Read Online In the Courtyard of the Kabbalist by Ruchama King Feuerman - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Ruchama King Feuerman
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But don’t you wonder who might have used it, for what purpose, and how long ago? No one sees its beauty, its value.” He wiped away a trickle of sweat before it disappeared into his speckled beard. “No one knows how to look anymore, how to see with good eyes.”
Mustafa breathed deeply. A tiny pain throbbed under his rib, like a pointed jewel pressing there.
No one knew how to look anymore
. The truth of these words made him go still inside. Then he shook off these words with an angry quiver of his head. “Well, Rabbi Isaac, does anyonesee my village? It’s a poor village, you know. We don’t have things like the Jews have.”
The rabbi’s eyes blinked rapidly. “I didn’t expect this question, though it’s a fair one.” He nodded. “It’s sad, you’re right. We don’t see each other, we really don’t see each other at all.”
This made Mustafa only repeat more loudly, “Look at your village and look at mine. We have so little.” In this country, the Arabs were the mules and horses, and the Jews held the reins. His brother Tariq had told him that. He rubbed the knobs in his neck, hard and stubborn as stone.
“It is both sides who don’t see,” the rabbi said, turning the spout in his hands, “not just one. If the people in your village don’t pay taxes, and the great majority of Arab councils refuses to collect them, then they’re not seeing the government of Israel, are they?” The rabbi’s pale eyes came closer to him. “Every year the state has to bail out a number of Arab towns and villages because they don’t pay taxes. They get the largest grants, I hear, more than any other group in the country. And they don’t serve in the army, either.”
Here, Mustafa fell silent and wedged the toe of his shoe into the dirt. He mumbled, “We are poor, our people are the poorest in the land. It’s not right.”
The Jew shook his head. “No, it’s not right. But look around you, Mustafa. In this neighborhood, you’ll find six or seven children in one bedroom. These people, the
haredi
, you know, like me”—he touched the top of his head—“with the black hats? They are like your people. They both have lots of children. And both groups remain poor. It’s a decision.”
“An Arab’s hard life can’t be compared to a Jew’s!” he cried out. To be poor was a decision? He had never heard such a thing!
Yahudi majnoon
. Crazy Jews.
The rabbi said, “Do you have children to marry off, Mustafa? We have a free-loan society. You are welcome to borrow some money.”
He shoved his hands into his baggy pants pockets. “No, that’s not why I came. I don’t want to borrow money. Anyway,” he added, “I’m not married.”
“Neither am I.”
They looked at each other and a reluctant smile formed on Mustafa’s lips. Maybe he and the Jew were more the same than not. “Tell me,” heasked. “Is a kohein obligated to marry?” As for himself, he had no wish to get married, had no impulse or desire toward any woman—and thanks be to Allah, not toward any man, child, or beast. He had been this way for as long as he could remember.
The rabbi chewed the stem of his glasses for a moment. “Well, yes,” he said, “if the kohein wanted to serve in the temple, he had to be married.”
“Oh.” Crestfallen, Mustafa kicked gently at the roots of the olive tree. Well, what did it matter?
Rabbi Isaac gave him a funny look. “You’re not thinking of becoming a Jew, are you?” he asked. “Islam is a fine religion, you know.”
Laa!
Mustafa touched his cheeks, as if singed. “No, no, never!” he said. “I just wanted to know more about the kohein. That’s all, nothing else.” He cut the air sharply with his hand, as if to end the discussion.
The rabbi wrapped the spout and jug handle in a handkerchief, kissed it, and slipped it into his jacket pocket. “Thank you, Mustafa, for these precious items. If you find anymore on our holy mountain, save them, protect them.”
Protect
, Mustafa
Mustafa breathed deeply. A tiny pain throbbed under his rib, like a pointed jewel pressing there.
No one knew how to look anymore
. The truth of these words made him go still inside. Then he shook off these words with an angry quiver of his head. “Well, Rabbi Isaac, does anyonesee my village? It’s a poor village, you know. We don’t have things like the Jews have.”
The rabbi’s eyes blinked rapidly. “I didn’t expect this question, though it’s a fair one.” He nodded. “It’s sad, you’re right. We don’t see each other, we really don’t see each other at all.”
This made Mustafa only repeat more loudly, “Look at your village and look at mine. We have so little.” In this country, the Arabs were the mules and horses, and the Jews held the reins. His brother Tariq had told him that. He rubbed the knobs in his neck, hard and stubborn as stone.
“It is both sides who don’t see,” the rabbi said, turning the spout in his hands, “not just one. If the people in your village don’t pay taxes, and the great majority of Arab councils refuses to collect them, then they’re not seeing the government of Israel, are they?” The rabbi’s pale eyes came closer to him. “Every year the state has to bail out a number of Arab towns and villages because they don’t pay taxes. They get the largest grants, I hear, more than any other group in the country. And they don’t serve in the army, either.”
Here, Mustafa fell silent and wedged the toe of his shoe into the dirt. He mumbled, “We are poor, our people are the poorest in the land. It’s not right.”
The Jew shook his head. “No, it’s not right. But look around you, Mustafa. In this neighborhood, you’ll find six or seven children in one bedroom. These people, the
haredi
, you know, like me”—he touched the top of his head—“with the black hats? They are like your people. They both have lots of children. And both groups remain poor. It’s a decision.”
“An Arab’s hard life can’t be compared to a Jew’s!” he cried out. To be poor was a decision? He had never heard such a thing!
Yahudi majnoon
. Crazy Jews.
The rabbi said, “Do you have children to marry off, Mustafa? We have a free-loan society. You are welcome to borrow some money.”
He shoved his hands into his baggy pants pockets. “No, that’s not why I came. I don’t want to borrow money. Anyway,” he added, “I’m not married.”
“Neither am I.”
They looked at each other and a reluctant smile formed on Mustafa’s lips. Maybe he and the Jew were more the same than not. “Tell me,” heasked. “Is a kohein obligated to marry?” As for himself, he had no wish to get married, had no impulse or desire toward any woman—and thanks be to Allah, not toward any man, child, or beast. He had been this way for as long as he could remember.
The rabbi chewed the stem of his glasses for a moment. “Well, yes,” he said, “if the kohein wanted to serve in the temple, he had to be married.”
“Oh.” Crestfallen, Mustafa kicked gently at the roots of the olive tree. Well, what did it matter?
Rabbi Isaac gave him a funny look. “You’re not thinking of becoming a Jew, are you?” he asked. “Islam is a fine religion, you know.”
Laa!
Mustafa touched his cheeks, as if singed. “No, no, never!” he said. “I just wanted to know more about the kohein. That’s all, nothing else.” He cut the air sharply with his hand, as if to end the discussion.
The rabbi wrapped the spout and jug handle in a handkerchief, kissed it, and slipped it into his jacket pocket. “Thank you, Mustafa, for these precious items. If you find anymore on our holy mountain, save them, protect them.”
Protect
, Mustafa
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