In the Courtyard of the Kabbalist by Ruchama King Feuerman Read Free Book Online Page B

a good story? He told them tales from the Talmud; about Resh Lakish, the wildest, most violent bandit of them all, who became a great Talmudic scholar and married Rabbi Yochanan’s beautiful sister; about Rabbi Chisda, who keptevading the Angel of Death because he never stopped learning Torah; about the sage who proclaimed, “There are no more humble men left in the land of Israel,” and the other sage sitting quietly in the back who roused himself and said, “You forgot about me.” Whatever it took to keep them interested, to keep them there. A few of them stayed. Then, in his early twenties, Isaac became ambitious—he wanted to start a special afternoon program, not quite a school, but almost.
    He talked on and on to Mrs. Edelman, about the backer who had lent him a sum of money; and the backer’s fine daughter, the lovely, dark-haired Gitty, who was fired up with the same idealism as himself; the rundown building they’d refurbished together, making their dreams come true; his old yeshiva buddy Heshy, garrulous, sunny, and built like an ox, who he had recruited to help teach since he bore the official title of rabbi, and Isaac’s own rabbinic ordination was at least a year away. He remembered that moment when Gitty had turned to him and said, “You’re going to accomplish amazing things, Isaac.” Those had been the best months in his life, getting ready for the wedding and getting that place into shape, tearing down—
    “You were engaged?” Mrs. Edelman broke in.
    “Why—” Isaac broke off, stupefied. His ears and neck went cold, then hot. How could he be so stupid as to have relaxed? He was a fool. “Yes, engaged,” he said, and expelled a sour gust of air. “To Gitty.”
    “And then …” Mrs. Edelman’s eyes coaxed him on.
    “And then, nothing. It didn’t work out. She broke it off.” Simultaneously his elbow began to itch and he was overcome with a near violent urge to yawn. The yawn he smothered with his hand. The itch couldn’t be contained, though, and he scratched through his suit jacket.
    She sipped her cup of tea and patted a napkin against her lips. “So your heart was broken,” she concluded.
    He was reaching for his hat. “One might say such a thing,” he replied with a small ironic smile, as if to surgically detach himself from his own history. Gitty had broken it off two days before the wedding. She was tearful but wouldn’t explain the breakup, though he begged her to. The day of his canceled wedding, a black tornado of a flu descended upon him that he couldn’t shake for weeks, and he’d had to let all his plans for the school program drop. Anyway, he’d run out of funds. Four months later, Gittymarried Heshy, his recruit, and Isaac finally understood everything. She had chosen his yeshiva buddy, quick-witted, extroverted Rabbi Heshy with the big arms, broad thighs, and slap-happy can-do manner, so different from Isaac, so similar, in fact, to his own father.
    “I’m curious. Whatever happened to the school you were planning?”
    At this, he signaled a waiter passing with a white teapot. “Care for more tea?” Another yawn overtook him that he tried to cover with his palm. What was wrong with him? Up since 6:00 a.m., he supposed.
    Her eyes darted from Isaac to the waiter. “I think it’s getting late,” she said firmly. The waiter shrugged and moved on.
    They walked out the hotel lobby, while Isaac viciously scratched his elbow, releasing flakes, he was sure. He waited like a gentleman for her bus to arrive while trying valiantly to stave off more yawns. The night air had a sting to it on this April evening. He wished he had brought a scarf. Cold, itchy, tired. The world—or maybe just his body—could be such an uncomfortable place sometimes. Mrs. Edelman said, “So you’ve been living in the rebbe’s home for a year now?”
    “That’s right.” His neck craned for the bus.
    “Don’t you want a place of your own? Or perhaps you can’t afford it.”
    Why