“Don’t tell me you’re going to smoke inside!” I exclaimed. We weren’t particularly strict, but smoking on the balcony was sacrosanct. “I’ll air the place out later, you won’t smell a thing,” Halimi said, lighting his cigarette.
“Come on …” he continued as I grabbed a bread roll and began spreading butter on it. “What are you doing in Tel Aviv?”
“Nothing!” I replied, more resentfully than I’d intended. “I told you already, I have to go over the proofs of that children’s book.” I’d said nothing of the sort, but I figured he only remembered half the things I told him about my schedule or household matters anyway.
“Why do you have to go to Tel Aviv for that?” Halimi persisted, turning back to the computer screen. “Can’t they just email you the text?” He knew that since we left Tel Aviv, I’d grown allergic to the place. I hadn’t once joined him on a trip there, even though he’d invited me several times.
“Nope, I have to do it with the graphic artist. They want to send it to the printer this week,” I said. If the goddamn publishing house functioned properly, this would have been true, I convinced myself.
“Okay, sweetie,” Halimi sighed. “Get some decent coffee while you’re there, yeah?”
“But you bought some when you went to Dan’s, didn’t you? There’s plenty,” I said, my mouth full of bread.
Halimi’s phone rang.
“We don’t want to run out of coffee,” he mumbled and slid his finger over the phone.
I stopped the car behind the rock with the Phoenician inscription. After a particularly nice week of spring weather, the ground was already dry.
At home, I’d changed clothes. “I felt stupid in that dress,” I told Halimi when I came out of the shower, already dressed in leggings and a thin, baggy sweater, contact lenses in place. He was speaking on the phone and shot me a quizzical look when he saw me. I put the woolen dress in my backpack. I managed to squeeze back into it while cramped in the tiny car.
This time, there was nobody at the ruins. When I got to the tree, I noticed a small puddle still there, the size of a book. Before submerging the coin in the water, I inhaled deeply, then I dunked the coin around my neck into the water.
Nothing happened, but I was prepared for a delay. A few seconds passed, then a minute, and still nothing happened.
I turned around and came back. I submerged the coin again, in the exact same way as the week before. Nothing happened. My brain came to a dead halt inside my skull and did a little jig around itself.
What’s going on?I wondered. It was like I was meant to solve an unspoken riddle. I sighed in exasperation. The red woolen dress was tight. I began pulling at the zipper. There was no one to see me anyway. The zipper got stuck. “Ouch!” I shouted and looked around. My finger had caught in the teeth of the zipper, and a small drop of blood was forming. I sucked my finger, and then I heard it:twang, twang, the hidden chords—in my head, or in another time, or in a parallel universe, who the hell knew.
Something gleamed in the puddle. I took my finger out of my mouth and reached out to grab whatever it was that was sparkling, but my fingers failed to grasp it. My body was pulled into the puddle, and a phosphorescent light exploded in my brain.
“Christ the Crucified!” someone shouted, and I blinked under the green canopy of the carob tree, breathing in air redolent of 1240. To my horror, above me was an unsheathed penis attached to a knight in chainmail and a black cloak with a red cross rolled up over his naked loins. I sat up and stared at him, wide-eyed.
“What … what … what …” mumbled the knight, stuffing his dick into his long underwear and clumsily straightening his clothes. Repulsed, I noticed a small, steaming pool of urine on the dry ground, inches away from me.
The knight fell to his knees, closed his eyes, and clapped his hands together.
“Ave Maria,” he began muttering. “Gratia plena, Dominus tecum …”
I froze for a moment, then had a bright idea.
I got to my feet and stood before him, a fortuitous ray of sunlight lighting my brown hair, making it appear golden. I lifted my hand in a gesture of blessing.
“You are pardoned,” I said in Hebrew. “Do not fear, my child,” I continued in a refined, motherly voice, getting into character. “I will protect you forevermore, wherever you may be.”
The knight, or whoever he was, looked up in awe, teeth chattering.
“What is your name, my son?” I asked in French, in the same even tone.
“Geoffroy,” the young man stammered. “Geoffroy of Tours.”
I placed my hand on his head and recited the most basic Latin blessing I could think of. “Deus te benedict,” I mumbled, hoping for the best.
“My lady!” he gasped. “Who are you? How must I address you?”
“I am of the spring,” I improvised. “Return to your duties, Geoffroy of Tours. Be courteous and merciful and do not forget thy prayers,” I concluded, lowering my arms.
The knight bowed his head and got to his feet. He retreated, walking away from the tree in reverse, still facing me. “Do not bring anyone here and do not approach this site for a full day,” I managed to say, in French, before he left. He bowed his head again, mouth still agape, eyes wild, and disappeared among the trees.
