horror, Lucas began to stammer. He had not been asked the question for at least a month. Lately his trove of dusty answers and snappy non sequiturs had not been serving him well.
"On a scale of one to ten?" Linda proposed playfully.
"Five?" suggested Lucas.
"How about on a scale of yes and no?" asked Janusz Zimmer.
"My family is of mixed background," Lucas told them with un-derconfident primness. He thought it might make him sound a little like Wittgenstein. In fact, what mixed had not quite been a family. More of a fuck.
"Ah," said Obermann. "Well, this is what you have to remember in Jerusalem." He raised his left hand and began to enumerate its chubby fingers with his right thumb and forefinger. "First, real things are actually happening, so you have reality. Second, people's perceptions are profoundly conditioned, so you have psychology. Third, you have the intersection of these things. Fourth, fifth, who knows? Possibly other dimensions. Mysteries."
"What about you?" Lucas asked Linda. "What brings you out here?"
"I was a poor preacher's wife when I came here," she replied.
"An actual missionary," Obermann said drily.
"Yes, a kind of missionary. But I tended toward comparative religion. I worked on a dissertation at the Hebrew University."
"On what?" Lucas asked.
"Oh, on Pauline Christianity and its corruption of Jesus' original teachings. In fact, it touches on the Syndrome as a latter-day parallel. It's called 'Raised in Power.'"
"Oh," said Lucas. Some old text came nearly to mind, hung suspended in the half-light of his recollection. He gave it a shot: "'It is sown in corruption,'" he began, "'it is raised in incorruption.'" That sounded right. "'It is sown in weakness, it is ... raised in power.'"
"So," said Dr. Obermann, "your background is religious?"
"Well," Lucas said airily, "I was a religion major in college, at Columbia." When this seemed not to satisfy them, he went on. "Catholic. My father was a nonpracticing Jew. My mother was a sentimental Catholic. Not really a religious person but..." He shrugged. "Anyway, I was raised Catholic."
"And now?" Obermann asked.
"And now," Lucas said, "nothing. Do you come here often?" he asked the doctor.
"Everyone comes here," Linda said.
"Everyone comes here," Dr. Obermann repeated. "Even the eunuchs and abstainers."
"So," Lucas asked, "should I start coming more often?"
"You know," Linda said, "you should talk to my ex-husband while he's in country." She was immediately interrupted by a young Ethiopian with an earring who invited her to dance by raising her at the elbow. Out on the floor, swaying to "The Harder They Come," the pair of them looked like a martial young Othello and his bland but distinctly adulterous Desdemona.
"Her husband was a Christian fundamentalist," Obermann explained. "They both were. Now he works for something called the House of the Galilean. Christian Zionists, good relations with the rightists, something of a moneymaker."
"And she?"
"Officially," Zimmer said, "she's at the university. And separated from the husband now."
"An enthusiast," said Dr. Obermann. "Conversion prone. If she took up Catholicism, crystals, lesbian gardeningâone wouldn't be surprised."
"Is she your patient?"
"She was never really my patient. Linda isn't suffering from any kind of disturbance. She's a seeker. When her marriage broke up, we became close."
"Obermann is just cynical," Janusz Zimmer informed Lucas. "He's converted Linda to the cause of himself."
At this point, a hawk-faced man with a shaven skull leaned down and shouted into Lucas's face.
"Yoor the foodie! I remember yoo! When do we do our next interview?"
The hawk-faced man was named Ian Fotheringill. He was an aging Glaswegian skinhead, a former Foreign Legionnaire and African mercenary who had taken up haute cuisine and was employed at one of the big chain hotels. Lucas had once interviewed him for his newspaper. He believed that Fotheringill had formed the impression that he
"On a scale of one to ten?" Linda proposed playfully.
"Five?" suggested Lucas.
"How about on a scale of yes and no?" asked Janusz Zimmer.
"My family is of mixed background," Lucas told them with un-derconfident primness. He thought it might make him sound a little like Wittgenstein. In fact, what mixed had not quite been a family. More of a fuck.
"Ah," said Obermann. "Well, this is what you have to remember in Jerusalem." He raised his left hand and began to enumerate its chubby fingers with his right thumb and forefinger. "First, real things are actually happening, so you have reality. Second, people's perceptions are profoundly conditioned, so you have psychology. Third, you have the intersection of these things. Fourth, fifth, who knows? Possibly other dimensions. Mysteries."
"What about you?" Lucas asked Linda. "What brings you out here?"
"I was a poor preacher's wife when I came here," she replied.
"An actual missionary," Obermann said drily.
"Yes, a kind of missionary. But I tended toward comparative religion. I worked on a dissertation at the Hebrew University."
"On what?" Lucas asked.
"Oh, on Pauline Christianity and its corruption of Jesus' original teachings. In fact, it touches on the Syndrome as a latter-day parallel. It's called 'Raised in Power.'"
"Oh," said Lucas. Some old text came nearly to mind, hung suspended in the half-light of his recollection. He gave it a shot: "'It is sown in corruption,'" he began, "'it is raised in incorruption.'" That sounded right. "'It is sown in weakness, it is ... raised in power.'"
"So," said Dr. Obermann, "your background is religious?"
"Well," Lucas said airily, "I was a religion major in college, at Columbia." When this seemed not to satisfy them, he went on. "Catholic. My father was a nonpracticing Jew. My mother was a sentimental Catholic. Not really a religious person but..." He shrugged. "Anyway, I was raised Catholic."
"And now?" Obermann asked.
"And now," Lucas said, "nothing. Do you come here often?" he asked the doctor.
"Everyone comes here," Linda said.
"Everyone comes here," Dr. Obermann repeated. "Even the eunuchs and abstainers."
"So," Lucas asked, "should I start coming more often?"
"You know," Linda said, "you should talk to my ex-husband while he's in country." She was immediately interrupted by a young Ethiopian with an earring who invited her to dance by raising her at the elbow. Out on the floor, swaying to "The Harder They Come," the pair of them looked like a martial young Othello and his bland but distinctly adulterous Desdemona.
"Her husband was a Christian fundamentalist," Obermann explained. "They both were. Now he works for something called the House of the Galilean. Christian Zionists, good relations with the rightists, something of a moneymaker."
"And she?"
"Officially," Zimmer said, "she's at the university. And separated from the husband now."
"An enthusiast," said Dr. Obermann. "Conversion prone. If she took up Catholicism, crystals, lesbian gardeningâone wouldn't be surprised."
"Is she your patient?"
"She was never really my patient. Linda isn't suffering from any kind of disturbance. She's a seeker. When her marriage broke up, we became close."
"Obermann is just cynical," Janusz Zimmer informed Lucas. "He's converted Linda to the cause of himself."
At this point, a hawk-faced man with a shaven skull leaned down and shouted into Lucas's face.
"Yoor the foodie! I remember yoo! When do we do our next interview?"
The hawk-faced man was named Ian Fotheringill. He was an aging Glaswegian skinhead, a former Foreign Legionnaire and African mercenary who had taken up haute cuisine and was employed at one of the big chain hotels. Lucas had once interviewed him for his newspaper. He believed that Fotheringill had formed the impression that he
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