LITMIR.BIZ

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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. I had many patients with convoluted histories, but her story had been particularly bizarre: married to a guy whose name she couldn’t or wouldn’t share; convinced they were still a couple despite not having seen or heard from him in as much as a year; furtively avoiding his “friends” who she imagined were stalking her. There had obviously been a psychotic process at work, maybe more than I had realized. I had a nagging worry that she’d had a break over the holiday.

      But I had to admit that I wasn’t only worried; I was also full of anticipation at the thought of seeing Israela again. After I’d twice leapt to my feet at the sound of footsteps outside the door, I stayed standing, busying my hands by straightening the piles of charts on my desk. She wasn’t my usual type, but I was drawn to her in a way I couldn’t quite define. I warned myself to be careful—I was being watched with a close, malicious eye and could afford no more “inappropriate” patient liaisons, no matter how impulsive, superficial, or fleeting.

      When Israela finally did arrive—ten minutes late, slinking into the office unannounced, like a movie star evading her fans—her mood was lighthearted, and I felt my anxiety melt under a surge of relief. She flung the shawl off her head, flashed me a disarming smile, and sank into my recliner as if in her own living room.

      “You seem more cheerful this week,” I said, perching myself on the edge of the couch. “Did you have a good holiday?” Her dark eyes were shining. She carried with her the scent of jasmine, making the room feel small and sultry. With each breath I relaxed a little more, absurdly glad to be in her presence.

      “No, not really,” she was saying. “But I feel better already, just seeing you again. I can’t tell you how much you helped me last time. It must be wonderful to be able to help people like that.”

      She was flirting audaciously, flattering me with that adoring look, familiar to me from years of therapy practice. Despite myself, it was working. I shrugged off the hazy effect her scent was having on my mind and forced myself to focus.

      “Yes, well, of course,” I said in my most professional voice. “But remember, we’re in the earliest stages of treatment, and I still need to gather a lot of basic information in order to see how therapy might help.”

      “Oh, but I told you everything last time,” she said, her eyes round and earnest.

      I pretended to consult my notes. “Well, you did

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