Читать книгу The Book of Israela - Rena Blumenthal - Страница 10

Yossi returned to Jerusalem on Monday night. Hearing the desperation in my voice, he agreed to meet me the next day for a game of squash and, as always, beat me handily. Not only was he almost a decade younger than me, but he also was in far better shape—short and muscular to my taller, leaner frame—and he played with a sly and ruthless energy I could never quite muster. The games had begun a few years back—when the YMCA first opened its courts, to great fanfare—as Yossi’s not very subtle way of proving his alpha-male dominance at the clinic. But I had never minded losing to Yossi, had relished this rare opportunity for male camaraderie. It reminded me of the only thing I liked about being a soldier: men bonding with each other through the alchemy of sweat and sublimated rage.

We usually followed our games with lunch at Yossi’s favorite hummus dive, tucked away in a back alley off Jaffa Road. But since it was still Passover week, we had to settle for a leaven-less meal in one of the few open restaurants in downtown Jerusalem. I hadn’t wanted Yossi’s wife, Elizabeth, to know about my conversation with Jezebel and had kept it to myself while staying in their apartment. But alone now with Yossi, I let spill all the humiliating details.

“Probation? Man, that’s too much,” he said, before ordering a large assortment of dishes for both of us. He had started growing a beard since I’d last seen him, adding gravitas to his otherwise boyish face.

“Kobi, you need to get out of that racket,” he went on, pouring himself a tall glass of Coke. “It was the smartest thing I ever did, getting myself fired from that job. God, it’s boring, sitting and listening to people’s troubles all day. And the constant bitching of the staff! I’ll be honest with you—I’m grateful to those bastards for letting me go. It was just the spark I needed to get my ass out of there.” He downed half his drink in a long, noisy gulp.

Yossi had come to the clinic five years earlier with a reputation as a whiz kid. It was no small feat to become director of a prestigious mental health clinic at the age of thirty-two, supervising a large and experienced staff. It was clear to everyone that he had gotten the position not through any stellar clinical or administrative skills, but on the force of his impenetrable arrogance. He was so convinced of his own worth, so smooth and well-spoken, that people couldn’t help entrusting him with authority. But eventually that same arrogance managed to alienate both his subordinates and the administrators who had appointed him. By the time he left the clinic, he was almost universally hated. But I had remained fond of Yossi, had always been impressed by how little he seemed impacted by the resentment he routinely aroused in others.

The dishes began to arrive, crowding every corner of the round metal table. “I tell you, Kobi, Elizabeth’s father was right,” he was saying. “There’s nothing like being your own boss.”

“So you really enjoy running that little store he bought you?”

Yossi started heaping his plate with meats and salads, talking all the while. “It’s smack in the middle of the Jewish Quarter, just a few doors down from the firebrands raising money to build the third temple. It’s a great location. Tourism is way down, of course, with this damn intifada. But even so, word is getting out and folks are starting to wander in.”

“And you like selling knickknacks?” I scooped some food onto my plate, though I wasn’t feeling very hungry.

“Her dad thought I should sell ancient artifacts,” he said dismissively. “But believe me, I’ve got more on my mind than kitschy oil lamps. The faux antiques are great for luring in tourists who want to come to the Old City but are too scared to step foot in the Arab shuq. But once they’re in, it’s the holy-man stuff that keeps them.” He put down his fork and knife and turned toward me. “Kobi, they come from all over the world, dazzled by Jerusalem sunsets and the illusion of walking on the stones trod by Jesus or some ancient Israelite prophet. They’re starry-eyed, full of mystical visions and stunned realizations of how pointless their lives are. They think they’re looking for a souvenir for Aunt Gretel, but before they’ve left my shop I’ve told them their futures, tapped into their greatest fears, blessed little fragments of glass or stone chosen especially for them—you know, channeled some divine energy. They pose for pictures with me, they’re dropping bills on the counter without even counting. It’s all part of their Holy Land experience; no price is too high.” He leaned in and lowered his voice. “And you know what I’ve been realizing? In some ways the intifada is actually good for business.”

“What are you talking about? There are almost no tourists left in Jerusalem.”

He waved the comment aside. “Of course there are a lot fewer of them. But the ones who do come are feeling so brave, and so vulnerable at the same time. Imagine walking the streets of a foreign city—the holiest city in the world!—knowing you can get blown up at any minute. They’re open to anything!” He glanced around and leaned in even closer. “It’s so easy, man. I gaze deeply into their eyes, like I know their innermost secrets. A little chanting, a little mysterious mumbling, and you know what? They leave with new insight, new hope, new inspiration.” He stared at me, animated and earnest. “I’m healing people of their deepest existential angst, more than I ever did with that therapy crap. This is what’s missing from people’s lives, Kobi—a sense of mystery, access to the unknowable powers of the cosmos, awe and terror in the face of the chasm. A connection to the infinite, the eternal, the ineffable. They come away transformed, with a new vision for their lives, and I come away with bundles of foreign currency. It’s a win-win deal!” He sat back, staring at me, waiting for a response.

Could he possibly be serious? “So that explains the furry beard that’s devouring your handsome mug,” I said finally.

“Nice touch, eh?” He dug back into his meal. “And I’ve bought the coolest Bukharan cap. You should see how holy I look in it. You’d pay me a few shekel yourself if you saw me. A little palm-reading, a little dream interpretation . . .”

“Yossi, you’ve lost your mind. You’ve gone from being a highly respected professional to being a religious charlatan.”

“What, I wasn’t a charlatan before?” He laughed. “Come on, Kobi, you know as well as I do what bullshit that clinic is. But even so, people feel better after talking to shrinks; they keep coming back for more. You ever wonder why that is?” He didn’t wait for an answer, barreling on. “Because they’re lonely, man, they’re alienated, they’re bored, they don’t know why they’re spinning around on this watery little planet.” He paused to let this sink in, but I must have looked as astonished as I felt. “Don’t you get it? It’s the same racket, but this is more creative, more powerful, and more lucrative. Not to mention that I’m my own boss—no more boring meetings, busybody hospital administrators, or stick-up-the-ass receptionists. You’ll see,” he said, nodding. “A couple more seasons and I’ll make it into the guidebooks, and then the real money will start flowing in. And if we ever break this fucking intifada, there’ll be no limit—I’ll be sitting on top of the world. And you’ll still be listening to whiny women drone on, hoping the pretty ones are lonely enough to fall for your fake-sympathy charms.” He laughed again. “You calling me a charlatan?”

I still couldn’t tell if he was being serious or pulling my leg. “You get a lot of those young, blond traveler girls?” I asked, just to lighten the mood while I collected my thoughts.

“Ah, Kobi,” he sighed. “Always thinking with the same part of your anatomy. Sure, they come in, and man, are they easy. Can you imagine? A chance to fuck a real live holy man from the goddamned holiest city on the planet. They’re all over me. And the ones who come to Jerusalem and wander the Old City in the middle of an intifada?” He shook his head. “You can just imagine how wild they are. A lot foxier than the bored housewives you get to lay, eh?” Suddenly, his voice became earnest and eager again. “But forget it, Kobi, I’m being careful. Those girls have no money to spend, and I’ve got bigger plans. I want to be a real holy man. I’m not going to screw it all up for a few minutes of bliss with a strung-out Norwegian girl. I want the rich tourists, the celebrities; I want Madonna coming to my shop to hear her fortune read. I know where the money is.” He paused, as if thinking things through. “I need Elizabeth on my side here. And her rich American father.” He gave me a sharp glance, then dug back into his meal. “No offense, pal, but I’m not making the same mistake you made.”

I winced but let it go. “What does your illustrious wife have to say about all this?”

“You know how furious she was when I lost my job,” he said, refilling his plate. “But now she sees how much happier I am, how much more purpose I have in my life. And she’s not immune to the money potential, or to her father’s sudden approval of me.” He leaned in again, as if confiding a great secret. “I’ve made as much these first few months as I was making a year at the lousy clinic, and I’ve barely gotten established.” He nodded to himself. “ Elizabeth’s practical, she’s the daughter of an American mogul. She understands how entrepreneurship works.”

He sat back in his chair with a look of deep contentment. “Holy cities need to be filled with holy men,” he declared, staring off into space. “Why not me?”

I had barely touched my meal, didn’t know what to make of all his crazy talk. On the one hand, it was genius. On the other, it seemed completely implausible. Could he really just transform himself, by force of will, into a “holy man”?

“How do you even know what to say to people?” I asked.

He shrugged. “I did some reading, went to a few lectures on Jewish mysticism. I even visited a couple of ashrams when Elizabeth and I were in India. Know what I realized? They all say the same damn thing.” He wiped his hands on a napkin. “Go ahead, tell me a dream you’ve had recently.”

“You can’t pull that stuff off on me. I have the same shrink training you do.”

“What, are you scared?” His gaze was suddenly intense. “Tell me a dream.”

It was against my better judgment, but I was curious. And—as he seemed to realize—I was desperate for someone to talk to. “OK, I had one just the other night,” I told him. “A woman was giving me a haircut. It felt good, it was a turn-on, her hands caressing and massaging my scalp. But then, the next thing I knew, I was in a huge room, almost like an ancient temple, crowded with people, and I was single-handedly holding up the walls. Only I wasn’t holding them up, I was pulling them down. They were starting to crash around me when I woke up.”

“Scared?”

“Well, yeah, kind of.”

“Did you know the woman?”

“No,” I lied.

He looked at me sidewise. “C’mon, she reminded you of someone.”

“No, not really. But she was blond. A foreigner.”

“Ah.” He was staring at me intently, all the boyish silliness gone. I shifted uneasily in my chair.

“So what do you have to say about my dream?” I asked, feeling acutely uncomfortable.

He waved me aside like a gnat. “The dream is obvious. Acute castration anxiety. Not surprising, really. Between Nava and Jezebel, it must feel like the women of the world are conspiring to cut it off.”

“You don’t use jargon like that with the tourists, do you?” My tone was casual, but my voice now had a slight quaver.

“No, but I’m saying it to you. You have a hard time with strong women, Kobi. You’re attracted to them and scared of them. You try to keep yourself safe by screwing helpless, needy women. But you misjudged Nava, completely. So pretty and petite, you never let yourself see the power in her. She’s like steel, that woman.”

“That’s a pretty shrinky explanation,” I said. “Not exactly what I’d expect from a holy man.”

“So, a woman cuts your hair, symbolically takes your manhood away, and your world comes crashing down around you. The pretenses of your life don’t hold up anymore. Your inadequacies are being exposed to the multitudes. You must be horrified at how little it took to bring you down.”

He was right, of course, but I would never concede. “I thought you had a brand-new gig. What happened to the rapturous mumbling?”

“OK, you want mystical, I’ll give you mystical.” His eyes glazed over and he began to gently rock back and forth. When he finally spoke, his voice had shifted into a soft, slightly accented singsong.

“The hair, Kobi, is Keter, the Crown, the highest manifestation of divinity. That which is Eternal and Infinite, that which is Ayin, the Absence that underlies all that exists. Keter is the highest unifying power of the cosmos, which you have cynically ignored and disdained all your life. You allow Keter to be shorn by a foreigner, a stranger, shorn by unclean hands for the sake of momentary pleasure. The penis is Yesod, the Foundation, the divine manifestation of that which intervenes actively in the world, that which is fruitful and creative. You let the Foundation stray into foreign, forbidden places, allow your creative force to enter a polluted and fallow womb. And then you try to hold up the temple of your life all on your own, without the elevation of Keter, the divine Crown, without the support of Yesod, the divine Foundation. But without the glory of Keter and the rootedness of Yesod your life is a temple of idolatry, the pillars cracked and unsteady. You imagine it crashing around you, but you yourself, through the betrayal of your divine essence, are pulling it down. If you continue to live this way, your world will indeed crash around you.” I glanced at his glassy eyes, then quickly looked back down at my uneaten meal.

“OK, you’ve proved your point,” I said. “You’re a master at interpreting dreams.” There was still an embarrassing tremor in my voice, but he seemed not to have heard me at all.

“But there is an even deeper meaning here. The foreign woman is the unholy, yes, but on a more profound level she is also the Shechina, the feminine aspect of the Godhead who is always in exile, always wandering, always a foreigner, longing to return to her father, her lover, Kidsha Brich Hu, the Holy One. She is like Israel in Egypt, in Diaspora, enslaved and alienated from her own holy being, waiting to be liberated into her true destiny. You yourself could liberate her, but you do not see her as Shechina, you only see her as a stranger—she frightens you. You are blind in this dream, no? Blind to the cosmic forces that surround you, the forces that could spell your salvation if you but knew to open your eyes.” He continued to rock back and forth as we sat for a moment in silence.

“Don’t you think all this is a little depressing for rich tourists?” I finally said.

He instantly snapped out of his holy-man persona. “Don’t you get it? First you break them down, then you give them the tools to build themselves up. You know what I would say next?” He went back into holy-man voice, with barely a moment’s transition. “But you woke before the crash. That means there is still time, still time to restore Keter and Yesod to their rightful place in your life, still time to seek out the Shechina and unite her with Tiferet, the Glory.” Yossi looked at me expectantly. “You get it? First I tell them how disconnected they are from the divine energies, using all the fancy kabbalistic language to make it seem authentic. But then I give them blessings, amulets, prayers to say, all woven into the theme of the dream. They didn’t really understand what I said, but that just adds to the mystique. They leave with this strong feeling of being exposed, understood, but also with new hope, with things to do, prayers to say, physical items to connect them with divine powers.” He nodded his head thoughtfully. “It’s so awesome, Kobi. You should see me in my groove.”

I gave up on the meal, pushing the plate of food away.

“Look at that,” I said, “you’ve become some kind of magician.”

“It is magic,” he agreed. “And a lot more fun than the hocus-pocus you practice.”

Suddenly, I felt defeated. “Maybe you’re right, Yossi. Maybe I should just get out of this psych racket. But it’s hard to know what to do when my whole life’s so messed up.”

“It’s a shame about Nava, man.” He shook his head. “I gave her your number, like you asked. She didn’t say a word, but at least she took it.”

I must have looked bereft, because I heard a note of genuine compassion creep into his voice. “Look, you want some advice? Now’s not the time to get fired. You gotta clean up your act, man. That bitch Jezebel is serious business. So here’s what you do. Catch up with the case notes. Copy them out of Mein Kampf if you have to, nobody ever reads them. Show up on time and tell the goddamned receptionists how lovely they look. Keep your hands off your patients, no matter how cute and vulnerable they seem. Flatter the old bitch with how well she’s pulling the clinic together. You’re no dummy; play the game for a few months and keep your fucking job. You can always get out later if you need to, but only when you’re ready to quit.”

He put on his jacket, suddenly all business. “There, you got it free—advice from the up-and-coming number one holy man of the number one holy city.” He stood up and slapped me on the back, in good post-squash form. “I gotta run, pal. I’ve got fortunes to tell and fortunes to make. Be in touch, but hey, don’t call me at home. You’re not Elizabeth’s favorite.”

Before heading out the door, he turned back to me with an afterthought. “And let me know if you need a good divorce lawyer. I have a few connections.”

As always, it was only after he left that I realized he’d left me with the check.