Raisins and almonds - Poisoned Pen Press (UK)

8 Kerry Greenwood
the highest, the soul rises until it is at last one with En Soph the
mystical and transcendent.’ At the mention of this name, Yossi
drew in a sharp breath. ‘Rabbi Moses de Leon in Spain wrote
a lot about it, but my rabbi says that a life of contemplation is
better spent on the Torah.’
‘There go your secrets, Yossi,’ said Simon. ‘Truly the little
brother is a master of learning, nu?’
‘But…please excuse me, Mr. Abrahams,’ said Saul, ‘I have
seen a diagram like this before, and I don’t think it was Christian.
The name was the same as on that picture.’
‘What name, Saul?’
‘Adam Kadmon,’ said Saul, and returned to his text.
‘Primeval man,’ said Simon. But the effect on Yossi of this statement
was notable: he paled to the colour of junket and snatched his
hands away from the parchment as though it had been especially
prepared by the Borgias for one of their favourite enemies.
Without a word, he ran down the hall and into the street.
Simon Abrahams and Phryne watched the door clap to behind
him with astonishment. Even Saul looked up in mild surprise,
all the emotion of which this scholarly child seemed capable.
Mrs. Grossman came back into the room, attended by her
daughters, in time to hear the door slam. ‘That Yossi,’ said Mrs.
Grossman. ‘Poor boy, he works all day and then sits up talking all
night at the Kadimah, enough to turn his brains. Excuse him, Mr.
Abrahams. Have some more tea. Then Saul will read for us.’
‘And you sing,’ insisted Phillip.
‘No, no, I only know old songs,’ protested Mrs. Grossman,
delighted but making a ritual objection.
‘We insist,’ said Simon, and Saul leaned forward to the book.
His voice was a boy’s voice, cracking with manhood, and
the tones and cadences of the language were utterly foreign to
Phryne’s ear. But the image of the boy, tucked in the corner of
the workaday kitchen, his curly hair topped with a white and
gold yarmulke, the striped tallis around his shoulders, his inkstained
boy’s finger running the wrong way along the black letter
text, stayed with Phryne as an epitome of the experience of all of