‘I wanted to! But you started up with all your big man bakwaas about my auntie’s head in a box. And I haven’t even got a bloody sister! You think I’m a stupid kid, right? Well … fine. That’s bloody fine. But I’m here and I did what I was asked and …’ Tears welled up in the catchlights of his eyes. ‘And I just wanted to help.’ I put my hand on his arm and squeezed it lightly.

‘OK, partner,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry.’

And I was.

24

‘Good luck, brother.’

The taxi driver gave me a broad grin as we climbed out of the white cab. We might as well have been dropped into another world. Built just outside the walls of the Old City, Mea She’arim was one of the oldest Jewish neighbourhoods in Jerusalem. Getting there had been easy: a smooth hour-and-a-half drive south-east down Highway 1. It wasn’t that hard to navigate the small, stone streets; but it was almost impossible for an outsider to understand the complexities of what it meant to live there. Sometimes maps hide more than they reveal.

Almost the entire quarter was populated by strictly Orthodox Haredi Jews. Men wearing wide-brimmed black fedoras and long black silk coats hurried about their business. Women sporting wigs and prim skirts bustled about beside them. The entrance to the district was presided over by a sign printed in red and black block capitals warning ‘WOMEN AND GIRLS’ visiting the enclave to cover up:

PLEASE DO NOT PASS

THROUGH OUR NEIGHBORHOOD IN

IMMODEST CLOTHES

Baaz and I looked each other over.

‘It says, No trousers,’ he pointed out nervously.

‘Don’t worry,’ I reassured him. ‘That’s only for women. Besides, you look gorgeous.’

‘I feel like a bloody Martian. Take me to your leader, huna.’

He was right. We looked entirely out of place. Blending in simply wasn’t an option – though Baaz was making things worse by spinning three-sixty while taking in the strangeness of it all.

‘This is totally crazy. Usually it’s just me wearing the funny hat. But check out these guys.’ He stared unceremoniously at the passers-by. But they ignored him, us, entirely.

‘If only we were in East Jerusalem,’ I muttered to myself. My Arabic was good; my Hebrew almost non-existent. I grabbed Baaz’s arm and pointed him due west. ‘We need to keep moving. Let’s get this over with, then you can be on your way.’ Although where he’d be on his way to was unclear. Even he must have suspected that going back to his flat in Paris was becoming increasingly unfeasible. ‘Remind me,’ I asked, ‘what are we looking for?’

‘It’s on Hevrat Mishnayot,’ he said. ‘Like I said. Between Hevrat Shas Street and Ein Ya’akov Street. That’s not how Ezra pronounced it, though. He also said it was a side street.’