Avraham Azrieli - The Masada Complex

They were gone.

A narrow market alley greeted him with dim light and the dense aroma of smoked meats, spices, and dried fruits. He ignored a pleading vendor and went deeper down the alley, filled with tourists and goods overflowing from shallow stalls.

Three women were chatting in German while a fourth tried on a kafiya. Next to them, he saw Silver and the other man arguing in hushed voices.

The rabbi pretended to examine a copper teapot, turning away to hide his face. The Arab merchant said, “You like?”

He nodded.

The professor and his companion walked slowly down the alley.

“Sixty dollar,” the Arab said, and tore a sheet from a roll of brown wrapping paper.

“Fifteen.” The rabbi glanced at them.

“Forty, okay?” The shopkeeper held ready the wrapping paper. “Very good price.”

Rabbi Josh peeked over the tray to see where they were heading. “Fourteen.”

“Thirty!” The Arab raised two fingers. “Cheap!”

They allowed Elizabeth to use the bathroom while Father and the other two discussed the ludicrous idea of her being a spy. She relieved herself in a reeking hole in the floor and rinsed her face in the single faucet over a plastic bucket. She moistened her hair and brushed it behind her ears.

Back before them, she decided to take control of the situation. “As an experienced lawyer, I assume Islamic law requires evidence to convict a person of a crime.”

Father returned to muttering the verses. The bearded man said, “We are fighting a jihad. You serve the American Satan. Do you deny it?”

“Satan?” Elizabeth had to laugh. “The United States is a country with millions of free citizens who vote to elect their representatives and officials-”

“Women too?” Imam Abdul sneered.

“That’s right! You can mock America, but Palestine and the rest of the Arab world will never thrive until women are allowed to participate in political and economic life. We are like a person trying to run on one leg. Our women will double our national-”

“Silence!” Father closed his book and pointed a trembling finger at her. “You speak of women? You are no woman. Barren as a field of rocks.” He spat on the floor.

She stepped closer. “You’re wrong.”

Father waved a bony hand. “A woman bears children, not political fantasies.”

Her hand rested on her midriff. “I can do both.”

His eyes fell from her face to where her womb pulsated with life.

“I am doing both, Father.”

He made a croaking sound. His eyes blinked a few times.

She waited, letting him digest the news. “Your first grandchild.”

He didn’t exactly open his arms to her, but she didn’t expect him to show affection in front of the others.

Imam Abdul asked, “Is your husband an infidel?”

She did not respond.

The bearded man asked, “When is the baby coming?”

“Five, maybe four months.” Elizabeth knew she must leave the more difficult facts for a private discussion with her father. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to return to my hotel now. I’m tired and hungry.”

Father whispered something to the Imam, who asked, “Hajj Mahfizie wants to know why your husband did not ask for his permission?”

Anger swelled again inside her, but she controlled it. “I will explain to my father after the award ceremony.”

“What’s his name?” Imam Abdul glared at her. “Surely your husband has a name?”

They were pushing her into a corner. “This is a family matter.”

“But we only ask for his name,” the bearded man joined in. “He must have a name.”

Elizabeth shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. This baby will have a wonderful life, including a grandfather.”

“And your husband?”

“There’s no husband!”

For a moment, she thought Father took it well. In fact, a wisp of a smile touched his lips, but then it progressed to a twitch that turned his mouth into an ugly grimace. He rose, supporting himself on the table, and uttered a groan so loud it caused the others to grab his elbows. And while his mouth was wide open, sucking air, she noticed Father was missing most of his teeth and thought of taking him to Phoenix, where her dentist could fit him with a full set of dentures.

“Why today? Why now?” Rajid groaned in frustration. “Couldn’t you wait until tomorrow? Don’t you see what’s going on?” He pointed in the direction of the Jaffa Gate, where loudspeakers played Israeli music to the gathering crowd.

“The month of Ramadan is over tomorrow.” Silver spoke Arabic, keeping his voice low from the tourists and shopkeepers nearby. “I must pray today. It’s a call I can’t ignore.”

“But you can ignore orders?” Rajid kept looking over his shoulder, scanning the market alley. “Do you realize how precarious our achievement is at this moment? The fate of Palestine is hanging in the balance!”

“You forget I made it happen. And I am losing my-”

“Your eyesight. I know.” Rajid pulled him to the side of the alley, his mouth at Silver’s ear. “We’ll help you with that when things settle down.”

“Only Allah can help me.”

“Then pray to him in private.” Rajid’s arm encircled his shoulders, pushing him.

Silver wouldn’t move. “I must pray!”

“You must return to the hostel immediately and stay in your room until the vote is over!”

“ Allah hu Akbar ,” chimed a muezzin from a nearby mosque, as if taking a stand in their argument.

Silver grabbed two checkered kafiyas from a pile, paid the astonished merchant the quoted price without haggling, and tied one around his head. “You can join me.” He handed the other kafiya to Rajid. “Or you can tell our superiors in Ramallah that Abu Faddah obeys Allah’s command above theirs.”

Rajid must have heard the finality in Silver’s tone. He covered his head with the kafiya, its hem low over his sunshades, and followed him toward the Arab Quarter. “If they find out about this, they’ll cut off my head.”

Professor Silver patted Rajid’s arm. “Then you’ll be a martyr.”

Rabbi Josh watched them descend into the Old City. He wondered why the professor would meet in secret with the citrus-smelling, Orthodox driver who had argued with him so bitterly. Were they on some kind of a reconnaissance mission for the End of Days group?

He snatched a kafiya, dropped a hundred-shekel bill, and ran after them.

Silver’s companion glanced back occasionally, forcing Rabbi Josh to slow down. Every time they turned a corner, he rushed forward to catch up.

They descended deeper into the Arab Quarter, where shops gave way to crowded dwellings, the sweet aromas replaced by a bitter mix of dust and cooking fires. Turning another corner, Rabbi Josh saw a wider street, where the slanted rays of the sun touched the stone pavers. He held the kafiya to his head, reached the end of the street, and glanced in both directions. They were gone.

Several Arab men entered a courtyard and removed their shoes. Adjusting his kafiya to make sure it covered his hair, the rabbi followed them. Pulling off his shoes brought relief to his blisters. They entered a large hall and sat on their heels in rows. He did the same, keeping his kafiya low over his face, stealing glances in futile attempts to find Silver.

The prayer hall accommodated many rows of men. A voice chanted a Koran verse in Arabic, and they repeated, bowing until their foreheads touched the carpet, and sitting up, showing the palms of their hands. He wanted to leave, but his way was blocked by rows of additional worshippers. Fear seeped into him.