In the Courtyard of the Kabbalist Read Online Free Page A

reveal a fat red braid resting on each shoulder.
    She walked toward him in long strides, her tiered peasant skirt swishing, her white helmet bouncing against her thigh. A
ba’al teshuva
, he thought. Someone so new to the ways of the Torah Isaac could almost reach over and pull off the tag. He could tell her newcomer status by her clothes, sad to say. A mixture of the Salvation Army and Fifth Avenue. Ankle-length skirt and baggy top thrown together with fine leather boots and some gauzy neck scarf no doubt dating from her pre-religious days. Frumpy and avante garde. And definitely American.
    She gave a little hoot to the tabby nicknamed Gilgul, or Reincarnation, by the regulars. Then she stared boldly at Isaac through large green eyes. “Do you remember me?” she asked, her accent from somewhere in the Northeast, though not New York.
    “Forgive me, no.” It was hard to keep track of everybody. “Uh, what’s your name?” He scratched his neck where a patch of psoriasis had made a recent appearance.
    “Tamar.” She bent and gathered Gilgul in her arms. “I came here more than forty days ago. We spoke. You don’t remember?” Her tanned, freckled cheeks blushed ever so slightly.
    “Please. Refresh me,” he said gently.
    “I told you about my friend who did that
segulah
thing—she went to the Western Wall and prayed there for forty days?—and then she met this amazing guy on a setup. Her
basherte
, her honest-to-goodness soul mate. Now they’re engaged.”
    Ah, yes. A
segulah
. Everybody and her friend wanting a spiritual charm to bring on heavenly assistance. Next thing you know, the youngwomen would come flocking to the rebbes from all corners. The young men would ignore their Torah studies and come, too, hoping to put an end to their dating woes. Isaac didn’t deny a
segulah
’s special power, but such quick remedies to people’s problems didn’t appeal to him. They led to exaggerated expectations with minimal labor. But there was no stopping them. That’s what people wanted. Microwave pizza, microwave marriage, microwave God.
    “That’s nice,” he said out loud. “Mazal tov for your friend.”
    “Then you told me to do the forty-day
segulah
at the wall. You—”
    “I did what?” He drew back skeptically. Why would he advise that? Then, in a flash, the whole conversation returned to him. Tamar. The young lady on a motorcycle. No, a scooter. She wanted to get married, to meet a Torah scholar, like all the girls wanted. He had suggested a matchmaker to help her, but she had scorned the idea, as if being practical-minded in Jerusalem were some kind of sin. “I didn’t suggest anything,” Isaac insisted. “It was you who asked for one of these”—he cast his eyes heavenward with a resigned look—“charms, the same one as your friend, I forget her name. The rebbe said, fine, go ahead, pray forty days at the Kotel, he wouldn’t stop you.”
    “Whatever.” She airily flipped her wrist. “The point is, I did it, I prayed forty days at the wall. Today, I finally completed the circuit. D Day, right? Deliverance? And guess what happened?” She let a pause sink in. “I got fired from my job as a translator. The first decent job I ever had in this country.” At this, even the cat in her arms lifted its head to accuse him with slitted yellow eyes.
    Isaac sneezed. “That’s terrible. I’m really sorry. Now you need a husband and a job, too.” He blew his nose with regret.
    “You don’t understand.” She took a step closer. The freckles on her cheeks stood out vividly. “I prayed and prayed. I came in the rain, I came late at night and early in the morning. I even came when I had strep throat. And how did God answer me? By sacking me. So why, I ask you, did you push this
segulah
?”
    Isaac’s hands splayed outward defensively. “I keep telling you I didn’t. There were never any promises. You don’t remember?”
    Tamar closed her eyes, as if painfully calling forth the past. She