In the Courtyard of the Kabbalist Read Online Free

floors, too. Better than anyone.”
    Washing floors? And what else was the frail rebbe doing against the doctor’s orders? “Don’t worry,” he said to the old woman. “I will contact the Daughters of Rebecca Kindness Hotline. Someone will be found.”
    But now the saxophonist was beseeching him, “Can’t I come in? The rebbe loves to hear me play for him. Can’t you make an exception?”
    Isaac sorrowfully regarded the Jesus look-alike in his fringed vest. “Forgive me, no, but I’ll tell you what.” He motioned with his forefinger, and the man, shlepping his saxophone, followed him off the stone plaza to a more secluded dirt area that skirted the rebbe’s cottage. The scent of chicken soup hit Isaac’s nostrils. Once a day, the rebbe’s wife made a huge potful. Maybe later he would take a bowl for himself. He pointed to a shuttered window. “The rebbe’s bedroom,” he told the musician.“You can play a little
niggun
for him here.”
    And the saxophonist was appeased.
    With a pad in hand, Isaac went from person to person, listening to and writing down everyone’s troubles while the saxophonist softly played, “
Bei Mir Bistu Sheyn
.”
    An hour later, when the rebbe woke up from his nap, Isaac approached him, pad in hand. Isaac relayed the questions and scribbled down answers. But what to do about two brides in two different neighborhoods of Jerusalem who dreamed the same dream, that they should call off their weddings? What did the rebbe advise here? One the rebbe encouraged to go ahead with the wedding, the other he told to cancel without ever looking back.
    Midday, a scent of fresh cilantro wafted through the courtyard. Mazal the beggar was packing fried eggplant, slices of hard-boiled egg, and cilantro into a fresh pita. Next she drizzled mango sauce on top, and Isaac watched, compelled, as her ravaged, yellowed teeth dug into the pita.
    And what if someone brought a three-course meal to the courtyard? Should he permit this, too? He shrugged. Some even came with their laundry to fold while they waited. In fact, there near the rosemary bushes he saw a lady sorting socks. Well, he supposed people couldn’t recite psalms all day while they waited.
    He extracted a comically sinister Haman mask and a sheet of newspaper caught in a bush. The mask, he tucked under his arm. He glanced down at the newspaper and read: “If Labor wins the upcoming election, there goes the Temple Mount.” He clopped his forehead. What fool of a political party would give back the holy Temple Mount? It was the heart of the Jewish people! His eczematic elbow started to spark and flare. Not so fast, he muttered, scratching hard at it. Surely God had some say in the matter.
    Both the mask and the newspaper went into the garbage. Ach, the whole country was a mess, and he stooped to pick up a cellophane flap moving fitfully around the courtyard.
    More people came. Homemakers, unemployed Israelis, yeshiva students, a concert pianist who hiccupped excessively and couldn’t play anymore, a couple from Uruguay—a lichen expert and a botanist—with marriage problems, two obese quarreling neighbors. Isaac explained to disgruntled customers that the protocol had changed, that now everyone had to go through him to talk to the rebbe. Their distress was huge. Hecouldn’t blame them. He was used to escorting confused, sad, incensed, or scared people into the cottage, one by one, and then watching them emerge from the rebbe’s studio ten, fifteen, twenty minutes later with faces looking like some freshly peeled hard-boiled egg. Clean. Clarified, somehow. And now, all they were getting was a few words from the rebbe read out loud from the assistant’s notepad? So he commiserated, he definitely did.
    Toward the end of the day, just as he was about to rush off to his prayers across the street, he heard the
vroom-vroom
sound of a motorcycle. A tall young woman dismounted from a scooter parked on Ninveh Street. She unsnapped her helmet to