In the Courtyard of the Kabbalist Read Online Free Page B

stroked Gilgul down to the tip of his striped orange tail. Finally, she nodded, a little.
    “If you think God is a pinball machine”—he smacked his fist into his open palm and his arm took off for the sky—“you pull the lever, God lights up, the bells ring, then I can’t help you. I can’t make such promises on God’s behalf, neither can the rebbe.” He was fed up with magical thinking. It was downright idolatrous.
    She stared up at his still upright arm, and he let his arm drop. Then she looked down at her hands, a sheepish look playing out on her face. “I’m sorry.”
    His chest contracted with pity. “Are you sorry you went to the wall?” he asked quietly. He peered at her over the shield of his glasses.
    Her face seemed to soften. “I might have saved myself a trip when I had strep, but no, I’m not sorry I went.”
    He straightened and smiled. “I’m glad to hear that. Who could ever regret prayer? Though frankly”—he adjusted the brim on his hat—“I’m surprised the
segulah
didn’t work.”
    She looked startled. “Nope,” she said. “It definitely didn’t work. I am without a man.” She smiled a crooked little smile that did more to tug at him than all her complaints.
    “Let me ask what the rebbe thinks. Though he may be sleeping now.”
    She surprised him with, “What do
you
think?” and she ruffled Gilgul’s fur until he rumbled and purred.
    “All right then.” He stopped, momentarily distracted by one of her braids that had partly unraveled.
Maybe not such a fresh
ba’al teshuva, went through his mind. Instead, he gave her three years. “Tell me. Did you pray just for yourself and for one thing, or did you include others, too?”
    “Why, I—” She stopped. She eased Gilgul to the courtyard stones, her peasant skirt draping the ground. “Yes. I did. I prayed for the whole darn world. Wasn’t I supposed to?”
    “No,” he said firmly. “Just for yourself.”
    “Huh. You mean I’d have to do it another forty days? During Pesach and all?”
    “You don’t have to do anything.” He shrugged. “But if you do go, nu … do it right. Pray for one thing.” Again he gazed at her over his glasses. “Just you.”
    “Hey,”—her head tilted—“you mean I should be selfish?”
    He chuckled. “Be focused. Direct all your thoughts to one point. Letthe prayers take effect. Let them change you into a new person, Tamar. Just like Moses, after forty days of talking to God on Sinai, became a new being.” The tabby crept past and squeezed between his legs.
    Tamar stared at him, squinty-eyed. “You make the
segulah
sound as though it has a rationale.”
    “Call it a
segulah
, call it whatever you like. The whole point of a
segulah
is to get you to pray harder and better. Prayer is prayer.”
    Her mind seemed hard at work, her eyes moving in different directions. Then she nodded firmly. “Okay, I’ll do it.”
    He wanted to tell her—ditch the hippie-dippie look, stop riding that foolish scooter (a Vespa?), get with the Jerusalem protocol. Instead, he scribbled something on a notepad. “About that job. Here.” He tore off a sheet of paper. “Call this yeshiva. Gates of Wisdom. I know a bookkeeper there. They’re looking for a secretary.” It was a school for
ba’al teshuva
men. He even knew a young man there, a Joshua from California, who sometimes came to the courtyard seeking red strings blessed by the rebbe. (Silly movie star fad.) Who knew? Maybe this was God’s answer. He could already see her red braids, his blond tints, mingled in their children’s hair. “Can you type and file, that kind of thing?”
    She looked weary. “Yeah. If I have to. But what the hey. Rent’s due,” she said, snapping on her helmet. “I’ll take anything. Thanks.”
    “It’s a new beginning,” he called after her. “You got fired. Changes are happening, Tamar. The wheels are already turning.”

CHAPTER THREE
    Mustafa sat near the front of the bus, surrounded by the