The Beautiful Possible (11 page)

“I look forward to reading it.” He places his hand on Walter’s shoulder and leads him out to the street.

“Do you have time to walk with me?”

Walter glances at his watch. “I have a few minutes.”

“I never imagined you would wear a watch.”

“Life moves on, rabbi.”

“I’ve missed you terribly,” says Sol.

“Me too,” says Walter. “How is Rosalie?”

“We have three boys now.”

“Congratulations.”

“And a synagogue, the centerpiece of our lives.”

“Your wife. Is she happy?”

“Our lives are very full. And we have fallen in love with the symphony. Your chavrusa is smitten with Mahler. Have you heard Bernstein’s recordings?”

“You haven’t answered my question, Sol.”

“What question?”

“Is Rosalie happy?”

“I believe she is. We have created something worthwhile.”

“You have a family,” says Walter.

“And a shul!”

“So you got what you wanted.”

“I miss what we had,” says Sol. “Our learning together.”

“I am no longer the study partner you once took me for.”

Sol squints at Walter. This man is the only person in the world who remembers what he is capable of. His flights of mind. His way of navigating a text, mining the ancient words for the brightest jewels, the most elegant nuances of meaning. Walter knows the part of Sol that lives inside the words. The part of him that leaps through the text with the elegance of a ballet dancer. The part of him that once believed he could teach people, that he could prosper in the holiness trade.

“Neither am I,” says Sol. “Two men who fell from grace.”

“I never had your grace. I was the strange refugee who blew in by way of India.”

So strange and so beautiful, thinks Sol. He tries to remember the first time he saw Walter in the Seminary, how his hair was filthy and how he quoted some Indian poet whose name he can’t recall.

“You’ve come quite far, it seems,” says Sol.

“Most of the time I just figure it out as I go, like learning a new language.”

“Do you have time to get a drink?”

“I wish,” says Walter, “but I have to return to my conference. I’m only here for another two days.”

He perches his sunglasses atop his head and for a moment Sol stares into Walter’s eyes. Is this all he has? Five minutes in Madame Sylvie’s courtyard and a brief stroll? A few minutes that will fade away like a dream?

“How about dinner?” asks Sol.

“The three of us?”

“Why not? I’m sure Rosalie would love to see you.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” says Walter. “I’m rather busy.” He strides off and Sol rushes to keep up.

“We can at least try!” calls Sol. “Where are you staying?”

Walter stops walking, hesitates, then turns to face Sol.

“The American Colony Hotel. I leave in two days.”

The Jerusalem streets remind Walter of Bombay, though with fewer beggars and less crowds. Dry powdery dust sticks to his shoes and the pungent smell of
za’atar
itches his nostrils just like
the Indian spices once did. He has become a man who delivers academic papers at conferences on religious thought, an American who wears short-sleeved shirts, linen pants, sunglasses, and a wristwatch. No one would suspect he is still lost, looking for the one place he can call home, longing for the only woman he desires. Why hadn’t Rosalie written? Surely Sol shared the note with her. Walter feels dizzy. He looks around, half expecting to hear Paul calling his name, but when he turns he sees Sol, standing under an archway and crying into the crook of his arm. Walter stops and considers approaching his old friend, but he knows why Sol cries and he has no words or gestures to offer.

Back at the apartment that evening, Sol arranges a plate of sliced mangoes, olives, feta, and warm pita. He scowls at the haphazard jumble he created. If Rosalie were arranging this, he thinks, the mango would be evenly sliced and the warm pita would be placed in a separate basket. Where are the baskets in this apartment anyway? Sol opens and shuts the kitchen cabinets and then plops the pita on top of the food.

I’m not made for this, he thinks. Not for arranging plates, not for stumbling upon a former chavrusa who babbles on about the sad lives of clergymen, not for receiving astonishments from a strange French woman who surrounds herself with lost souls in a Jerusalem courtyard. Dinner with Walter and Rosalie would be so sweet; sharing a meal with the two of them would make him feel like an ilui again. Walter would ask him if he remembered their daring flights through the text and Rosalie would behold him with pride. Sol would feel less like
a scam artist in the impossible holiness trade and more like an actual rabbi. Rosalie would never agree to it, of course. They were here for such a short time; the boys were occupied with new friends and were rarely at the apartment. His wife was free here. She could spend her time buying embroidered tablecloths and ornate silver candlesticks. She could explore the Old City and place a note at the Western Wall. It wouldn’t have to be an actual prayer; a few jottings would do. The names of the boys. A prayer for peace. A she’elah that begs an answer, a line from a psalm, an acrostic on her name. He would suggest this to her; he was her rabbi, after all.

He brings the food out to the balcony and sits beside her.

“What’s with the sudden gesture of hospitality? Are you suffering from Jerusalem syndrome?”

“No hallucinations yet. How about you?”

“So far, no,” says Rosalie. “And I love your little spread. I’m famished.”

“I went for a walk today.”

“Of course you did, Sol. I strolled all over this city too. Ancient stones and Arabs and Hebrew slang and dusty confusion. All holy and perplexing and beautiful.”

“He’s here, Rosalie.”

“Who?”

“Walter! He’s here for a conference. I ran into him.”

“When?”

“I stepped through a garden gate and found myself in a class taught by a crazy French kabbalist. She’s all the rage.”

“You were at Madame Sylvie’s?”

“That’s where I found him.”

Rosalie smirks. “Did Madame astonish you with a river, or did she gift you with a bird?”

“Rivers, birds, camels, maybe a snake or two. I can’t remember the details. You would like her.”

“I’ve already been.”

“Of course,” says Sol. “You would have found her on your own.”

Rosalie picks up a slice of mango and takes a bite.

“He’s staying at the American Colony for two more days.”

“Who?”

“I just told you! Walter! I thought the three of us could have dinner together before he leaves.”

Rosalie brushes her skirt and stares at her hands.

“The three of us.”

“Yes! When I saw him, everything came back to me. The Radish’s class, the cloth shoes, the way he and I learned together.”

“You lost interest in him, Sol. Don’t you remember?”

“That was a mistake. He was so much smarter than the others.”

Yes, he was a genius, thinks Rosalie. A seductive genius.

Rosalie gazes into her husband’s eyes, not comprehending why this invitation comes from him. For Sol, seeing Walter would be a reunion of their student days, before they became parents, rabbi and rebbetzin, the holy chef and his devoted line cook. Walter is a few miles away, under the same dusky Jerusalem sky. And what kind of astonishment had Madame Sylvie dispensed to her husband? Did she astonish him with the image of the three
of them gathering in a circle like deer in a forest, or sitting in the lobby of the American Colony Hotel and toasting their good fortunes to be meeting again? Did she open their hearts to receive a banquet set for three that Rosalie could not possibly survive?

“I’m sure it all came back to you,” she says. “You were quite the ilui.”

“I was so confident back then. Did I ever tell you that the Radish called me
a swimmer in the waters of faith
?”

“Yes,” says Rosalie. “That suited you.”

Sol smiles.

“How did he seem?” asks Rosalie.

“Who?”

“Walter! How did he look?”

“The same and different. He’s gained some weight, cut his hair. Kind of resembles George Balanchine instead of a skinny Indian hippie. He’s a beautiful man.”

My beautiful man, thinks Rosalie. Mine. She gazes at the rooftops and balconies radiating out over Jerusalem. How can she find her way to the airport? Is there a car service that can take her back to Lod? Rosalie wouldn’t have to go home to New York; she could hide out in the region, take a side trip to Cyprus or Turkey. Surely Madeline would be up for an adventure. Anything but being alone in this strange city, its unrelenting calls for prayer, the strands of Arabic and Hebrew that weave their ancient music into her brain and spin her around until she can’t find her way. The alleys fall off at odd corners and the bougainvillea that grows on garden walls blocks the house numbers. In some parts of town Rosalie is accosted by beggars; in others elderly women smile at
her and smooth her hair. She averts her gaze in the neighborhoods where bearded men patrol the streets with their hands clutched behind their backs as their eyes measure the length of her sleeves.

He is staying at the American Colony Hotel
. Sol is merely the messenger and now Walter waits for her response. The world is wide open, thinks Rosalie, and I am a frozen woman sitting on a Jerusalem balcony in the setting sun, thinking of nothing but how my fingers have aged, how my waist has spread, how the memory of his touch lulled me to sleep at night all these years.

“So how about dinner?” asks Sol.

“I don’t know. I made a new friend and was hoping she and I could visit some museums tomorrow. There won’t be time for dinner.”

The next morning Rosalie puts on a flowing skirt she bought from an Old City vendor and sets out for Walter’s hotel. She carries a map but can’t find her way around the streets of East Jerusalem. When she asks an Arab woman for directions, Rosalie doesn’t understand the answer and when the woman responds in pidgin Hebrew, she is even more confused. Rosalie walks in circles until she recognizes the street where Madame Sylvie lives and where Madeline is staying and she knocks on Madeline’s door.

“Walter is at the American Colony Hotel and I can’t—”

“Give me a few minutes to change into a skirt and I’ll make sure you find your way to him. Will you introduce me or will you slink off to his room like a thirsty paramour?”

“I can’t do this.”

Rosalie searches Madeline’s eyes, waits for an answer.

“Do you want me to tell you to forget him? I can’t do that for you.”

Rosalie breathes deeply. She has Madeline now, the friend who will open the gate and allow her to step inside.

The lobby swirls with Arabs and sultans, a cacophony of languages and costumes. Rosalie hesitates at the entrance, tugs at Madeline’s arm like a child.

“Let’s go. I changed my mind.”

“No, pussycat. Walter has to be here. Point him out.”

Rosalie looks around. “The table off to the side. He is with a woman, see? He has someone now. A girlfriend. This is all wrong—”

“You didn’t tell me that he looked like George Balanchine. He’s lovely.”

Rosalie pivots. “You can have him, Madeline. I’m turning back. He’s all yours.”

“I didn’t bring you here,” says Madeline. “You brought
me.
And I’m too curious to leave. And look—”

Walter glides toward them. Rosalie notices his cloth shoes, just like the ones that were caked with snow when they first met. He knew I would show up here
,
she thinks. He drew a circle and waited for me to step into its center.

“This is a mistake,” says Rosalie. “I have to get back. The children—”

“You have time for me.” Walter brushes his eyes with the back of his hand and smiles at Madeline.

“My new friend. Madeline made sure I didn’t turn back,” says Rosalie.

“Thank you for bringing her,” he says.

Walter leads them to his table and pulls out chairs. “Everyone shows up in Jerusalem! This is Clara, a fellow passenger from the
Conte Rosso.”

A pale woman wearing a turban turns to Rosalie. “Your boyfriend was speechless on the ship. We called him the mute man,” she says.

“He’s not my—”

“Of course not,” says Clara. “Another chameleon that survived the ship of chameleons! We were a horrid bunch, drinking and fucking each other into oblivion! And no one could understand why a certain silent man disembarked before we reached Shanghai. Did you know Helmut Newton was on our ship? I won’t go into the salacious details. We were so young and so hungry.”

“I followed a man off the boat,” says Walter. “A man wearing a hat. Bombay.”

“Whomever you followed off the ship led you to the promised land, Walter. America has been good to you,” says Clara.

“I found my words,” says Walter.

“We all did, eventually.”

Walter wraps his arm around Rosalie. “This woman freed me.”

“Your girlfriend is lovely,” says Clara.

Madeline and Clara exchange glances and excuse themselves from the table. Rosalie glances down at her hands, her rings. The boys will be home soon. Sol will return from the market with
another parcel of snacks to set out on the balcony. Her life is complete just as it is.

“I have to go,” says Rosalie.

“You didn’t find your way here to meet my old shipmate.”

She follows Walter up a staircase and down a long hallway to his room. Rosalie sits on the side of his bed and Walter kneels at her feet and removes her sandals.

“The blisters from your wedding shoes have healed.”

“Time will do that.”

They make love silently, and then again with more languor and surprise, and then again, with all the daring of the lower geniza.

“You have become a mute man again,” says Rosalie. “Just like on the ship.”

Walter pauses. “I told you we would not be apart.”

Rosalie begins to cry. “I wish I could despise you.”

“It would be much simpler that way.”

“Everything we did then seeped into my skin, a permanent stain.”

“I can smell your life on your body. Your real life.”

“Oh, that,” says Rosalie.