When it seemed the rabbi’s prayers would never end, Rebekah called his name. But he seemed to have lost his contact with this world. Short of knocking him unconscious, she could not get to the jar while he stood there, his head resting against the doors of the ark. She had not come so far to surrender to a blind rabbi’s religious eccentricities. She climbed the pulpit, gazed at his glass eye, reached out, and fondled his crotch. Her red mouth parted to suck on his dry lips. He must suffer from severe hernia, she thought as she stroked and squeezed two exceptionally large lumps.

He did not gasp, did not sigh. He fell. His tongue clamped between his teeth.

She had squeezed too hard and killed him. Now she would be charged with the murder of a rabbi. She felt tired, longed to go home, undress, lock her doors, and never again allow a man into her bed. It was time to retire, give up on a world that had defeated her every move. Give up on Gold Dust? Give up on Raven?

She pressed her ear to the rabbi’s chest and heard a faint beat. She pried open his jaw and held on to his tongue so it would not fall back into his throat and choke him. She propped him against the ark, dashed into his bedroom, brought back a bowl of water, and splashed it on his face. He convulsed. Sucked his breath in. He would live.

She flung the doors of the ark open and reached out to the far corners. Her frantic hands slid into the dark alcoves. She moved the Torah, slid her palm under it, around it, on top. She swept the shelf with her fingers, climbed up and took a closer look. The jar was gone.

The rabbi did not allow anyone close to the ark. He was the only person who removed the Torah, unlocked its wooden casing, and dusted the ark. She shook him, rattling his false teeth. He opened one eye and slipped back into oblivion. She dashed into his bedroom, flung his mattress against the wall. There was not much furniture, not many places to hide the jar. To whom could she turn? Gold Dust was consumed by the acrobat. And Raven, perched on a steeple of power, was unpredictable, and could not be trusted.

Rebekah sat down on the bare floor and waited for the rabbi to regain consciousness. Kilns flamed in her chest as her eyes swept the room, fell on a broken mantelpiece under which rested a stool with the rabbi’s washbasin. The jar stood on the mantelpiece.

The lid was absent and the container filled with water. A branch of orange blossoms stuck out from the center of a bunch of herbs. The brine had settled at the bottom. She flung the branch and herbs out and emptied the water carefully. Plunging a finger in the jar, she stirred what she thought was brine, but found out to be sand. Where was the organ? She rushed back into the hall.