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hadn’t properly thanked the
yahudi
. The Jew should know that an Arab never took without giving something in return. “Rabbi Isaac,” he said out loud, his voice getting sucked into the shriek of the whirring vacuum. “Look what I brought you.” He would take a simple but nice thing to show he was no beggar.

    At dawn he walked down Tariq el-Wad Street, turned at Bab al-Hadid. The peddlers were laying out their wares. Mustafa carefully examined sunglasses, hanging rugs, brass smoke pipes, fancy radios, copper pots, many sets of backgammon, and soccer balls, the same balls the young boys kicked at the school on the Noble Sanctuary. Nothing seemed right forthe Jew. Ah well. He stumbled on, closer to the Jewish Quarter, and walked along David Street. Nothing there, either.
    From the minarets he heard the cry, “Prayer is better than sleep.” The
fajr
prayer began and so had work. Another day at the Noble Sanctuary.
    Midmorning, he saw Sheikh Tawil lifting his robes as he passed gray rubble and came toward him. “Go to the construction site at Solomon’s Stables,” the Waqf official instructed. He pointed with his black cane and his jowls jiggled with importance. Mustafa had seen the trucks and bulldozers come and go all morning as they prepared the area for the Marwani Mosque. It was to be the largest mosque in Palestine.
    He walked toward the southeast corner, passed the Al-Aqsa mosque, and stepped over and around large metal beams and tiles stacked haphazardly. A dump truck let him know he had arrived at Solomon’s Stables. A chain of workers stood on steps leading up from Solomon’s Stables, and a pail filled with debris passed from hand to hand until it reached the top stair. Mustafa took his place at the highest step, his head already turned to see the pail, his hands ready to grab it. The other workers didn’t look at him, or if they did, their eyes flicked away. Still, the hands touched, the pail moved quickly, another took its place, and some of the men chanted a tune,
“Hela hob, Hela hob, Hela hob.”
    Mustafa, at the top of the chain, scrambled to empty the pail into the dump truck. Sweat pooled around his neck. He reached for the next pail and it clanked against a worker’s hand. Mustafa clutched his cheeks. “
Laa
. Many sorries!” he sang out. The man growled,
“Dirbalak.”
Careful. Mustafa nodded. A worker’s hands were his life. The man grunted,
“Moak
,” and Mustafa stared down at his shoes.
    He listened to the
chink-chink
of shovel hitting stone, the pickax breaking rock apart. The men had switched to chanting,
“Sali ala al-nabi, Sali ala al-nabi
,” and he joined the men in asking for the prophet’s assistance in their work. He poured out the debris, and as the small rocks and dust rained down, he saw a jug spout and what looked to be a handle. It was just garbage lying there. Soon the truck would dump all the debris outside the Wadi Jehinun. Still, he thought the Jew might like it as a curiosity, and he tucked the pieces into his baggy pants pocket. He would bring them to Rabbi Isaac. A little trinket from the Noble Sanctuary. A gift from the Haram.

CHAPTER FOUR
    Isaac had a courtyard busybody to thank for this blind date. A ficus tree partly shielded him as he waited outside the café in the King David hotel lobby for Mrs. Edelman to appear. Well, at least it wasn’t totally blind. The widow came twice a month to the courtyard with folded squares of paper on which she had written her notes, questions for Rebbe Yehudah. That made her a courtyard regular.
    Waiters dressed in black and white brushed past Isaac, one hoisting a steaming bowl of potato and leek soup. It smelled delicious. Should he order a bowl for himself, he thought, even as he wondered what on earth had possessed him to take a blind date to this fancy schmancy café.
    Just then Mrs. Edelman waved her fingertips at him from across a sea of glass coffee tables and puffy chairs, and he lifted his arm in return,