In the Courtyard of the Kabbalist Read Online Free PDF Page B

speaking. Mustafa could tell the rabbi was surprised he had come, even though the man had told him to. But people said things all the time. Mustafa should have known it meant nothing. Once again, his own stupidity had deceived him.
    They walked to a stone bench under an olive tree and sat down. An old woman brought over a bowl of oranges. The rabbi motioned for him to take. Mustafa stared at the bowl as though it were some test or trick and shook his head.
    “Tell me, Mustafa, something must have brought you here.” The man paused. “Not every day does an Arab man from the Temple Mount come to the courtyard.”
    Mustafa opened his mouth but nothing came out. He thrust his hands into his pockets as if he might find his words there. He never should have come.
    The rabbi leaned his head toward him. “Some spirit must have brought you here, yes? After all, you must be a very spiritual man. You’re in a very exalted profession. You’re taking care of our mountain, keeping it clean.”
    Here Mustafa nodded. A feeling of joy came over him. “Do you remember”—he hesitated—“how you said I was like the kohein?”
    The man paused then nodded.
    “Well, I want to know, what does the kohein do?”
    The rabbi ran his thin fingers through his speckled beard. “Do?” he repeated in a polite though confused voice.
    “Yes, yes,” Mustafa said. “What does he do in your”—he faltered, then allowed—“temple?”
    “Well, let’s see.” The rabbi’s eyes grew thoughtful. “The priest led the sacrifices, slaughtered the animals, sprinkled blood,”—he flicked his fingers outward as if throwing spices into many pots—“directed the prayers and confessionals, he—”
    “No, tell me. What did he do like”—here his voice dropped—“me?”
    Rabbi Isaac’s hands paused in mid-air. He looked at Mustafa through mismatched eyes, one light blue, the other gray.
    “You said I was like a kohein,” Mustafa explained. “But a kohein is very important, and I …” he trailed off as he glanced at his old work clothes.
    “Oh.” Rabbi Isaac was quiet. Then he began to speak. “He burned incense on the altar each morning when he cleaned out the lamps. He lit the lamps the night before. He swept up the ashes from the sacrifices. He maintained a plumbing system on the Temple Mount. This way it was easy to clean up the blood.”
    “Me too,” Mustafa said, tapping his chest. He cleaned the bathroom, he made sure to replace the burned-out bulbs. He swept and hosed down the place, just like the kohein. Mustafa gazed in wonder. “Now I understand. The kohein is a janitor.”
    The rabbi rubbed his parsnip nose. “I—” He scratched the side of his jaw. “In a way, yes. A holy custodian,” he assented. “The word
kohein
means ‘to serve.’ It says in our Torah, God chose Israel to be a nation of koheins, of priests—chosen to serve.”
    At these words, Mustafa’s head exploded with happiness. Picked by Allah! To serve! A moment later his mind went black, like a prayer rug had been thrown over his head. “Allah only picked the Jews?” He said this with disbelief and despair.
    “A good father makes each of his children feel chosen,” the Jew saidwith a cryptic smile hovering on his skinny lips. “Each child has a special task in this world.”
    Mustafa struggled to understand. He fished around in the dark of his mind and a memory came to him: “Once, my father, peace upon him, said to my brother Tariq: ‘You are the brains of the family.’ And to another brother he said ‘the hands,’ because he could fix things; and to my sister Samira, he said ‘the face,’ because she was pretty and made others look pretty, and soon everyone had a part of the body, except for me.” He paused, thinking about that day, when his father had been alive and healthy. “And when my father saw me sad because he had nothing left to give, he said, ‘You, Mustafa, are the back of the family.’ I didn’t understand, but now I