Rina shrugged. The old man spoke and Rina clarified. “The Bursa is for everyone. Those that have private offices, those that don’t. If you’re a member of the Bursa, even if you don’t have an office, you can rent a locker and trade on the floor with everyone else. When you trade in the Bursa, it makes excitement.” She paused. “I think he means that Bursa generates excitement because it’s out in the open. I guess we’ll understand when we see it.”

The lobby to the Maccabee building was compartmentalized—trisected and encased in thick glass. Yalom went into the right-hand section, through steel revolving doors into a small sally port filled with people. Decker’s first impression: He was in line to the betting cage at the track. The windows up front were marked BUYERS/TENANTS. Yalom stood in the back of an undisciplined squiggle of human flesh; Decker and Rina fell in behind him.

Decker looked around. To the right was another set of steel revolving doors that led to a main lobby of the building. Security was visible at every turn of the head—in the sally port, in the lobbies, behind the windows. He must have spotted dozens of men and women dressed in gray shirts, blue ties, and dark blue pants.

The line inched forward, people nudging Decker in the back. In his experience, crowds brought tension. Strangely, no one seemed irritated. Here was humanity in all shapes, sizes, and religious inclinations stuffed into a small area and no one was grousing.

They finally made it to the front. Four security guards manned the window behind bullet-proof glass. Three of the watchdogs were seated; one male was standing behind the others, either overseeing them or kibitzing. Yalom got up to the window and spoke his case, the guard nodding and looking Decker and Rina over as the old man explained what he wanted.

“Passports, please,” she said.

Decker took them out of his jacket, then reluctantly forfeited them to the guard. She opened them, but her eyes weren’t on the ID. Instead, she seemed to be listening to the goings-on at the line next to hers. Then she butted into the conversation, arguing with her colleague who was dealing with a woman and a small child.

“What’s going on?” Decker asked Rina. “What’s she doing?”

Rina smiled wearily. “She’s getting distracted is what she’s doing. There seems to be a sh’aylah about kids under twelve needing a passport.”

“A sh’aylah?”

“A question.”

“Oh. A shylah!” Decker said, pronouncing it as if he were in the yeshiva.

Rina smiled. “Yes, a shylah.”

Finally, the guard deigned to look at the passports placed in her hands. She studied them, then punched something into a computer. Mr. Yalom spoke to Rina.

She said, “They’re issuing us badges and ID cards.”