Avraham Azrieli - The Masada Complex

The grandmotherly nurse beckoned Masada, and they took the elevator downstairs. In the lobby, they bumped into Rabbi Josh. He was out of breath, wiping the sweat off his face with the tail of his shirt. Masada looked away from him, embarrassed that he knew what Al had done to her. “Levy has been discharged,” she said.

“What?” Rabbi Josh followed them out of the building.

The nurse stood by a group of smokers clustered around a few trees. “You’re his kids?”

Masada nodded. “He’s like a father to us.”

“I understand.” The nurse tore the wrapping off a pack of cigarettes. “Did he tell you he’s losing his vision?” The shock must have appeared on their faces. “It’s not the end of the world. He’s pretty healthy otherwise.”

“He wears thick glasses, but I didn’t know his eyes were so bad. What happened with the procedure?”

“I hate it when they lie to patients.”

“Please, we need to know.”

The nurse nodded. “We got a call from the government, someone high up.”

“I don’t understand,” Rabbi Josh said.

“We depend on funding, so Dr. Asaf had to oblige and stop the procedure. But you could pull some strings if you have connections.”

“Bastards!” Masada stormed off. It was Ness. Levy’s eye in exchange for her cooperation. How dare he play with people’s lives like this? She flagged down a taxi. Rabbi Josh joined her. They did not speak the whole way to the Ramban Hostel.

“Elzirah Mahfizie,” she yelled, pointing at herself, “ anah Elzirah Mahfizie! ”

The hooded youth paused, his drawn knife hesitating.

She pointed at the rubble that had once been her father’s home. “ Bint el Hajj Mahfizie! ”

The mention of Father’s name had an astonishing effect. The group dispersed instantly. The one with the knife bowed and pointed the way.

Higher up the hill, the shacks gave way to large homes with expansive balconies, Roman frescos, and gold-painted railings overlooking the unpaved main strip and the feces running in open sewage ditches. Farther up, through tall iron bars, she saw a mansion under construction, its exterior being tiled in black marble. She quickened her pace to catch up with the hooded youth, stepping aside as two BMW sedans raced by.

The old mosque was gone. In its place stood a windowless white edifice with a minaret that gradually narrowed toward the wraparound terrace at the top. They crossed the front courtyard, which was carpeted with men’s shoes, and entered through a large, heavy steel door. As it closed behind Elizabeth, she noticed a crossbar and a large padlock with a key in it. The interior was dark and chilly.

A man’s voice echoed through the narrow hallway, speaking in monotone, pausing between sentences. She walked softly on the tiles, listening as the voice grew closer.

The prayer hall was lit by a round skylight at the center of the high ceiling. An old man sat in a chair, his checkered kafiya held with a black band, the vast floor before him covered with crouching men. “The duty is individual,” he intoned, “bestowed by Allah through the Prophet onto each Muslim man, bypassing the mind that sows doubt even in the most righteous man. By fasting during Ramadan, the mind is tempered like a horse in training, pulling the reins on our strongest urge-to eat-and replacing it with nutrition for the heart-the holy Koran. And once the bodily urges have been tamed, the mind becomes crystal clear, directed to a higher pursuit of the meaning and purity.”

He paused and looked up, his face shaded by the headdress.

She swallowed and said, “Hello, Father.”

Hundreds of faces turned to her.

He remained seated, not moving.

“It’s been a long time.” She smiled.

He closed the book.

A path opened for her through the crouching men, and Elizabeth approached her father.

He looked at her pants, her short-sleeve jacket, her uncovered hair. “Elzirah?”

She nodded.

His face was creased and pale, his mouth slightly open, his lower lip moist with dots of white saliva. A crazy thought came to her-to sit in his lap and hug his neck and kiss his rough cheek until he laughed and tickled her belly.

Her belly!

Would Father notice the life growing inside her? She hoped not. Not yet, anyway. “I wanted to see you before Wednesday.”

He uttered a sound, something between a cough and a bark, and tried to stand.

Through the glass doors of the lobby, Professor Silver saw Masada and Rabbi Josh get out of a taxicab. The rabbi headed down the street, limping. Masada came up the steps to the lobby. Silver turned to examine a cheap poster of the Mediterranean coast that was pinned to the wall. The glass door opened behind him.

“Levy!”

“Oh,” he turned, “my favorite voice.”

She bent down to hug him. “Get your bag. Back to the hospital.”

“What?”

“I’m going to raise the biggest stink. They’ll take care of you right away.”

“Calm down, meidaleh. It’s just a little procedure on my right eye.” Silver made sure a smile remained on his face while his mind struggled to figure out what she actually knew. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Why didn’t you tell me you’re losing your vision?”

“It’s a long time off.” He watched her reaction.

“Still, you should have told me!”

He was relieved. She obviously didn’t know the details, or that he only had one eye.

“I’m sure it’s Colonel Ness. He interfered with your surgery to pressure me to make a deal with him.”

Silver touched his thick spectacles. “My surgery for your integrity?” He fought to maintain a calm facade. If Masada made a fuss, they might tell her he was mumbling in Arabic while under anesthetics. He straightened up, sighing. “I’d rather suffer than let you cave in to extortion.” He took the bottle of eye drops from his pocket to show her. “They gave me these-”

“I’m not going to cave in! Let’s go!” Masada grabbed his arm, and the bottle flew from his hand. It hit the tiled floor with a sickening pop.

“No!” Silver dropped to his knees and felt around for the bottle. The blotch hid every section of the floor he was trying to see. His hand touched something, and he heard it roll away. “Where is it?” He felt the wet floor with his hands, swiping it back and forth. “Help me!”

“There.” Masada’s shoes passed by him. “I got it.”

The front desk clerk appeared next to him, helping him stand. Silver trembled, reaching with his hands. “Give it to me!”

“It’s cracked,” Masada said, touching him with a moist hand. “You’ll need a new one.”

“No!” Silver snatched the little bottle and held it up, slightly to the side of the blotch. A hairline crack traveled from the plastic cap down, around the bottom, and up the other side. Clear drops seeped onto his hand. He turned the bottle upside down.

“Here,” Masada said, “I’ll hold it.”

“Leave it!” Silver stumbled in different directions. “Give me a cup! Something! Don’t just stand there!”

The clerk ran off to the cafeteria.

Silver realized he was moaning and shushed himself. His shaking hands almost dropped the bottle again. “Irreplaceable! Can’t lose it.”

Masada stood still, saying nothing.

The clerk appeared with a plastic water bottle, which he emptied onto a shriveled potted plant and held for Silver, who poured in the remaining clear liquid from the cracked bottle. He hugged the plastic bottle to his chest and found a seat.