One Fine Day the Rabbi Bought a Cross (10 page)

The people at the other table had left and they were the only diners in the room. The waiters were moving about preparing the tables for lunch, changing tablecloths, setting out napkins and silver. The rabbi looked about and said, “I think I had better be going.”

“Yes, I think the waiters want to clear this table.” He got up and with a little formal bow said, “I will not see you at
shachris
for a while. Maybe at
mincha, maariv
. I was informed yesterday that I would be going on mornings for a while. At seventy-five, you understand, one doesn't have much choice in these matters. I have to get here a little before seven to check those who come down to breakfast against my list. I do that until nine and then go on to the front desk. Obviously I can't go to the minyan. I'll have to recite the morning prayers at home.”

“And when do you get through?”

He shrugged. “Probably at three, but in a hotel one never knows. Perhaps I can arrange for you, and your wife, of course, to have dinner with me here some evening. We have an excellent chef.”

“I should like that very much, Aharon, said the rabbi and held out his hand.

12

Since the envelope was marked “personal,” Mrs. Mills brought it to Professor El Dhamouri unopened. He glanced at the envelope, saw that it was on the stationery of the Olympia Hotel, Athens, and noted that it bore a U.S. postal stamp and had been mailed in New York. It was from Grenish, of course. The first sentence told him what he had already surmised.

“Dear Hassan: A chance acquaintance here at the hotel told me he was flying back to the States tomorrow morning. So I am taking the occasion to write you so that he can mail it when he lands in New York. I understand that if I were to use the Greek mails, there would be a good chance that I would arrive home before it reached you.

“The flight over was not at all tedious except for an inquisitive bore who dropped into the seat beside me—the plane was only half full and there was a lot of moving around as a consequence. He told me that he was going back to the ‘Old Country' from which he had come when he was a ‘little kid.'

“And what was I going to Greece for? And did I know anyone there? And was I planning to stay for a while, or would I be moving on to other countries? Did I have a hotel in Athens? When I mentioned the Olympia, he was all but overcome by the coincidence, since he, too, was staying there. And that would be a great break for me, since his cousins would be seeking him out, and they would show us—note the plural pronoun—around the town.

“I finally got rid of him by closing my eyes and murmuring sleepily that I was drowsy because of the heavy dinner we had been given—which wasn't bad, by the way. And after a while I did indeed doze off. When I awoke, he was gone, and needless to say I did not go looking for him.

“At Athens Airport I was a little surprised—and pleased—that he did not board the bus with me. He had evidently been met by one of his cousins, because I saw him in a private car that passed our bus. I assumed he would arrive before me, and I half expected he might be waiting for me in the lobby, but when I arrived, the coast was clear.

“I left the hotel shortly after checking in, to walk the streets for a while and to avoid my erstwhile seatmate. My first impression was surprise at the hustle and bustle of the city. I had not thought it would be as modern and so busy.”

He went on to write of the friendliness of the Greek shopkeepers and wondered if this was merely the face they presented to customers—“
Timeo Danaos et dona ferentes
, although I expect I'll have to pay for anything I get”—the clarity of the air, the heat. He ended by saying he was planning to go up to Olympus on the morrow and then later in the week perhaps to one of the islands.

The professor folded the letter and carefully put it back in its envelope. Then he reached for the telephone and called Albert Houseman at the Holiday Inn.

Houseman, in jeans and sneakers, came over as soon as he was sure that Mrs. Mills would have left for the day. He read the letter El Dhamouri tossed to him.

“What's this
timeo
business?” he asked.

“Oh, that's a Latin quotation. It means, I fear the Greeks even though they come bearing gifts. Abe Grenish is something of a pedant. He frequently uses a Latin tag when he can pull it in.”

“He doesn't mention the guy's name.”

“You mean his Greek friend? No, he doesn't. Maybe he didn't catch it, or maybe the other didn't give it. What do you think?”

“It's probably just a guy wanting to talk and finding someone to listen. Transatlantic flights can be pretty boring after a while. Still …” His fingers drummed the desk as he took thought.

“You think he might—”

“I think we shouldn't take any chances. I'll alert one of our people in Athens. This other guy, the one who mailed the letter, he doesn't mention
his
name, either. Now
he
knows he's in touch with you because your name was on the envelope.”

“But he's here in the States now—”

“Sure, but he could have tipped off someone before he left Athens. Let's see that envelope.” He focused his attention on the back of the envelope.

“What are you looking for?” asked El Dhamouri.

“To see if it's been steamed open and resealed.” He tossed it back. “If it has been, I can't tell. All right, I'll get on to Athens as soon as I get back to the hotel.”

In the studio apartment Avram watched as Gavriel threw darts at a cork target affixed to the wall. Gavriel squinted and tossed his last dart. “Bull's-eye!” he exclaimed.

“Pure luck,” said Avram. “You jerk it. You'll never get accuracy that way. You've got to follow through.”

The telephone rang, and Gavriel picked it up from the floor. He listened and said, “Uh-huh. All right, I'll get back to you.” To Avram he said, “El Dhamouri was visited by an Albert Houseman, the second or third time, always in the afternoon after the secretary has gone.”

“Is that so?”

“You know him? Who is he?”

“Oh, you never served on the West Coast. He used to be Ibn Hosni, Abdul Ibn Hosni. He changed his name, officially, which is interesting. Used to be years ago, anyone coming to America, first thing they did was to Americanize their name. Sometimes it was done for them at Immigration. So Hans became Henry and Jorge became George, and Yitzchak became Isaac or Isadore or Irving or Irwin.”

“It's no different in Israel,” said Gavriel. “There Irwin or Irving becomes Yitzchak and Greenberg becomes Ben Gurion and Scholnick becomes Eshkol.”

Avram nodded. “Sure, but not nowadays here. At least, not so much. You notice El Dhamouri is still El Dhamouri. Nowadays here people tend to keep their original names. Heinrich remains Heinrich, and Ian and Ivan aren't changed to John. As for our people, we now have Moshe instead of Moses or Morris, and Yaacov instead of Jacob. Notice that the older one is Isaac Stern, but the younger one is Yitzchak Perlman.”

“So?”

“So it's funny in a way that Abdul Ibn Hosni should become Albert Houseman.”

“You think it's to cover up his Arab origin?”

“No-o, not in the sense that he might try to deny it. Maybe he just finds it easier. Chances are that if he went to a hotel and registered as Abdul Ibn Hosni, the clerk would automatically signal to the hotel detective, but as Albert Houseman, even though he looks Arab, probably not.”

“You know him well?”

“Well enough. He's one of Ibrahim's bully boys.”

“Dangerous?”

Avram shrugged. “He's a long way from home.”

“He's staying at the Holiday Inn in Cambridge.”

“Is that so? He's Druse, you know, like Ibrahim.”

“So is El Dhamouri.”

“So it might be just a social call. Still, it might be something else. It might be interesting to know what else he does besides visit El Dhamouri. I don't mean to follow him around, but just kind of keep an eye peeled for him.”

“Okay. Are you going to pass it on?”

“Naturally. Fortunately, we don't have to evaluate information, just gather it.”

13

As a Conservative rabbi, David Small had no standing, certainly not as a rabbi, with the Orthodox establishment that controlled religion in Israel. At best, his title was there only a courtesy title, like a Kentucky Colonel, carrying no authority—which was why he did not look forward to going to see Louis Goodman's son at the American Yeshiva, since from all accounts its orientation was ultra-Orthodox.

Although he was particularly adept at forgetting to do unpleasant things, or things he did not want to do, he knew that this duty he could not avoid since he had given his word. So on a bright, sunny day, after the minyan, and after he had breakfasted leisurely, he took a bus to Abu Tor.

The yeshiva was housed in what had formerly been the home of a wealthy Arab. It was built of blocks of the pinkish-beige Jerusalem stone. There was an arched doorway outlined in blue tiles, guarded on either side by a smallish cement lion, one of which was missing a paw while the other had had a portion of its muzzle chipped away. In front of the house, the bit of land that had at one time probably been elaborately landscaped and carefully tended was now a mass of overgrown bushes. The iron fence that encircled the grounds was badly rusted with here and there a gap where the iron pickets had been wrenched out.

The rabbi looked about him curiously and then walked slowly up a flagstone path to a pair of large wooden doors with heavy ornate brass handles. There was a brass knocker in the shape of a lion's head, but he looked about for a more discreet bell button. At the point on the door jamb where the push button might originally have been, a slot had been cut out, and a mezuza inserted. The rabbi automatically touched it with his fingertips and then touched them to his lips as he wondered idly if the bell had been purposely removed lest someone absentmindedly push it on the Sabbath, thereby presumably desecrating the holy day of rest by performing work. As he stood there, a tall, blond young man came striding up the path. He was bearded, and perched on top of his long hair he wore a small crocheted kipah. He was dressed in faded blue jeans tucked into leather boots, and a sweat shirt, the arms of which had been cut off. He looked questioningly at the rabbi and then pulled open the door and held it in invitation for the rabbi to enter.

The rabbi stepped into a large, empty foyer of black and white marble tiles, to face a broad staircase with a wide mahogany balustrade. The young man left him there and mounted the staircase two steps at a time. The rabbi looked about uncertainly and noticed a hallway to the right, along which were several doors that presumably led to rooms or offices. Near the entrance was what appeared to be a receptionist's window—at least it had a round hole cut out of the glass. The rabbi walked over and saw a small office with a desk and numerous file cabinets. Seated at the desk, working at a ledger, was a man with a straggly black beard. He was wearing a black alpaca coat over a white shirt open at the neck. On his head, but pushed back from his forehead, he wore a narrow-brimmed black felt hat.

The rabbi cleared his throat and coughed apologetically, but the other did not raise his head from his work. The rabbi waited a minute and then tapped on the pane. This time the other looked up, obviously annoyed. His eyes were set deep in bony sockets and glittered like a man with a fever. The rabbi judged him to be in his forties.

“I'm looking for Jordan Goodman,” said Rabbi Small.

“Goodman? Goodman? We have no Goodman here.”

“I believe he now calls himself Ish-Tov.”

“Ah, yes. Ish-Tov. And what do you want with him?”

“I should like to talk to him.”

“And you are?”

“David Small. I am the rabbi of his hometown in the States.”

With a sigh, the other got to his feet, and opening the door beside the window, gestured the rabbi inside. He did not introduce himself, but Rabbi Small saw that the brass name-plate on the desk bore the name Joseph Kahn.

There were a number of ledgers on the only visitor's chair in the room, so Rabbi Small remained standing. For a moment or two Kahn surveyed him, his gray flannels and seersucker jacket, his linen cap, the fact that he was beardless, and then said patronizingly, almost insolently, “Ah, a Reform rabbi.”

“No, Conservative.”

“Same thing.” Kahn sat down and pulled the ledger he had been working on toward him, as though in dismissal. Then he turned his head to Rabbi Small and said, “I don't think Ish-Tov would be particularly interested in talking to you.”

“Not even if I bring greetings from his parents?”

“They are well?”

“Yes, but—”

“Then I will convey it to him.”

The angry retort that came to mind, Rabbi Small suppressed. He even managed to achieve a smile. “It seems curious,” he said, “that here in a yeshiva you would want to prevent one of your students from performing a mitzvah.”

Kahn glared. “And what mitzvah is that?”

“Honor your mother and father.”

Kahn drummed nervously on his desktop as he took thought. Then he rose swiftly to his feet and said, “Perhaps you had better talk to Rabbi Karpis, our director,” and circling the desk, left the room. He was back after a minute or two and nodded for Rabbi Small to follow him. He led him down the corridor to a door marked “Director.” He knocked, opened the door, and stood aside for Rabbi Small to enter. Then he withdrew and closed the door behind him.

The director was a large, fleshy man with a square gray beard. He sat behind an ornate teakwood desk that was clear except for a chessboard with a few pieces in place, which he had evidently been studying and which he pushed aside just as his visitor entered.

Rabbi Small glanced at the board and immediately recognized the position of the pieces as a problem that had appeared in the newspaper a few days before.