magazine

  “The unlikely friendship of an intellectual New York Jew and a working-class Jerusalem Arab drives Feuerman’s evocative second novel.… [Jerusalem] itself emerges as a character … depicted with a lyricism that contrasts with the area’s political tension.… [The] story unfolds as a belated coming-of-age tale … [written in a] quiet, lovely mood.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “A tender, almost Malamudian fable of chosenness and redemption, In the Courtyard of the Kabbalist is not content to tread lightly upon sacred ground, but dares to dig for treasure below.”

  —Robert Cohen, author of Amateur Barbarians

  “Feuerman is such an engrossing story writer, we want to keep reading and reading.… absorbing, fascinating.… written by a creative storyteller with an amazing skill for originality.”

  —Kansas City Jewish Chronicle

  “Feuerman writes with authority and convincing detail that soon draws readers into her story with its ‘mishmash of cultures.’ With its colorful and believable cast of characters, this book is a hearty and flavorful chicken soup to warm the spirits of anyone interested in … Middle Eastern society with all its blemishes and hopes.”

  —Library Journal

  “How do people get along when they have been taught they can’t? Who do ancient artifacts belong to—the person who unearths them or the people who valued them in the past? This is just one of the story lines in this lively, witty, and entertaining novel. Ruchama King writes with a light touch and great insight. This book is hard to put down.”

  —Alice Elliott Dark, author of In the Gloaming and Think of England

  “This is a story that toys with, then rejects, cliches, politics, and religious stereotypes. Too many people choose to see this part of the world as either black or white. Ruchama King Feuermam paints it in a hundred shades of gray.”

  —Helen Maryles Shankman, author of The Color of Light

  “… a richly woven tale of self discovery, romance and culture clash against the backdrop of Jerusalem … [this] elegantly written novel spins the tale of three enchanting characters whose search for love and meaning is bound to resonate with readers.”

  —Deena Yellin, Jewish Standard

  “I love fiction that teaches me something. The Courtyard of the Kabbalist not only taught me about the Koran, the Kabbalah, archeology, and the Mideast, it also taught me much about how the window of the human heart can fling open, allowing light into the darkest places.”

  —Rochelle Jewel Shapiro, author of Miriam the Medium and Kaylee’s Ghost

  “An amazing novel that lets you in a magical exotic world. Both entertaining and enlightening.”

  —Lara Vapnyar, author of Memoirs of a Muse

  THIS IS A NEW YORK REVIEW BOOK

  PUBLISHED BY THE NEW YORK REVIEW OF BOOKS

  435 Hudson Street, New York, NY 10014

  www.nyrb.com

  Copyright © 2013 by Ruchama King Feuerman

  All rights reserved.

  All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permis
sion of the publisher constitute unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher.

  First paperback published in 2014.

  Cover photo: © Boaz Rottem/ age fotostock

  Cover design: Ian Durovic Stewart

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Feuerman, Ruchama King.

  In the Courtyard of the Kabbalist / Ruchama King Feuerman.

  pages cm

  ISBN 978-1-59017-814-0 (pbk.)

  [1. Jews—Israel—Fiction. 2. Mystery and detective stories. 3. Israel—Fiction.] I. Title.

  PS3611.I585I6 2014

  813′.6—dc23

  2013047145

  ebook ISBN 978-1-59017-749-5

  For a complete list of books in the NYRB Lit series, visit www.nyrb.com

  v3.1

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgements

  Reading Group Guide

  About the Author

  In memory of my dear mother-in-law,

  Chana Twersky Feuerman

  If I tell you my story,

  you will listen for awhile

  and then you will fall asleep.

  But, if, as I tell you my story,

  you begin to hear your own story,

  you will wake up.

  —Hassidic saying

  PROLOGUE

  February 1998

  A month after his mother died, Isaac Markowitz, forty, plagued with eczema and living on the Lower East Side, sold his haberdashery at a decent profit and took an El Al flight to Israel. At the Central Hotel, the most pious hotel in all of Jerusalem, he stumbled upon a pamphlet shuffled in with the tourist brochures, a veritable Yellow Pages of saints, zaddiks, rebbes, kabbalists, and other holy men. Rebbe Yehudah’s name stood out—a kabbalist described as having a gift for analyzing difficulties of the soul. It didn’t hurt that Rebbe Yehudah’s address was within walking distance from the hotel.

  Isaac went searching for him in the alleys and byways, Ezekiel Street, Hosea Court, Isaiah Avenue, lost amongst the prophets until he arrived at a shabby stone-floored courtyard on Ninveh Street that fronted a two-storied cottage. The last time Isaac was in Israel, he had been a boy of sixteen—he had briefly interrupted his Torah studies to pack sandbags as a volunteer in the Yom Kippur War. He vowed then that one day he would return, maybe even for good.

  He now took a seat under a stoop overhung by a thick old olive tree and waited beside an odd assortment of Jews: a mustached man in a ragged T-shirt, a woman in a polka-dotted dress sitting on a wooden chair with an open prayer book, an old lady in pink biker shorts, a burly Hassid pacing, a man weeping behind his briefcase. He noticed in the courtyard a fragrant smell of rosemary and honeysuckle and jasmine, and something else he later identified—chicken soup.

  An old man, his white beard resting on his chin like a cloud, motioned to one person and then another. His silver-eyed gaze looked as bright and happy as an inventor with his machine. This must be the rebbe, Isaac thought, and he got comfortable on the stoop while he waited his turn. He watched a plump, dark-skinned woman in torn stockings eat a pizza slice with olives sprinkled on top. She seemed to relish each bite, her nostrils flaring and contracting with each swallow. Suddenly, the pizza fell splat, cheese facedown, onto the courtyard stones. Isaac stared at the woman, and the woman lifted her eyes and stared back at him. A heartbreak in her raw dark eyes. “Can I still eat it?” she rasped, reaching for the dirty slice. Isaac shrugged and took out his wallet. “Maybe you should buy yourself another pizza,” he said, and gave her a few shekels. She pocketed the money but scraped the cheese off the pizza and continued eating.

  Finally the old man, the rebbe, motioned to him. Isaac followed him indoors and down a narrow hall to a small room with a table, the walls and shelves heavy with books. Isaac spoke to the rebbe from a place of defeat—no wife, no children, not even a job he could say was a higher calling. And now, his mother dead. “I’ve lost my bearings,” he sobbed a little. “I don’t know what to do anymore. Does this sound crazy?”

  The rebbe said in English softened by a European accent, “Life is not a clean or an easy business. You need to talk and I need to listen.”

  And Rebbe Yehudah listened. Then, with both his hands the rebbe pushed a paper cup of seltzer across the table to Isaac. The sleeves of his white kaftan fell back and exposed the tattoo—thin survivor arms. He slid over a perfectly rectangular piece of honey cake on a napkin. “Makh a bracha un trink a bissel.” Eat something and take a drink. A spider crawled on the napkin, and when Isaac lifted his hand to flatten it, the rebbe put a hand on his wrist. “Though it’s not forbidden to kill,” he said, “maybe you want to consider letting this creature live.” Isaac stared at him and set his hand down. The rebbe said, “Stay here awhile, if it suits you.”

  For the next three weeks Isaac came to the courtyard, helping out as the need arose. His managerial experience at the haberdashery—all those years spent getting the right size sock, underwear, or shirt for cranky clients—now came in handy. Sometimes he pitched in when the rebbe or his rebbetzin was cooking up a batch of herring for the food deliveries to the poor. One day the rebbe spoke to him. “My wife and I can no longer come and go as we once did. You are young. The needs are great. You can help.” Isaac’s heart began to jerk and pound. The rebbe said, “Here you can have a place to eat, a bed to sleep. It isn’t much by way of this world, but may it be a blessing for us both.”

  Isaac answered the call.

  CHAPTER ONE

  March 1999: Jerusalem

  Mustafa raised his pronger and stabbed a clear plastic bag, a candy wrapper, and a tissue box. With his mitted hand, he slid the garbage into a sludge-colored rucksack slung over his good shoulder. He poked at the Islamic museum ticket stubs on the ground, then giving up, guided them with his sweeper into the dustpan. He liked the pronger better than the dustpan. Holding it, he could pretend he was a warrior, or at least a skilled worker. The children from the elementary school followed him and, when they weren’t calling him Crazy Monkey Head Mister Garbage, begged to use the pronger. But the dustpan was nothing special. Every housewife had one.

  His eyes fixed on a clump of soggy tissues under a caper bush. So many tissues everywhere. At least dry tissues could be speared with the pronger, but up here, on the Haram al-Sharif, where people screamed and wailed all day long, he mostly found wet, falling-apart ones, and once again he was forced to use his dustpan. At least the five months of winter had just passed, and he wouldn’t have to worry about soggy, no good, impossible-to-sweep trash. But the sun made problems, too, cooking the garbage to the ground like a jumah egg in the
pan.

  He swung his body around to look at the next bunch of tourists straggling up the Magharbeh ramp that led from the Jew wall to the Noble Sanctuary, or to what the Jews called the Temple Mount, where they said their house of prayer used to be. He had heard the Israeli tour guides say this so often, he no longer ground his teeth or grimaced when he heard it. Anyway, let them say what they wanted. The Dome of the Rock shrine was golden and beautiful, while the Jews had to be satisfied with their dingy wall below.

  He rubbed his neck. It ached from holding it too long in the wrong way. The normal way for him, the way he had been born, was with a head turned, looking over his right shoulder. He could move his neck two centimeters to the front to make him look a little less strange, but after twenty minutes the effort drained him, and he went back to his regular crookedness. Why did he even bother to try?

  Still, an old story haunted him, the time a crazy neighbor tried to twist his head straight on his neck when he was less than a year old. He had heard the story from his aunt Kamila. “I was the one who saved you from getting your neck broken,” she liked to remind him. He must have gotten hurt anyway. This must be why he hadn’t spoken a word until he was ten. At an early age, the words got stuck in his neck like little pebbles no matter how many times he tried clearing his throat.

  Then one day he said, just like that, “The soup has too much pepper.” His mother threw a dish towel at him. “Satan is inside Mustafa!” she shouted. Oh, the commotion he caused. Ya’allah. The whole village came to see. Afterward, they still looked at him the same way, no matter how much he spoke. Too stupid to learn a trade, his parents decided, or to go to school. Too stupid to marry and have a family.

  A kind lady from England taught him to read, and after lessons, she brought him to a church in a nearby village. Of course he hid these church visits from his parents, though they themselves hadn’t fasted during Ramadan in years. Even then, hardly able to read, dumb as the earth and rocks around him, he knew he was doing something dangerous and forbidden, but he loved the little toys the lady gave him—cars the size of his thumb, a frog with a tongue that wiggled when he pinched the stomach—and he went with her each week. Soon he knew more English and Hebrew than his brothers and sisters. Except for his heavy Arabic accent, some might have mistaken him for an Israeli. But his family laughed at him anyway, with that crooked head and his having to walk sideways to get anywhere without bumping into things. They had all grown up and gotten regular jobs. Tariq fixed washing machines in Bethlehem, another brother was a manager in a casino in Jericho, a third became a bookkeeper. His sisters were nurses and one a hairdresser—all of them married with children. But he spoke the foreign languages better than anyone in the family, and he was proud of this. He knew something they didn’t—he who had never gone to school.