One Fine Day the Rabbi Bought a Cross (3 page)

Abdul looked at him doubtfully. “That's a funny way to talk.”

“Why?” He smiled, showing even, white teeth between his moustache and imperial.

“Does Ibrahim know you feel this way?”

“Ibrahim and I are like brothers. We disagree from time to time, but we have no secrets from each other. And he agrees with me that it would have been a good thing if the Israelis had allied themselves with the Druse instead of with the Christians when they invaded Lebanon. That was a mistake on their part, and they know it now. They had been so successful with Haddad's Christian army, they thought they could do the same with Jemael. But Haddad's men were farmers, whereas Jemael's are merchants, who would sell their grandmothers if they saw a profit. It did not work out well for them.” He shook his head sadly. “And it was bad for the Druse. We are unarmed and subject to pressure from all sides, from the Syrians and from the Christians, and from the Sunnis and the Shiites. And anyone who supplies us with arms expects us to use them as they direct, against
their
enemies.”

“That's just the point,” Abdul agreed. “We need arms to protect ourselves, and we have a chance of getting them with no strings attached.” He dropped his voice to little more than a whisper. “The PLO cached an enormous supply of weapons in the Bekaa Valley, enough to equip an army. They had a squad unloading tons of rifles, mortars, even small artillery, and ammunition in a cave. Then they booby-trapped the whole area.”

“And then?”

“And then they assassinated the entire squad.”

El Dhamouri nodded. “Not surprising, considering the makeup of the PLO. It's what pirates are supposed to have done when they buried treasure.”

“But one man got away. He says he expected it and took precautions. He managed not only to get away but also to get out of the country. He made a rough map of the location of the cache and of the location of the mines that were set. It's more a set of directions than a regular map. He finally landed in San Francisco and came to see Ibrahim.”

“He gave him the map, the directions? Ibrahim has them?”

“He sold them to Ibrahim. He will be paid when we get the cache.”

“And what if he approaches someone else with the offer?”

Ibn Hosni smiled. “No, he can't do that. Until it is found, he will remain a—er—guest of Ibrahim's. He says his motive is revenge, and we are inclined to believe him. But also he needs the money for a stake.”

“I see. But he might have approached someone else before he came to Ibrahim.”

“He says not, but it's possible that he's lying.”

“In which case, you may have been followed.”

“I don't think so. I—I'm experienced at this sort of thing.”

“This map, the directions, you have it with you?”

“I left them in the deposit vault at the hotel.”

“I guess that's pretty safe. You'll be there until they're dispatched?”

“That's right.”

“Why couldn't you take them to Mahmoud in Jerusalem yourself? Couldn't you get a visa?”

“I probably could. But I am known, as are the other professionals. I'd be searched when I landed in Tel Aviv, and I'd be watched by their Shin Bet every minute of the time I was in Israel.”

“What if you were just to mail it to Mahmoud?”

“He is known. He's sure his mail is opened. That's why Ibrahim thought of you. Here you are a professor at Harvard. There are archaeologists and anthropologists coming and going to half a dozen places in the Near East all the time. He thought you might be able to persuade one of them to deliver a letter to your cousin in Jerusalem without too much trouble. You could tell him it's about some family matter.”

“Then why wouldn't I just write to him?”

“Oh, you know, everyone makes fun of the mail. You could tell him it's important, and you don't trust the mails.”

El Dhamouri canted his head to one side and took thought. “Yes, I could make that convincing, I think. Professor Wilson is going shortly to Jordan but will also visit Israel. But would I be putting him in any danger?”

“Why would anyone think of interfering with a Professor Wilson of Harvard?”

“I don't suppose anyone would. Still … Look, I'll speak to him. I'll be seeing him tonight at the Faculty Club. Suppose you drop by tomorrow at about this time, and I'll let you know the results. If he can't manage, there's another possibility. See me tomorrow.”

The next day, when Ibn Hosni appeared, he was dressed in faded blue jeans, a tennis shirt, and well-scuffed sneakers. Professor El Dhamouri nodded approvingly as he ushered him into the inner office. Once again he latched the outer door. When he resumed his seat behind his desk, he said, “I'm afraid Professor Wilson is out. Funding problems. Maybe in the fall.”

“We can't wait that long.”

“Well, there's another possibility. Professor Grenish of Northhaven College—that's a small college about thirty miles north of Boston—he's making a tour of the Mideast. Greece, the islands, then Israel and on to Egypt. But planning to be in Jerusalem for a while.”

“But he's going to Greece first?”

“So I understand.”

Ibn Hosni shook his head vigorously. “Mahmoud would never approve of having someone gallivanting around for a couple of weeks with the map in his coat pocket or in one of his bags in a hotel room. He could get robbed—”

“Oh, my idea was not to give it to him to take along with him. We'd send it to his hotel in Jerusalem. See, it would be waiting for him when he checks in. Or it would arrive in a day or two. It would be addressed to him and would be from me, or better still, from one of his students, preferably a Jewish student. When he gets the letter, he goes to the Old City, wanders around like any tourist until he arrives at the Mideast Trading Corporation. He looks at the curios in the window, and Mahmoud invites him to come inside, where there are more interesting wares, and when they are alone together, he hands him the letter.”

“We-el, I don't know.”

“It's safer than having the man carry it on his person. And in one respect, he's better than Wilson. Wilson knows some Arabic. He might be tempted to open my letter out of idle curiosity. Grenish doesn't know any Arabic.”

“Grenish, Grenish, what's his first name?”

“Abraham.”

“Abraham Grenish, sounds—”

“Jewish? He is. Which means he offers an excellent cover.”

“But—but how … Is he a friend of yours?”

“Sort of.” He smiled genially. “Some of my best friends are Jews.” He chuckled as he saw consternation in the other's face. “That's an inside joke among Jews. But don't worry about Abe Grenish. I met him at a meeting of the Arab Friendship League.”

“What was he doing there?”

“Showing his sympathy and support for the Arab cause. He's liberal. You know how it is with those liberals, originally they were devoted to the cause of Communist Russia. And when it became manifest to the most willing true believer that Russia was not a worker's paradise, they transferred their allegiance and hopes to Communist China. And when Chairman Mao turned out to have feet of clay, then to Castro, and then to Ho Chi Minh, and so on. It's a constant search for an underdog to support and glorify. Grenish's support of the Arab cause against Israel manifests even greater idealism, since he is himself a Jew, although I suppose he was doing the same sort of thing when he glorified Stalin. It's not an uncommon phenomenon.”

“And he's a good friend of yours?”

“Well, I've maintained contact with him.”

“But why?”

“Oh, it might come in handy one day to have a Jewish friend. Like right now.”

“What do you propose to do?”

“I think I'll call him and invite him to dinner at the Faculty Club. He enjoys dining with me at the Harvard Faculty Club. And after dinner, over a brandy, perhaps, I'll sound him out about delivering a letter for me to my cousin in Jerusalem about a family matter.”

4

While the sign above the windows said Barnard's Crossing Supermarket, it was usually referred to as Goodman's. And though it was set up like a supermarket with price-marked merchandise on shelves for self-service and with shopping carts and a checkout counter, it was a small store, and its customers used it largely for last-minute purchases, things they had forgotten in their regular shopping at the large chain supermarket. It was a friendly store where the customers might stand around and gossip as they waited their turn at the delicatessen counter, and where they expected a lot of personal service, as in “Hey, Louis, you got any more of those canned peaches I like? I don't see them on the shelf.” Or, “Could you have someone put that stuff in my car, Louis? I got to run next door for a minute.”

And though Louis Goodman as proprietor was supposed to be engaged in purely managerial functions, nevertheless he would frequently take the bag of groceries out to the car rather than call a stockboy, whom he would have to tell in just which car the groceries were to be put. He was a tall man, loosely put together, with a flexible face permanently set in a smile. As he often said, “In this business a sour puss is worse than having your prices out of line.” And his wife, Rose, plump and round-cheeked, who sat at the checkout counter, might get off her stool and dodge around the counter, and picking up a can from the shelf, call, “They're right here, Mrs. Sachs. You want one can or two?”

From the casual gossip at the store, they heard of the Smalls' intended trip to Israel. And at dinner, and afterward until they went to bed, they discussed it.

“How can I go to see him? I'm not even a member of his temple.”

“So what? So does that mean you can't ask him for a favor?”

“But how do I know he's even going to Jerusalem? Maybe he's going to Haifa or to Tel Aviv. Seems to me, I heard someone say he's got an aunt in Tel Aviv. So maybe they're going there.”

“Could be, Louis, but a rabbi, he'd have to go to Jerusalem, if only for a visit.”

“So if he's going for a day, for instance, he'll have time to go to see our Jordon?”

“Look, you could ask. If he's going to be busy, so he'll tell you, or he'll tell you he'll try but he can't promise. The most he can do is refuse.”

“The Levinsons are going to Israel. I could ask them.”

“The Levinsons? What would they know about the kind of situation our Jordon is in?”

“Well, they could look him up and talk to him. They could look around and see what kind of place it is. After all, he's in the real-estate business; he can size up a neighborhood.”

“Is that what we're interested in, Louis, if Jordan is living in a good neighborhood? Tell me, why are you so hostile to Rabbi Small? The other day when he came in for a carton of milk, you didn't even look at him while you were checking him out at the register.”

“So I'm hostile to him. I'm hostile to him because my customers are hostile to him, that's why.”

“Ah, the fancy-shmancy ladies.”

“We make a living from these fancy-shmancy ladies, Rose, and don't you forget it. Besides, I got my own reasons. When I made up the sandwiches for Mrs. Seltzer's meeting a couple of weeks back, the rabbi wouldn't eat it on account he said it wasn't kosher.”

“What do you expect? It isn't kosher. We call it kosher-type—”

“Sure, but he didn't have to say so. Couldn't he just say he wasn't hungry or he was on some special diet? No, he had to come right out and say kosher-type isn't kosher. Everybody knew it was from our store.”

“So because the rabbi tells the truth, which it is the same truth you tell if somebody asks, you won't ask him about the welfare of your own son, about his future, where he's, you might call it, a specialist on the subject?”

“All right, all right already. If he should come in the store—”

“How often does he come in the store? No, you got to call him and make an appointment.”

“I'm not calling to make an appointment with no rabbi.”

“So, I'll call. I'll call Mrs. Small. She's a darling. Whenever she comes in, she's nice and pleasant. She don't throw her weight around, or act like she's doing us a favor. I'll call her and ask her could we come to see her and her husband.”

They sat and sipped at the tea that Miriam had served, talking of the weather and about politics, about the tourists who were beginning to arrive, and the problems they posed for the year-round residents, especially for the storekeepers.

“We're going to be tourists in Jerusalem,” said Miriam, “so I'll keep in mind what you said.”

“Ah, I—we have a son in Jerusalem,” said Louis.

“Really? You mean he lives there? He's got a job there? He's made
aliyah
?” asked the rabbi.

“Well, I don't know if you could call it a job. It's something more in your line. He's at a yeshiva. He lives there. I guess they feed and house him while he's studying. We thought you might look him up.”

“You want to know if—”

“Everything.” Rose Goodman interrupted. “If he's getting enough to eat. If it's a decent place. What kind of people are they? What do they expect of him? What's his future there?”

“See, Rabbi,” said her husband, “we don't know anything about it. All we know is from a letter he wrote us. It was the first we heard he was even in Israel. He writes and tells us he's in Jerusalem, and he's made arrangements to go back to his roots and his religion—”

“A Baal Tshuvah,” the rabbi murmured.

“Yeah, that's the expression he used. And from what he wrote—I should have brought the letter—I got to thinking he might be in a place like the Christians have. You know, where they pray all day—”

“A monastery?”