In the Courtyard of the Kabbalist by Ruchama King Feuerman Page B

carried away praying so hard for everyone that his pillow got soaked with tears. Today—Isaac’s fingers probed discreetly—no need to change the pillow case, at least not yet.
    “I forgot. Dalya didn’t eat her banana,” he said, referring to the teen with the eating disorder. “She said she won’t eat the banana unless you sit with her. But you were sleeping.”
    The rebbe pressed a shaky hand against his narrow chest. “Why didn’t you get me up?” Isaac didn’t answer. “Surely you recognize a starving child when you see one,” the rebbe said. “Let her come in next time. Next time,” he said, a trenchant look in his deep-set silvery eye, “wake me.”
    Isaac bowed his head, chastened, and looked down at his hands.
    “Don’t feel so bad, Isaac.” The rebbe gently touched his wrist. “You’re usually right.”
    Isaac took a deep breath. “Why did you choose me?” he asked.
    “Choose you?”
    “To be your assistant.”
    Rebbe Yehudah shrugged. “You have a good heart and a good head. You know how to look at people.” He let out an explosive cough, and his beard hairs quivered. When Isaac leaned over, about to give another gentle potch to his upper back, Rebbe Yehudah raised a hand: Fine, fine. Just then, his eyes got alert, as if listening out for a baby crying. The rebbe sat up.
    Isaac was hovering at his side. “What is it, Rebbe?”
    Rebbe Yehudah struggled to his feet and made his way to the door. “The toilet,” he said and coughed a little. “It’s making that sound again.”
    “Rebbe!” Isaac remonstrated him. “You rest! Doctor’s orders. I’ll get the plunger.”
    But Rebbe Yehudah said, “Don’t take my mitzvah away,” and he insisted on working the plunger himself.
    Ten minutes later, the rebbe was settled back on the arm of couch, his freshly washed fingers emitting a liquid soap scent.
    A thought then struck Isaac. “What do I do about Mazal’s wind passing?”
    Rebbe Yehudah’s forehead crinkled a little. “Wind passing?”
    “She farts,” Isaac said shortly. “All the time, all over the place, even while I’m talking to her.”
    “Ah, yes. Passing wind, I understand.” Rebbe Yehudah nodded his head, his deep-set eyes half-closed in contemplation. “Do they smell very foul?”
    This gave Isaac pause. “Not especially foul, now that you mention it.”
    “Even still, it bothers you terribly. You feel as if she’s passing wind on you, in particular?”
    Isaac nodded vehemently.
    “It’s an unfortunate thing, but there’s not much one can do,” the rebbe said. “Maybe you want to ask yourself why it bothers you so much.”
    Isaac started. Did he have to provide a reason? “It’s unseemly,” he said feebly. “It disturbs the others.”
    “Hmm.” His eyes reflected. “Why not tell her you’ve noticed how she fills the courtyard with the most delightful scent and ask her what perfume she wears?” The rebbe nodded again. “I think this will help.”
    Before Isaac could ponder if the rebbe was making a joke, the rounded form of the rebbetzin entered the room with a bowl of noodles and vegetable broth. A plume of steam pinked her white cheeks and made her eyes tear. Rebbe Yehudah lifted his head and smiled—no, grinned at his wife—and his recessed eyes seemed to leap forward in their sockets in welcome. Isaac stood flat against the wall, as if caught in the crosscurrents of an electric field. Such a smile could be felt in the space between them. He had to admit, one of the job perks was watching the elderly couple. It reminded him of a Talmudic tale of a yeshiva student who followed his rabbi all day long, scrutinizing him as he prayed, ate, and studied. Once, the student even entered the scholar’s bedroom at night and hid under the bed to see what he could see. When the ancient scholar peeked under his bed and found his student staring back at him, the boy said, “This, too, is Torah and I have come to learn.” Not that Isaac would ever carry