knows them all by heart. Would you sing for us, Abba Yehesqel?'
The old man tapped his Adam's apple. 'Dry as the desert.'
'Here's your magic spring,' said Daniel, filling his glass with arak. His father emptied it, had another half glass, and was finally cajoled into performing. He stood, righted his beret, and cleared his throat.
'I will sing,' he said, 'from the diwan of Mori Salim Shabazi, the greatest Yemenite tzadik of all. First, I will sing his peullot.'
Accompanying himself with hand and body movements, he began to chant, first softly, then louder, in a clear, reedy tenor, reciting in Hebrew as Daniel whispered translation in Luanne's ear. Using original melodies more than four hun-dred years old to sing the peullot-the miraculous deeds-of the Great Teacher Shabazi, who put an end to the exile to Mauza by bringing down an affliction upon the imam of San'a. Mori Shabazi, whose grave at Ta'izz became a sacred shrine, even to the Muslims. Who was so humble and God-fearing that each time worshippers tried to grace the grave with flow-ers, he whitewash flaked off the headstone, the monument finally disintegrating into thin air.
Gene opened his eyes and sat up, listening. Even the boys stopped their play and paid attention.
The old man sang for a full half-hour, of the yearning for Zion, the Jew's eternal quest for spiritual and physical redemption. Then he took a break, wet his gullet with more arak, and looked at Daniel.
'Come, son. We will sing of our ancestor Mori Shalom Sharavi, the weaver. You know that diwan well.'
The detective got up and took his father's hand.
At four the old man left for his afternoon Torah class and Laura pulled a book out of the case.
'This is a recent translation of Yemenite women's songs, put out by the Women's Center in Tel Aviv. My father-in-law would never sing them-he's probably never even seen them. In Yemen the sexes were segregated. The women never learned to read or write, were taught no Hebrew or Aramaic-the educated languages. They got back at the men by making up songs in Arabics-closet feminism, really-about love, sex, and how foolish men are, ruled by lust and aggression.'
'Amen,' said Luanne.
'This is getting dangerous,' Gene said to Daniel. He rose from the couch, hitched up his trousers.
'My favorite one,' said Laura, flipping pages, 'is 'The Manly Maiden.' It's about a girl who dresses up as a man and becomes a powerful sultan. There's this great scene where she gives a sleeping powder to forty-one robbers, takes off their clothes, and inserts a radish in each one of their-'
'That,' said Gene, 'is my exit line.'
'Mine too,' said Daniel.
They left the women laughing, took the children and Dayan down to Liberty Bell Park.
As Daniel came out of the apartment, his eyes were assaulted by the sunlight. He could feel his pupils expanding, the heat massaging his face. As he walked, he noticed that everything looked and felt unnaturally vivid- the grass and flowers so bright they seemed freshly painted, the air as sweet as sun-dried laundry. He looked at Gene. The black man's face remained impassive, so Daniel knew it was his own perceptions that were heightened. He was experiencing the hypersensitivity of a blind man whose sight has miraculously been restored.
'Some guy, your dad,' said Gene, as they made their way through the field that bordered the northern edge of the park. 'How old is he?'
'Seventy-one.'
'He moves like a kid. Amazing.'
'He is amazing. He has a beautiful heart. My mother died in childbirth-he was mother and father to me.'
'No brothers or sisters?'
'No. The same with Laura. Our children have no aunts or uncles.'
Gene eyed the boys and Shoshana, running ahead through the tall grass.
'Looks like you've got plenty of family, though.'
'Yes.' Daniel hesitated. 'Gene, I want to apologize for being such a poor host.'
Gene dismissed him with a wave. 'Nothing to apologize for. Tables were turned, I'd be doing the same.'
They entered the park, which was crowded with Shabbat strollers, walked under arched pergolas roofed with pink and white oleanders, past sand-play areas, rose beds, the replica of the Liberty Bell donated by the Jews of Philadelphia. Two men out on a stroll, two out of many.
'What is this, Father's Day?' said Gene. 'Never seen so many guys with kids.'
The question surprised Daniel. He'd always taken Shabbat at the park for granted. One afternoon a week for mothers to rest, fathers to go on shift.
'It's not like that in America?'
'We take our kids out, but nothing like this.'
'In Israel, we have a six-day workweek. Saturday's the time to be with our children.' They continued walking. Daniel looked around, tried to see things through Gene's perspective.
It was true. There were teenagers, couples, entire clans. The Arabs came over from East Jerusalem, three generations ail banded together, picnicking on the grass.
But mostly it was Daddies on Parade. Big brawny guys, pale, studious-looking fellows. Graybeards and some who looked too young to sire. Fathers in black suits and hats, peyot and beards; others who'd never worn a kipah. Truck drivers and lawyers and shopkeepers and soldiers, eating peanuts and smoking, saying 'Yes, yes, motek,' to toddlers tugging at their fingers.
