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what appeared to be a semicircle of flame emanating from the rock face, rather like the flame from a hoop in the circus. Haim knew it was a trick of the light, or perhaps gases escaping from a fissure in the rock. He walked before the mountain in an arc to observe the phenomenon from every angle. He repeats: He was not alone. They all saw it. He has photographs. He will show me the photographs.
    Haim’s love for the desert dates from his military service. His Jeep broke down one day. He cursed the engine. He slammed the hood. He took a memorable regard of the distance. Since that day, he has become intimate with the distance; he has come to see the desert as a comprehensible ecosystem that can be protective of humans.
    Haim has tied a white kerchief over his hair.
    Haim says: “Bedouin know a lot. Bedouin have lived in thedesert thousands of years.” Haim says: “If you are ever stranded in the desert—
Are you listening to me? This may save your life!—
in the early morning, you must look to see in which direction the birds are flying. They will lead you to water.”
    Haim stops to speak with admiration of a bush with dry, gray-green leaves. “These leaves are edible.” (Now I must sample them.) “They are salty, like potato chips.” (They are salty.)
    Of another bush: “These have water. If you crush them, you will get water. These could save your life.” He crushes a fistful of leaves and tears spill from his hand.
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    The child of Abraham and Sarah is named Isaac, which means “He Laughs.” Sarah proclaims an earthy Magnificat:
God has made laughter for me, and all who hear of it will laugh for me.
From the loins of these two deserts—Abraham, Sarah—God yanks a wet, an iridescent, caul: a people as numerous as the stars. From the line of Sarah, royal David. From King David’s line will come Jesus.
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    One’s sense of elision begins with the map. Many tourist maps include the perimeters of the city at the time of Herod’s temple, the time of Christ.
This once was
 . . .
Built over the site
 . . .
All that remains
 . . .
This site resembles
 . . .
    This is not the room of the Last Supper; this is a Crusader structure built over the room, later converted to a mosque—note the mihrab, the niche in the wall.
    The empty room is white—not white, golden.
Is the air really golden?
As a child in Omaha, my friend Ahuva was ravished by the thought—told her by an old man in a black hat—that the light of Jerusalem is golden. An ultra-Orthodox boy wanders into the room (a few paces from this room is the Tomb of King David, the anteroom to which is dense with the smell of men at prayer;upstairs is a minaret); the boy is eating something, some kind of bun. He appears transfixed by a small group of evangelical Christian pilgrims who have begun to sing a song, what in America we would call an old song.
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    I am alone in the early morning at St. Anne’s, a Romanesque church built in the twelfth century. The original church was damaged by the Persians; restored in the time of Charlemagne; destroyed, probably by the Caliph al-Hakim, in 1010. The present church was built by the Crusaders. Sultan Salah ad-Din captured the city in 1192 and converted the church to a madrassa. The Ottoman Turks neglected the structure; it fell to ruin. The Turks offered the church to France. The French order of White Fathers now administers St. Anne’s. Desert sun pours through a window over the altar.
    Not only is the light golden, Ahuva, but I must mention a specific grace. Around four o’clock, the most delightful breeze comes upon Jerusalem, I suppose from the Mediterranean, miles away. It begins at the tops of the tallest trees, the date palm trees; shakes them like feather dusters; rides under