don’t use jargon like that with the tourists, do you?” My tone was casual, but my voice now had a slight quaver.
“No, but I’m saying it to you. You have a hard time with strong women, Kobi. You’re attracted to them and scared of them. You try to keep yourself safe by screwing helpless, needy women. But you misjudged Nava, completely. So pretty and petite, you never let yourself see the power in her. She’s like steel, that woman.”
“That’s a pretty shrinky explanation,” I said. “Not exactly what I’d expect from a holy man.”
“So, a woman cuts your hair, symbolically takes your manhood away, and your world comes crashing down around you. The pretenses of your life don’t hold up anymore. Your inadequacies are being exposed to the multitudes. You must be horrified at how little it took to bring you down.”
He was right, of course, but I would never concede. “I thought you had a brand-new gig. What happened to the rapturous mumbling?”
“OK, you want mystical, I’ll give you mystical.” His eyes glazed over and he began to gently rock back and forth. When he finally spoke, his voice had shifted into a soft, slightly accented singsong.
“The hair, Kobi, is Keter, the Crown, the highest manifestation of divinity. That which is Eternal and Infinite, that which is Ayin, the Absence that underlies all that exists. Keter is the highest unifying power of the cosmos, which you have cynically ignored and disdained all your life. You allow Keter to be shorn by a foreigner, a stranger, shorn by unclean hands for the sake of momentary pleasure. The penis is Yesod, the Foundation, the divine manifestation of that which intervenes actively in the world, that which is fruitful and creative. You let the Foundation stray into foreign, forbidden places, allow your creative force to enter a polluted and fallow womb. And then you try to hold up the temple of your life all on your own, without the elevation of Keter, the divine Crown, without the support of Yesod, the divine Foundation. But without the glory of Keter and the rootedness of Yesod your life is a temple of idolatry, the pillars cracked and unsteady. You imagine it crashing around you, but you yourself, through the betrayal of your divine essence, are pulling it down. If you continue to live this way, your world will indeed crash around you.” I glanced at his glassy eyes, then quickly looked back down at my uneaten meal.
“OK, you’ve proved your point,” I said. “You’re a master at interpreting dreams.” There was still an embarrassing tremor in my voice, but he seemed not to have heard me at all.
“But there is an even deeper meaning here. The foreign woman is the unholy, yes, but on a more profound level she is also the Shechina, the feminine aspect of the Godhead who is always in exile, always wandering, always a foreigner, longing to return to her father, her lover, Kidsha Brich Hu, the Holy One. She is like Israel in Egypt, in Diaspora, enslaved and alienated from her own holy being, waiting to be liberated into her true destiny. You yourself could liberate her, but you do not see her as Shechina, you only see her as a stranger—she frightens you. You are blind in this dream, no? Blind to the cosmic forces that surround you, the forces that could spell your salvation if you but knew to open your eyes.” He continued to rock back and forth as we sat for a moment in silence.
“Don’t you think all this is a little depressing for rich tourists?” I finally said.
He instantly snapped out of his holy-man persona. “Don’t you get it? First you break them down, then you give them the tools to build themselves up. You know what I would say next?” He went back into holy-man voice, with barely a moment’s transition. “But you woke before the crash. That means there is still time, still time to restore Keter and Yesod to their rightful place in your life, still time to seek out the Shechina and unite her with Tiferet, the Glory.” Yossi looked at me expectantly. “You get it? First I tell them how disconnected they are from the divine energies, using all the fancy kabbalistic language to make it seem authentic. But then I give them blessings, amulets, prayers to say, all woven into the theme of the dream. They didn’t really understand what I said, but that just adds to the mystique. They leave with this strong feeling of being exposed, understood, but also with new hope, with things to do, prayers to say, physical items to connect them with divine powers.” He nodded his head thoughtfully. “It’s so awesome, Kobi. You should see me in my groove.”
I gave up on the meal, pushing the plate of food away.
“Look at that,” I said, “you’ve become some kind of magician.”
“It is magic,” he agreed. “And a lot more fun than the hocus-pocus you practice.”
Suddenly, I felt defeated. “Maybe you’re right, Yossi. Maybe I should just get out of this psych racket. But it’s hard to know what to do when my whole life’s so messed up.”
“It’s a shame about Nava, man.” He shook his head. “I gave her your number, like you asked. She didn’t say a word, but at least she took it.”
I must have looked bereft, because I heard a note of genuine compassion creep into his voice. “Look, you want some advice? Now’s not the time to get fired. You gotta clean up your act, man. That bitch Jezebel is serious business. So here’s what you do. Catch up with the case notes. Copy them out of Mein Kampf if you have to, nobody ever reads them. Show up on time and tell the goddamned receptionists how lovely they look. Keep your hands off your patients, no matter how cute and vulnerable they seem. Flatter the old bitch with how well she’s pulling the clinic together. You’re no dummy; play the game for a few months and keep your fucking job. You can always get out later if you need to, but only when you’re ready to quit.”
He put on his jacket, suddenly all business. “There, you got it free—advice from the up-and-coming number one holy man of the number one holy city.” He stood up and slapped me on the back, in good post-squash form. “I gotta run, pal. I’ve got fortunes to tell and fortunes to make. Be in touch, but hey, don’t call me at home. You’re not Elizabeth’s favorite.”
Before heading out the door, he turned back to me with an afterthought. “And let me know if you need a good divorce lawyer. I have a few connections.”
As always, it was only after he left that I realized he’d left me with the check.
7
For the first day back in the office, I took extra care pulling myself together, fastidiously shaving the holiday’s accumulated stubble. I stopped for a hearty breakfast and, as I made my way toward the clinic, felt a new sense of resolve gather inside me. Today was a new day, a new start. I was going to tackle the backlog of paperwork even if I had to make it all up from scratch. I would pay attention to my patients, find clever and helpful things to say. If I didn’t turn over a new leaf I would lose my job, and then what would happen to me? I had no real skills, no other way to make a living. Yossi was right, I was too smart to let that happen. I strode into the office only fifteen minutes late, impervious to the flinty glance of the gum-chewing receptionist, determined to start my so-called “probation” on a brand-new footing.
But by midday, my resolve was already wavering. I was as unable as ever to concentrate on what my patients were saying or jot a coherent note into a chart. The receptionists were nastier than ever, gloating at their ability to adapt my schedule to their whims. I rushed back from my truncated lunch hour full of resentment, but Israela, scheduled for the 1:00 hour, was not in the waiting room when I arrived.
Many patients never came back after the first intake session—so disillusioned or so healed by the encounter, no one knew—but the thought of Israela not returning disquieted me. As I shot rubber bands at Chagall’s leering cow, I ran through her first session in my mind.
