The Tenth Song (18 page)

She followed the crowd, a piece of cork floating on a floodtide, streaming through the dark, narrow walkways that led through the bustling Arab souk.

“Souvenirs?” Arab men in kaffiyehs fingering worry beads called out to her, holding up olivewood carvings of camels and spangled head scarves.

She shook her head, avoiding eye contact, keeping her eyes down, and flowing forward with a mindless eagerness to reach some unknown goal. She was struck with a sudden fear. How did she know she wasn’t going to land in some hostile Arab neighborhood? She peered down all the forks in the winding passageways, left turns and right turns into still-narrower alleyways.

“Excuse me,” she asked one of the young Israeli soldiers stationed all along the route, “which way to the Wall?” finally defining her goal.

As she followed his directions, the narrow alleyways eventually gave way to staircases and newer homes; cleaner, whiter stones. She was in Jewish territory now, she realized with relief. The Jewish Quarter. Suddenly, all at once, she was confronted by the stunning panorama of the Wall, and the golden-domed mosque above it.

It should take my breath away, she thought, wondering why it didn’t. Maybe it was exhaustion. Or maybe it was confusion. But she didn’t feel tired, or confused, she realized. She felt nothing, nothing at all. Could it be I have nothing left inside me, no attachments, no knowledge, no sentiments? That I’ve managed to put all that behind me as well? And was that a good thing, or not?

She walked slowly down the hundreds of steps that would lead her to the most sacred site in the Jewish world. Reaching the bottom, she saw everyone putting their backpacks and purses through an X-ray machine. Guarded by soldiers, they then walked through metal detectors. No one seemed to think this was strange. People just did it automatically, as if being surrounded by
Uzi-wielding guards and subjected to intrusive searches was normal. But it was, wasn’t it? All over the world, millions of people now submitted to being frisked and taking off their shoes because a few madmen had destroyed human trust. It wasn’t just people that terrorists killed. It was the fabric of civilized human interaction. Everyone lived in fear.

There was the women’s section of the Kotel, closed off by metal barriers from the men’s. “I’m not married, so I don’t have to cover my hair,” she remembered, preparing herself for the inspection of the pious women gatekeepers who controlled the flow to the holy site. She suddenly realized how much she wanted to be allowed inside to touch the huge, ancient stones.

She skirted her way around the blind retreat of pious women who refused out of reverence to turn their backs on the holy site. She searched for an opening in the crowded front row near the Wall. But it was packed, women of all ages swaying and weeping or silently mouthing the sacred words of Hebrew prayers read from worn, yellowing prayer books. These were the regulars, she thought, matronly women of various ages in the same uptight uniform of the fanatically brainwashed: long sleeves, dull, loose-fitting, ankle-sweeping skirts, and wigs or scarves or hats. They had staked out the choicest spots. Behind them were the bareheaded tourists like herself, with makeshift outfits to approximate modesty, keeping vigil until a spot opened up in the front row.

The young girl in front of her kissed her prayer book, then stepped backward, retreating. Kayla stepped forward hurriedly, taking her place. She reached out, touching the sacred stones, eyeing the tiny bits of crumpled paper jammed into every crevice, each one a heartfelt request.

Resting her forehead against the stones, made smooth by millennia of human caresses and heartfelt tears, she realized she didn’t know what to pray for. I can’t pray that Dad is innocent. That would be like a pregnant woman praying for her fetus to be a boy or a girl. It was what it was. It couldn’t be undone, she told herself, clenching her fists in frustration and beating them against the hard stones in helpless fury, unable to find the words. Murmurs of shocked disapproval rose up around her. She dropped her arms, ashamed. God, show me the way; I am so lost, she finally prayed silently, her lips resting on the cold stone. She lowered her head, backing away.

“Excuse me, miss.”

She was standing at the periphery where men and women mingled, readying herself for the walk back into the city and the search for a better cheap hotel. She turned around. It was a young bearded man with a large black hat and a black suit holding a large, heavy book.

“I’m sorry to interrupt your thoughts, but you seem tired and upset. I work at a women’s study center not far from here. You could have a hot meal and a place to sleep. And if you’d like to attend some lectures you might find interesting tomorrow, you’d be most welcome. Of course, our hospitality is free. You are Jewish, aren’t you? We are not missionaries,” he added solemnly.

“Free, do you say?” Kayla answered, shaking her head. “Oh, I don’t think so.”

He seemed puzzled. “Like our father Abraham, our tent is open on all four sides to invite in strangers.”

“To invite them in, but letting them out is another story.”

“Excuse me?”

“I know all about your ‘study centers.’ First it’s a hot meal and a bed, then some lectures. A lot of lectures. And then, eventually, you’ll tell me what to eat, and how to dress, and what to think, convincing me it’s all my own idea. And when I finally live up to your expectations, Yentl the matchmaker will find some ex-druggie who has seen the light to live off my earnings forever. And then there’ll be the children, six of them, one after the other, with runny noses living in poverty-stricken ignorance. No thanks. I’ll get a hotel room.”

She heard laughter and turned around. A woman of indeterminate age, with long dark hair, wearing a skirt with pants underneath, Indian-style, was applauding.

“I’m sure that they don’t hear that very often. You were a sight to behold, my dear.”

When Kayla turned back, he had disappeared. She felt strangely apologetic. “I was pretty harsh. I’m sure he meant well. I guess I’m just tired.”

“You look ready to drop,” the woman agreed sympathetically. “Are you visiting, touring?”

“I’m not sure…”

“I see. I was in a similar boat when I came. I was newly divorced. I felt lost. But it all worked out so well.”

Kayla looked at her. She seemed normal, intelligent, not poor, and not a religious fanatic. “What did you wind up doing?”

“I have a degree in archaeology from Oxford. Someone told me about this dig in the Judean desert. They were hiring archaeologists. The money was good, and the work fascinating. I’ve been there ever since.”

“I don’t have any skills. I’m a law school dropout. Harvard.”

“We can always use some unskilled workers on the dig. They pay minimum wage, but the food is plentiful and the accommodations free.”

“I don’t know if I’m really qualified…”

She laughed. “Do you remember kindergarten? Working in a sandbox with your shovel, then sifting the dirt?”

She smiled. “I suppose so.”

“That’s all the qualifications you need. We have quite a few people like you there. One is an architect from Stanford. We even have a young doctor. It will be an adventure, I can promise you that.”

“Do you think they’d hire me?”

“I am sure of it. A few people left just last week, and we are really shorthanded. My name is Judith, by the way.”

“Hi. I’m Kayla.”

“Where are you staying?”

“Well, I just checked out of this fleabag on Ben Yehuda Street… I guess I don’t really know.”

“Well, I’m about to drive back to the dig. You’re welcome to come with me and try it out for a few days. If nothing more, it’ll be an adventure.”

Kayla hesitated. Her former self would have never considered getting into a car with a stranger. But this seemed like a new universe. Looking back at the Wall, she wondered if God was already beginning to answer her prayers.

12

“You’re not a smoker, are you?” Kayla asked with forced casualness, breathing in the rancid upholstery, wondering who she was sitting next to.

Judith laughed. “Goodness no! I’m one of those grow-your-own-tomatoes-in-organically-composted-pesticide-free-soil people. A tree hugger. I rescued this car from its abusive former owner. But still, the scent lingers on.”

“Where, exactly, are we headed?”

“What, getting nervous? Already?” Judith gave her a sideways glance of amusement. “I promise you, it’s a phone call away from numerous taxi services, who will be only too thrilled to overcharge you mercilessly and take you back into civilization. There are also public buses wandering down the road when the mood strikes them. But you won’t want to leave. At least, I didn’t.”

“Oh, I’m not nervous at all,” Kayla lied, embarrassed at being so transparent. “I just wondered about the route you were taking.”

“If you reach over into that side pocket on the door, you’ll find a map. Just open it to page 123. Ein Gedi.”

Kayla fumbled through the pages. It was in the desert, near the Dead Sea. She glanced out the window. They were already out of traffic, going down a highway bordered on both sides by small Arab villages. As they rode, the intermittent
patches of green disappeared, overwhelmed by sand dunes pockmarked by the dark growth of tiny plants.

“The hills look like they have acne,” Kayla quipped.

“There is still enough water here for little bursts of vegetation. But with the way this drought is going, soon, there won’t even be that.”

“This is really very kind of you, Judith,” Kayla said. “I mean, you are taking a chance on a stranger. You don’t know anything about me.”

“That’s true. But I sensed we’ve both been on a similar journey.”

“Why would you say that?”

She shrugged. “I think your defensiveness speaks for itself.”

“I’m sorry. I guess I am just keyed up. Tired.”

“Hopeless?”

“Is it that obvious?”

“It takes one to know one. You’ve got some practical clothes with you, yes?”

“Yes. I bought what they call ‘trenning.’ It took me a while to figure out that was an English word and it meant ‘training’ exercise pants and hoodies. I just didn’t have time to change.”

“And the jacket. It’s military, no?”

“I gave the coat that went with this suit—when it’s ironed, that is—to a woman who seemed to appreciate it. But I think this jacket might be way too warm for the desert.”

“Ho, you have no idea! The evenings are freezing. Believe me, you’ll need it.” Judith glanced over, taking in Kayla’s outfit. “And you’re okay with it? This wardrobe transition? You don’t mind?”

“I actually can’t wait to change out of this,” Kayla said sincerely.

“Really? I made the transition from dress-for-success to dress-for-happiness only after about six months. You did it spectacularly fast. My compliments! I guess I waited because I didn’t want to burn my bridges.”

“My bridges went up in spectacular flames without my even being involved,” Kayla answered bitterly.

There was a short silence. “That’s hard. Want to talk about it?”

Kayla shook her head. “But I’d love to hear your story. That is, if you don’t mind.”

“Not at all. Everyone I know is sick to death of hearing about this.”

“Well, only if you don’t feel I’d be prying…”

“Such an American term: ‘prying.’ We are all so closed, so ashamed. To make a real connection with another human being feels like a crime. We’re criminals with crowbars if we’re interested in what’s going on inside someone else’s life.”

“Well, I don’t know… I just meant… we don’t know each other…”

“Some people you get to know really quickly, while others—you can even marry them and live with them for ten years and never know a single thing about them.”

“Is that what happened to you?”

Judith nodded. “I was brought up in London. East Kensington. My parents own a grocery store—like Margaret Thatcher’s parents! They also scrimped and saved. I was sent to public schools—for you Americans that’s the equivalent of a private school. They—and I along with them—were determined that I get into Oxford or Cambridge. And I did. But then, in the middle of my freshman year, I started having these tummyaches. I thought it was just tension. I took antacids, painkillers, all this bloody over-the-counter rubbish, but the pains just got worse and worse. Finally, the NHS decided to do some CAT scans. They found a malignant tumor in my womb.”

“I… I’m… so… sorry…” Kayla whispered, appalled.

There was a long silence. “Yes, well. I came to terms with it as best I could. I needed a hysterectomy. I was nineteen years old, and I would never have children.”

The hot, dusty desert wind whistled through the silent car.

“I broke up with my boyfriend, whom I didn’t deem sufficiently sympathetic. Or maybe I wanted to be the one to decide he’d leave, before he did. I plunged back into my studies, getting in over my head. I had enough sense to realize I needed to get away before I drowned. So I went on a dig in Turkey. The last thing I expected was to meet someone. But I did. He was an assistant professor at Santa Clara University. He had a narrow, intense face with dark hair and blue eyes that lit up when he smiled, which wasn’t often. Naturally, after telling myself that it could never happen again, I fell in love…
we
fell in love. I told him that I could never have children. And he said: ‘
I don’t care
.
I want you, just the way you are.’
Besides, he said, there are so many orphans in the world. Someone has to care for them, no?”

“He sounds wonderful.”

“He
was
,” she answered wistfully, without a trace of irony. “We were married on the beach at Corfu: sunset, torches, Greek dancing. The works. And for ten years, we lived and worked together. He was my best friend, my colleague, my lover. But every time I brought up adoption, he changed the subject. It was either: ‘We’re still so young, what’s the rush?’ Or there was this one really, really
important
dig he wanted to do that would put us both on the map so we could field offers from the top universities before settling down. And after that dig, there was always another, and another. Get the picture?”