Free In the Courtyard of the Kabbalist by Ruchama King Feuerman Page A

aisle, his other hand adjusting his cap. Thewhole bus—even the windows—let out its breath. But an old lady with a straw hat continued to watch the man with hawk eyes, as if to say,
No silly Talmud’s going to throw me off the trail!
    Ach. Isaac found a tissue and mopped his neck. Too much bus drama! If only those foolish boys—and of course Peres—hadn’t rushed off to Oslo to make their deals with Arafat, he thought. Because only then the party had started—Hamas bombs exploding in post offices, cafés, movie theaters, schools, and especially buses. And still, the crazy dance of peace continued. All of which meant to him that the compulsion to make peace could be as dangerous as the compulsion to make war.
    The bus driver fiddled with the radio and a song blared out, “If loving you is wrong, I don’t want to be right.” On either side of Isaac, passengers debated who would be the next prime minister.
    The bus made a sharp turn, and he held on tightly to the pole, his other hand clutching at his hat.
    “Hello!”
    He turned. A tall young woman was staring at him, smiling. Was that smile intended for him? But who was she? She wore a silky scarf tied at the neck and a tailored outfit, stylish and gray. A red ponytail jutted fountainlike from the back of her head. Ah—Tamar, the
segulah
single. He watched her squeeze past a pregnant woman and come toward him. “Didn’t recognize me in my work gear, did you? Now that I’m all
fahputzied
?” she said, slightly botching the Yiddish word for spiffed up.
    “Not at first,” he admitted. Today, as opposed to the other times he had seen her, she carried herself with a certain polish, even with her absurd ponytail. “So you got a job then.”
    “Yes, at the very place you recommended.” She bobbed her head. “Gates of Wisdom Yeshiva. I can’t thank you enough.”
    He nodded. “Glad to have helped.”
    “No, I don’t think you realize.” She took a step closer, her extraordinary green eyes glowing with an extra sheen. “This isn’t just another deadend job. Do you know what this job means to me?”
    He said no, coughed, and took a step back, or tried to, but there was nowhere to go. She was standing far too close to him. Young lady, he almost berated her. A little distance, please! But she was a
ba’alas teshuva
, one of the newly penitent, sweet and clueless. He felt a faint prickle at thebase of his scalp, the red heat of eczema about to break forth. Actually, there was a foot’s distance between them, but a bus could make a sharp swerve, or, or—it could stop suddenly, and the next thing you know, she’d be falling against him.
Gottenyu
. He held on more tightly to his pole for leverage.
    “It’s changed my life!” Tamar burst out. “I’m much more than a secretary—practically a fund-raiser. Today I’m meeting big donors. That’s why I’m decked out like this”—she gestured toward her straight skirt—“and taking a bus, not my good old Vespa.” She grinned, then perhaps waking up to his unease, she stepped a few inches back. Isaac quietly breathed prayers of thanks. “The rabbis think I’ve really got a flair!” she went on.
    Isaac beamed, both at the good news and the extra space that had opened between them. “Tremendous!” So often he heard tales of woe, but now this piece of good news acted as a bit of oxygen to the system. “It’s wonderful to do something worthwhile.” He discreetly wiped at his neck with his crumpled tissue.
    Her head tilted, making her ponytail jut in the air. “Don’t you do the same?”
    “Yes, I do,” he said, “but it didn’t come so fast or easy.”
    She raised a pale reddish brow.
    “Listen,” he said. “I’m a Lower East Side boy. I spent close to two decades selling socks, ties, shirts, and caps. I was good at it, sure, it put the
fleisch
, the meat on the table …” He was about to tell her how arid, if not bleak, those years had been, how he had dreamed of more meaningful work,