3
Jerusalem
The view over the Holy City is amazing when seen from the seventh story of the King David Hotel, situated on the street of the same name. One sees the dome of the Church of the Holy Sepulcher in the Christian and Armenian quarters, where it is believed Christ himself was buried more than two thousand years ago, and rose again on the third day. The golden Dome of the Rock of Hara mesh-Sharif stands out against the sky in the Muslim quarter. It protects the sacred rock on which it is believed God asked Abraham to sacrifice his son, Isaac. A little more to the right one can make out the smaller dome of the Al-Aqsa mosque, in which today, Friday, at noon, innumerable faithful will assemble. And one sees the Jewish quarter, farther back, with the arch of the ancient synagogue of Hurva, the only part that remains from the immense edifice after the battles of 1948 between the Israelis and Arabs.
The man looking out over the city in the morning light, leaning out the window, was very worried. He had landed at Ben-Gurion near Tel Aviv at mid-afternoon of the day before and immediately made his way to his destination, before going to the hotel. He entered the Old City through the busy Damascus Gate, built by Suleiman the Magnificent, and continued walking in front by the El-Wad, going with the flow of the crowd. In his hand he carried the black briefcase of a businessman. Farther along he turned to the right, entering the Via Sacra, against the flow of tourists completing the third and fourth Stations of the Cross, where Jesus, carrying the cross on his shoulder, fell, and where he saw his mother.
The Western tourists were swept up in mysticism, looking around, absorbing the energy, remembering the history they had heard since birth and finding its scale much smaller than they’d imagined. He’d felt the same on his first visit many years ago. The narrow streets and small houses contrasted with the magnificence Christ’s story demands. Without discounting the importance of the historical events the place had witnessed or underestimating its picturesque beauty, this smaller scale revealed humility and faith, the elements common to the three great prophets who founded the three great monotheistic religions. Simplicity appeared all around, more so than in any other sacred place.
He continued his travel through history, filled with houses and stores, leaving the rest of the believers back in the Via Dolorosa. He passed, without a second glance, the first Station of the Cross in the Monastery of the Flagellation, where Christ was condemned and brutally tortured by the legionnaires in the pay of Pontius Pilate.
A little farther ahead the man turned left into the Qadisieh, filled with low houses and closed doors. He called at the door of the third house on the left side. There he would ask directions. A woman with a dark face opened the door. Her face didn’t escape his attention though her veil allowed little to be seen. The Muslim tradition demands that women show nothing, since men must not be tempted by the flesh of a woman. If they are, the blame is hers.
‘Excuse me,’ he said. ‘Would you be kind enough to tell me where Abu Rashid’s house is?’
The woman slammed the door, leaving him looking at the wood chipped by the years. Perhaps this was not the house of Abu Rashid.
As he was about to leave and try another door, he heard heavy footsteps from inside the house. The creaking of hinges revealed a strong man with a gray beard and mustache in a red tunic, signs of an honorable tradition.
‘Good afternoon,’ the foreigner greeted him. ‘Can you tell me where the house-?’
‘Yes, yes,’ growled the bearded old man impatiently, spraying the air with particles of saliva. He looked at the middle-aged stranger in his black suit and turned around, leaving the door open. ‘Leave your shoes at the door.’
He wasted no time obeying and took his shoes off. He felt a little sweaty and in need of a bath, but he wasn’t going to abandon his business because he felt uncomfortable. His well-being was low on his list of priorities. He entered the house respectfully, since early on he’d learned that showing reverence for others would be rewarded. The sun penetrated the skylight that let the air enter and ventilate the hallway and rooms. He felt feminine stares behind him, without seeing them. He heard shy laughter behind some curtains. He stayed in the middle of the hallway. He didn’t want to be indelicate and enter where he shouldn’t. He waited for the old man to invite him.
‘Tea?’ he was asked from a room farther back in the illuminated area.
He walked toward the voice and found the older man seated in a rocking chair smoking a cigar. A woman without a veil fanned herself by his side, driving away the sudden heat of the late afternoon and drying the drops of sweat forming on the old man’s head with a handkerchief. Surely his wife or one of them.
‘Yes, I’d like some,’ the stranger answered. ‘Thanks.’
A slight gesture to the young woman. She left to get it, leaving her handsome husband in the possession of the hot afternoon.
‘And cover your head,’ he shouted loudly. ‘We have a visitor.’
The stranger looked at him for a few seconds, worried about being an inconvenience. An aura of mystery surrounded the old Muslim that made any first move difficult.
‘Sit down,’ the man ordered, pointing to another rocking chair like his own.
The stranger obeyed, almost without thinking. He left his briefcase on his lap.
‘You want to meet Abu Rashid?’ the old man asked.
‘Yes,’ he answered. ‘Do you know where he lives?’ he found himself asking, like a child asking for a candy.
‘He comes by here all the time,’ the old man said. ‘What do you want with him?’ he asked bluntly.
Despite not wanting to reveal what needed to be protected, the foreigner decided not to keep his intentions secret. Besides, he was increasingly aware of a feeling that, if he lied, the old man would know it.
‘I’ve been sent from Rome.’ His serious tone showed his professionalism and competence. ‘I’ve come to investigate the alleged visions of Abu Rashid.’
‘Alleged?’ The old man leaned forward, grasping the arms of the rocker with a questioning, mistrustful expression. ‘Perhaps Rome thinks it’s a fiction.’
‘In Rome they don’t think anything. That’s why they’ve sent me,’ the stranger explained, sitting on the edge of his seat, trying to keep his back straight. ‘There are several stories about Abu Rashid’s visions. I’m here to evaluate the case and recommend opening an investigation, if necessary.’
The unannounced return of the young wife, carrying a tray from which the smell of steam and mint leaves flooded the room already filled with odors of musk, imposed silence. She hadn’t forgotten her head covering. She left the tray on top of a small, round table next to the wall, and tipped the mouth of the teapot over her husband’s cup, pouring out greenish liquid and adding six spoonfuls of sugar. Devotedly, she placed the saucer with the cup into his hand. He took it without a glance at his wife, who, only then, began to prepare a cup for the visitor.
The old man sipped a little of the tea, showing no discomfort with the hot temperature and not taking his eyes off the foreigner, who received from the wife an identical porcelain cup.
‘And do you consider it necessary to recommend this commission?’ the old man asked as soon as his wife left.
‘I don’t know yet. I just arrived, and this is the first stop I’ve made.’
‘I understand. But surely you’ve made your own judgment about what you’ve heard about Abu Rashid,’ the Muslim continued. ‘Do you believe it’s necessary?’
There was a certain sly humor about the owner of the house that disquieted the stranger. His questions, his looks, seemed insolent, and as incredible as it might seem, a captivating aura of mystery surrounded the old man, invisibly, powerfully. Who is this man? the foreigner thought to himself. He decided to answer the old man.
‘It’s true the stories seem a little fantastic. We are talking about someone who might have the gift of curing the medically incurable. It seems he revived thirty people who drowned. He himself drowned and then resuscitated himself. There are innumerable examples in history of people with the gift of healing, some more believable than others… As far as that goes, until I see and judge, I can’t offer any evaluation.’ He took a careful sip of tea so as not to burn his tongue. It was too strong and sugary.
