Turning heads

 

Tirtza was late for work, as usual. Only by a few minutes, but at some point, they were bound to notice. As always, her skirt could not be made to match her shoes and blouse, and she changed three times before she found a combination she liked. A pile of discarded items, turned inside-out, mounted up on her bed. Hastily giving her baby, David, a kiss on his freckled little nose, she reminded her husband that the nursery required three full bottles, a bag of diapers, and … “I know, I know,” – he shrugged away her reminders, swung his laptop bag over one shoulder, the diaper bag over the other, and waved her away. “Come on, don’t be late again!”

Now, rushing up towards the light rail station, she allowed her thoughts to wander. Had someone told her a few years ago that she would be living in a busy neighbourhood in South Jerusalem, married and with a baby, and dressing like a nineteenth-century matron in checkered skirts and tight-at-the-neck tops, and the worst of it all – a wig! - she would have laughed to tears. Just behind her left shoulder blade nestled a blue butterfly, a tattoo she got just two years ago in Goa, and a closer look at her nose would reveal a barely healed nose ring hole. Somewhere in her story there were a ‘trip’ gone wrong at a Chabad house in Mumbai, a mysterious Buddhist monk who physically threw her out of the way of a raging elephant, witnessing a botched armed robbery she escaped with merely a nosebleed, and a few more private, but nevertheless enchanting memories of events that made her feel as if just behind a curtain, if only she could reach with her hand and slide it away to peek beyond – was some kind of an otherworldly mystery would reveal itself in all its glory. Remembering her great-grandmother’s stories of separate dishes and candle lighting, she enrolled herself in a seminary in Jerusalem just as the confounded virus began to devastate America. Her wedding was nothing much, certainly nothing like she ever imagined, but a happy enough event nevertheless, really it would be a sin to complain, she added dutifully.  She shrugged at her own thoughts, and continued her way up the steep hill.

Walking on Agrippas street, she couldn’t resist peeking at the prices of meat in the window of the famous butcher. Rosh Hashana was coming up, and her husband’s parents were coming for a meal. Not just a meal, mind you, but the most important one of all, the first night, where a selection of symbols had to be served and eaten with proper blessings to ensure a sweet and prosperous year. The main symbol – she knew - was a sheep’s head. She shuddered. If only they would settle down for a fish head, a revolting bitter deal wrapped in silver foil, but at least small and well-hidden. But no… the Sefardi customs were different. The butcher had a deal on all kinds of heads, of course, except ISIS heads, she chuckled to herself. If she got one now, she could keep it in the fridge at work, thankfully, schools here always had a fridge, albeit often stuffed with furry yoghurts sharing a shelf with bottles of breast milk. Holding the package as far from her body as she dared, she began walking down into the valley towards the Sacher park. The morning was pleasant enough for early September, but still the sticky sweat began accumulating already between her thighs and breasts. Luckily, a cloud covered the sun for a few minutes, and she breathed with relief. The package in her hand was still bringing on unhealthy musings about how exactly this animal part came to be in the shop. She imagined humans with sheep heads, then sheep with human heads… a sheepy Centaurus? Then shook her own head to get rid of the vision, the strands of her wig flying in front of her face. She looked up, but the street did not look familiar, and neither was it sloping down towards the park. Where were the lazy cats, which usually lounged in the huge plant pots, right between the geraniums? Where was the rusty dismembered bike, missing the wheels and the seat, which was always chained up right next to the school?

Frowning, Tirtza read the name of the street. Ezra? How could she have possibly gotten there? How right were her school teachers in Atlanta, who always said her dreaminess was the cause of all her failures! How long did she space out for? This was absurd! Her watch showed quarter to nine, and she had no time to lose. Her fifth grade English class will be waiting for her shortly. Turning right into Nechemia, she sped up past the pharmacy, a dilapidated bus stop, a male hairdresser, and a fishmonger’s. Crossing one of the busiest streets in Jerusalem, which she privately termed “All Kings Way”, right by the enormous building site which used to be an army base during the mandate, she dodged a school van ferrying a gaggle of three-year-olds with shiny velvet kippas and gorgeous peot. Will her David go to one of those schools when he turns three? Not likely, is it… Her rebellious nature – naming herself Tirtza had perhaps something to do with that – would never allow her to follow all the rules properly…. She looked around to get her bearings, and realized she was now speeding past the high-riser towers known as Wolfson, and worse than that – she was by their back yards, and from there, she knew, there was no way down to the park and back up towards the school. She had to turn around…and why was this damn package so heavy?

Suddenly, a realization made cold sweat seep out on her forehead and back. How could she have gotten here so fast? Her watch was showing seven minutes to nine… and how did she end up on Ezra in the first place? Turning around, she ran in the direction of the exit. What nonsense, she must be just extra dreamy today. Just like the time when she missed her boating trip, because she got so carried away teaching her dog to roll over. Really not OK, she was an adult with adult responsibilities now. The package was pulling her arm down like a leaden weight, and Tirtza began to feel like it was exuding the vibes of death and making her confused. And indeed, looking up she saw that in three minutes flat she managed to transport herself all the way to King David Street by the Old city. The bizarre art in the galleries filled her heart with dread, and when the bell on the YMCA tower chimed nine, she felt herself disintegrating into hysterics. She had never before gotten lost in Jerusalem. She imagined her class going wild, and the principal coming to investigate, and tears began to sting her eyes. At last, she managed to get to the Great Synagogue, and sat down heavily on the stairs, placing the accursed head tenderly next to her backpack. The sun was baking her head through the wig, rivulets of sweat were running down her back. Something was really wrong. Was she going crazy? Mental illness did not run in the family, even though uncle Rupert had been as strange as his name was for a Jew. Usually kind and quiet, he used to always bring the same stale apple tart when he visited, looked through them all with vacant eyes, and left as quietly as he came. Then, one day, he got mad for no reason at all, and threw the nine-year-old Tirtza off her bike, because he thought she was trampling the wild flowers in her parents’ garden. She broke her left arm, and her summer vacation was ruined. “He is not well”, - her mother said quietly, pinching her lips together, as if that could mend her arm and restore her spirits. From that day on, Tirtza had been scared of older brooding men with vacant eyes.

A recent trip to Tzefat came to mind, where the tour guide told them about the spooks and ghosts inhabiting the streets of the second-holiest city in Israel. Something about his words was tugging at her memory. She had to find some shade, and call the school, at last.

When she sat down again by the arch of Talitha Kumi, staring down towards Ben Yehuda street, she barely had the strength to lift the water bottle to her lips. Perhaps she was getting sick? Is this a fever, the way people used to have it in the past, with delirium? The package was nearly pulling her arm off. She felt dizzy. Even if she tried walking to the school now, where was the promise she would not end up in, say, Malha mall?

A strong smell of a dirty body and stale urine, mixed up with beer and garlic, nearly made her stomach purge itself. A homeless man was sitting next to her. His bare feet were covered in caked mud that was at least a few months old, and he was wrapping himself in what looked like a blanket with more holes than cloth, the same colour as the parched asphalt all around them. Sucking on a bottle of Heineken, he watched her attentively her with protruding brown eyes. His one remaining tooth kept on scratching the glass bottle. Tirtza edged away from him carefully.

-        Can’t throw ma' life in the bin, ca' I now? – he drooled with a strong Irish accent. – Whenever the Almighty decides, that when I will go, Blessed be His name. He adjusted his shredded kippa. – Blessed! – he proclaimed, pointing up towards the pale dusty sky.

Tirtza edged a bit further away still. A raving madman. She thought her attire would protect her from all such, but apparently not. As long as he doesn’t realize he is making her gag. He could get offended, and… she did not want to imagine that.

-        But some things go righ' in tha' bin, ya, they do! – he finished emphatically, hurled the empty bottle away, and slid down into a lying position. When those toes almost touched her skirt, Tirtza ran for it.

The words she heard in Tzfat surfaced in her memory, at last. She hurled the revolting package into the bin by the Bell Centre, and said quite in earnest, “It’s forgiven to you!”, in Hebrew, three times, just as the tour guide told them, then walked away with light steps. Poor uncle Rupert, he never meant to hurt her, he was just a very unwell man.

-        We are having fish heads this year, - she whispered into the green button with a microphone in the middle. – I hope your parents will understand. Please... I just can't.

The main school clock's red numbers switched to indicate nine o’clock just as she walked into the fifth-grade classroom.