once they’re in, it’s the holy-man stuff that keeps them.” He put down his fork and knife and turned toward me. “Kobi, they come from all over the world, dazzled by Jerusalem sunsets and the illusion of walking on the stones trod by Jesus or some ancient Israelite prophet. They’re starry-eyed, full of mystical visions and stunned realizations of how pointless their lives are. They think they’re looking for a souvenir for Aunt Gretel, but before they’ve left my shop I’ve told them their futures, tapped into their greatest fears, blessed little fragments of glass or stone chosen especially for them—you know, channeled some divine energy. They pose for pictures with me, they’re dropping bills on the counter without even counting. It’s all part of their Holy Land experience; no price is too high.” He leaned in and lowered his voice. “And you know what I’ve been realizing? In some ways the intifada is actually good for business.”
“What are you talking about? There are almost no tourists left in Jerusalem.”
He waved the comment aside. “Of course there are a lot fewer of them. But the ones who do come are feeling so brave, and so vulnerable at the same time. Imagine walking the streets of a foreign city—the holiest city in the world!—knowing you can get blown up at any minute. They’re open to anything!” He glanced around and leaned in even closer. “It’s so easy, man. I gaze deeply into their eyes, like I know their innermost secrets. A little chanting, a little mysterious mumbling, and you know what? They leave with new insight, new hope, new inspiration.” He stared at me, animated and earnest. “I’m healing people of their deepest existential angst, more than I ever did with that therapy crap. This is what’s missing from people’s lives, Kobi—a sense of mystery, access to the unknowable powers of the cosmos, awe and terror in the face of the chasm. A connection to the infinite, the eternal, the ineffable. They come away transformed, with a new vision for their lives, and I come away with bundles of foreign currency. It’s a win-win deal!” He sat back, staring at me, waiting for a response.
Could he possibly be serious? “So that explains the furry beard that’s devouring your handsome mug,” I said finally.
“Nice touch, eh?” He dug back into his meal. “And I’ve bought the coolest Bukharan cap. You should see how holy I look in it. You’d pay me a few shekel yourself if you saw me. A little palm-reading, a little dream interpretation . . .”
“Yossi, you’ve lost your mind. You’ve gone from being a highly respected professional to being a religious charlatan.”
“What, I wasn’t a charlatan before?” He laughed. “Come on, Kobi, you know as well as I do what bullshit that clinic is. But even so, people feel better after talking to shrinks; they keep coming back for more. You ever wonder why that is?” He didn’t wait for an answer, barreling on. “Because they’re lonely, man, they’re alienated, they’re bored, they don’t know why they’re spinning around on this watery little planet.” He paused to let this sink in, but I must have looked as astonished as I felt. “Don’t you get it? It’s the same racket, but this is more creative, more powerful, and more lucrative. Not to mention that I’m my own boss—no more boring meetings, busybody hospital administrators, or stick-up-the-ass receptionists. You’ll see,” he said, nodding. “A couple more seasons and I’ll make it into the guidebooks, and then the real money will start flowing in. And if we ever break this fucking intifada, there’ll be no limit—I’ll be sitting on top of the world. And you’ll still be listening to whiny women drone on, hoping the pretty ones are lonely enough to fall for your fake-sympathy charms.” He laughed again. “You calling me a charlatan?”
I still couldn’t tell if he was being serious or pulling my leg. “You get a lot of those young, blond traveler girls?” I asked, just to lighten the mood while I collected my thoughts.
“Ah, Kobi,” he sighed. “Always thinking with the same part of your anatomy. Sure, they come in, and man, are they easy. Can you imagine? A chance to fuck a real live holy man from the goddamned holiest city on the planet. They’re all over me. And the ones who come to Jerusalem and wander the Old City in the middle of an intifada?” He shook his head. “You can just imagine how wild they are. A lot foxier than the bored housewives you get to lay, eh?” Suddenly, his voice became earnest and eager again. “But forget it, Kobi, I’m being careful. Those girls have no money to spend, and I’ve got bigger plans. I want to be a real holy man. I’m not going to screw it all up for a few minutes of bliss with a strung-out Norwegian girl. I want the rich tourists, the celebrities; I want Madonna coming to my shop to hear her fortune read. I know where the money is.” He paused, as if thinking things through. “I need Elizabeth on my side here. And her rich American father.” He gave me a sharp glance, then dug back into his meal. “No offense, pal, but I’m not making the same mistake you made.”
I winced but let it go. “What does your illustrious wife have to say about all this?”
“You know how furious she was when I lost my job,” he said, refilling his plate. “But now she sees how much happier I am, how much more purpose I have in my life. And she’s not immune to the money potential, or to her father’s sudden approval of me.” He leaned in again, as if confiding a great secret. “I’ve made as much these first few months as I was making a year at the lousy clinic, and I’ve barely gotten established.” He nodded to himself. “ Elizabeth’s practical, she’s the daughter of an American mogul. She understands how entrepreneurship works.”
He sat back in his chair with a look of deep contentment. “Holy cities need to be filled with holy men,” he declared, staring off into space. “Why not me?”
I had barely touched my meal, didn’t know what to make of all his crazy talk. On the one hand, it was genius. On the other, it seemed completely implausible. Could he really just transform himself, by force of will, into a “holy man”?
“How do you even know what to say to people?” I asked.
He shrugged. “I did some reading, went to a few lectures on Jewish mysticism. I even visited a couple of ashrams when Elizabeth and I were in India. Know what I realized? They all say the same damn thing.” He wiped his hands on a napkin. “Go ahead, tell me a dream you’ve had recently.”
“You can’t pull that stuff off on me. I have the same shrink training you do.”
“What, are you scared?” His gaze was suddenly intense. “Tell me a dream.”
It was against my better judgment, but I was curious. And—as he seemed to realize—I was desperate for someone to talk to. “OK, I had one just the other night,” I told him. “A woman was giving me a haircut. It felt good, it was a turn-on, her hands caressing and massaging my scalp. But then, the next thing I knew, I was in a huge room, almost like an ancient temple, crowded with people, and I was single-handedly holding up the walls. Only I wasn’t holding them up, I was pulling them down. They were starting to crash around me when I woke up.”
“Scared?”
“Well, yeah, kind of.”
“Did you know the woman?”
“No,” I lied.
He looked at me sidewise. “C’mon, she reminded you of someone.”
“No, not really. But she was blond. A foreigner.”
“Ah.” He was staring at me intently, all the boyish silliness gone. I shifted uneasily in my chair.
“So what do you have to say about my dream?” I asked, feeling acutely uncomfortable.
He waved me aside like a gnat. “The dream is
