Part 9 (2/2)

He approached a man sitting alone in the back row, bent over and murmuring to himself.

”Pardon me,” he said, ”but-”

The man looked up from his siddur, his prayer book, and waved his hand to quiet Lincoln. ”Shush,” he said. ”Put on a yarmulka.”

Lincoln nodded and went to the back of the room to don a skullcap, another thing he hadn't done in a very long time. He sat down next to the man and said, as quietly as he could, ”I must speak with the cantor. It's important.”

The man glared at him. ”You must wait. We're about to do the Alenu; the service will be over soon.” His tone was accusatory, as if he was questioning Lincoln 's right to show up at the end of a service.

Lincoln wondered that himself, but felt better when he realized that he still remembered to stand and bow at the appropriate times. He didn't pray, though. The man next to him offered his siddur, but Lincoln shook his head; he couldn't read Hebrew anymore even well enough to p.r.o.nounce the words, let alone understand them.

True to the man's word, the service ended in a few minutes. The congregants began folding the chairs and stacking them up next to the wall. Lincoln muttered, ”Excuse me,” to his row companion, and darted to the front of the room. The cantor was just removing his tallis, his prayer shawl, when Lincoln approached. He was an old man, slightly stooped, with a pair of round gla.s.ses on his face.

Despite the fact that Lincoln had interrupted him before, the cantor smiled as he folded his tallis. ”Good shabbes,” he said. He spoke with a slight Hungarian accent.

Lincoln repeated the phrase; it echoed oddly in his ears. ”Good shabbes, Cantor-?”

”Erno Gross. How may I help you?”

Lincoln 's eyes darted around the room. Two congregants were opening boxes of little pastries and setting them out on a table, and speaking in a language Lincoln didn't recognize. Another man hummed, and poured small cups of red wine out of a dark bottle. Lincoln almost shuddered at that, but controlled himself.

”Cantor, where is your rabbi? I need to speak with him.”

The cantor sighed. ”Unfortunately, we have no rabbi. Rabbi Weinberg, a dear friend of mine, was the last rabbi to serve this congregation. We are a small group, and so can't offer a new rabbi enough of an incentive to join us on a permanent basis. Not that one is needed for a service, you must know.”

Lincoln felt embarra.s.sed. ”Actually, I didn't know. But if you have no rabbi, then all hope is lost. The others-” He shook his head.

”Perhaps all is not lost,” said the cantor. He put his hand on Lincoln 's shoulder. ”Perhaps I can help you, Mister-?”

”Kliman, with a long 'i.' Lincoln Kliman.”

” Lincoln. An odd name, for a Jew.”

Lincoln shrugged. ”My father was a historian, studied American history.” He was used to explaining it.

”Very well, Mr. Kliman. How can I help you?”

”Not here. Can we go talk alone some-”

Lincoln was interrupted by shouts of ”Erno!” The cantor said, ”Excuse me a moment; I must make kiddush.” He gave Lincoln an odd look. ”Unless you would rather do the honors?”

Lincoln felt his face flush. ”Uh, no thank you, Cantor, I really would rather not.”

The cantor nodded. ”At least take a cup of wine.”

Lincoln a.s.sented, and tried not to look uncomfortable as the cantor began chanting kiddush and the others joined in. The only words he remembered was the last part of the blessing over wine, borai p'ri hagafen, and after the cantor sang it, Lincoln chorused ”Amen” with the rest of the congregation.

The wine tasted sweet going down his throat.

Lincoln walked over to a small bookcase afterwards, studying the t.i.tles as the cantor circulated among the congregation. One by one, the elderly men put on their coats and left the room, until finally, the cantor came over to Lincoln.

”I believe you wanted to talk with me alone?” he said.

”Yes. Thank you.”

”What can I do for you, Mr. Kliman?”

Lincoln looked into the cantor's eyes. ”There is a boy. My son. He's very sick.”

”Sick? Shouldn't you be fetching a doctor, and not a rabbi? Unless...” The cantor looked grim.

”It's not that kind of illness, not physical.”

”Spiritual?”

Lincoln thought for a moment. ”Cantor, may I ask you a question?”

”Certainly.”

”Have you studied Kaba-Kaba-Jewish mysticism?”

”Kabala. Why do you ask?”

”You believe in G.o.d, right?” Lincoln blurted.

The cantor looked shocked. ”An impudent question, Mr. Kliman, but yes, of course I believe in G.o.d. I devoted my life to helping the Jewish people practice our religion.” There was a chastising tone in his voice; Lincoln noticed that he slightly stressed the word ”our.”

”I didn't mean to question your faith, Cantor,” Lincoln said. ”I just don't want you to think I'm crazy. I needed to know that you can accept the possibility of something out there that you have no direct evidence for, something-something mystical.”

”As a Jew,” the cantor said, ”I have all the evidence I need for G.o.d in seeing the wonders of the Earth each and every day. I rise from bed with praise of Him on my lips and I go to sleep the same way. That does not necessarily mean that I will believe in anything at all, Mr. Kliman.”

”I'm sorry, I didn't mean to offend you. It's just that-well, I needed to find a religious man, a religious leader, and I didn't feel comfortable going to a Catholic priest. I thought a rabbi could help as well.”

”Help with what, Mr. Kliman? You barge in here, claim to be worried about your son, and then question my faith. What do you need my help with?”

Lincoln looked down at his shoes for a moment and wrung his hands. ”I'll have to trust you. My son's been bitten, and I need you to lift the curse.”

”Bitten? By a dog? Better to see a doctor.”

”No, not a dog. Cantor, my son Joseph has been bitten three times by a vampire. And unless I can find a cure by sundown tonight, he's going to turn into one himself.”

An hour later, Lincoln and the cantor arrived at Lincoln 's apartment building. It would have taken only ten minutes if they had driven, but the cantor would not ride on the Sabbath, and so Lincoln left his car parked at the synagogue. Although it was early spring, the weather was cold and overcast, and Lincoln had to bundle himself up in his thin jacket as best as he could while they walked.

When they got to his building, the cantor also refused to take the elevator up to Lincoln 's ninth floor apartment, so they slowly climbed the stairs.

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