15/9/95

Jerusalem 3,000 Years Ago

'And it shall come to pass that the seed of our seed shalt celebrate in memory of this very day.'

    "What about right here?"
    "Are you crazy? It's the middle of nowhere, you've got Philistines and Jebusites all around and there's no lakefront. It's not near a port or a trade route or a tourist attraction. And it's dusty."
    "So you're saying King David won't approve?"
    "I'm saying what normal Jew would come all the way up these stony mountains to live where there isn't even a sandal-maker for maybe three days by donkey? You put the king's capital city over here, he'll find himself another real-estate agent, and you'll find another wife because I don't want to live so far from my mother."
     Mephiboshet sighed. "But dear, the king said specifically he wants a place in the suburbs. I think this is it."
     "You know what your problem is?" Hoglat retorted. "For starters, you have no vision. Can you imagine a teeming city here some day? What, people are going to leave Hebron and Beit Shemesh and Bethlehem to put up a tent on this farshtunkeneh hill?"
    Mephiboshet chafed at his wife's words. "Mark my words, in twenty years this'll be a wonderful city."
    "Yeah, and in fifty it'll be bigger than Tyre. In a hundred they won't be able to find parking for a compact camel. And in a thousand years..."
    A sudden gust of wind blew Hoglat's hat off.
    Mephiboshet set his jaw firm and cast his gaze across the great undulating barrenness. A solar spotlight cast brilliantly upon his brow, as it does for only the truest prophets. "A thousand years? That's all you envision?" A tremor stirred his voice. "I see two, no, three thousand years hence, this very spot the center of the world, dwellings sprawling unto the horizon. I see a vast cityscape thronging with industriousness and harmony, the Philistine living this abreast the other with the Israelite. And I see homage, yea, for David our King. And it shall come to pass that the seed of our seed shalt celebrate in memory of this very day three thousand years hitherto, remembering when an humble royal servant did say Hark, this dirt is holy, for upon it shall be the King's capital for eternity."
    There was a clap of thunder.
    "If the Messiah doesn't come first," Hoglat mumbled.
    Mephiboshet, the king's loyal agent, pretended not to hear the sacrilege, for Hoglat was, all things considered, a good wife, and it would be a shame were she beheaded.
    "So that's decided," he announced. "Now: What about a name?"
    "We could call it Far Rockyway."
    "Aw, get serious."
    "OK, I've got it: Mephiboshetville, because why shouldn't you get a little credit?"
    Mephiboshet thought it over for a minute and frowned. "Nah. Too Jewish. And anyway, the king wouldn't go for it."
    "You want to score points with the boss, call it Davidsville. And over there can be East Davidsville, he'd like that."
    "I'm not saying no, but I was thinking of something a little more, uh, biblical."
    "Salem."
    "Salem?"
    "That's what Abraham called it. He's in the Bible, you know."
    "Too short. Not Jewish enough. Sounds too American." (Mephiboshet was one of history's most underrated prophets.)
    Hoglat shrugged. "Then call it Jews' Salem."
    Mephiboshet stroked his beard for a moment, then broke out in a boyish grin. "Jewsalem. Sounds catchy. I'll pitch it to the king."

THE KING needed convincing.
    "It's just not me. I like to be where it's at. This place sounds dull, dull, dull. Nobody would visit. My enemies would laugh." 
    Mephiboshet, prostrate in the presence of His Utmostness, refused to give up so easily. "Dull?! Do you have any idea what we have planned? This place is gonna be the center of the world! We're thinking of a Temple, a big one, surrounded by lots of little ones, to be called shtiebls. Great big ramparts, not for protection but for show, because tourists really get cranked up by that. We've penciled in parks and marketplaces and music halls and eateries and shopkeepers appealing to your every whim, with ample parking everywhere. Government complexes to serve your subjects, medical centers and cemeteries. Nu? What do you think now?"
    "I'm not sure..."
    "Right then: I've saved the best for last. Smack in the middle of it all we're going to pave a stately via named in your honor, with a fancy caravanserai everyone agrees we should call 'the King David.' "   
    "Hmmm..."
    In the nonce, Hoglat was at home, whipping up a mess o' parsnip-turnip soup, her husband's favorite. Hoglat was just about as steamed as the pot. If the king went for the idea, he would lose his kingdom. If he didn't, Mephiboshet would lose his job.
    As things were wont to happen in those days, at that very minute, an auspicious guest appeared at her door: Morag of Ziklag, the illustrious shikse oracle who correctly predicted King Saul's marital problems.
    Hoglat invited her in. "Tea?"
    "If it be no trouble," Morag said.
    "So what's new?"
    Hoglat sighed. "My foolish husband is right now trying to convince the king he should ruin my life."
    "Tsk."
    "He really believes a great city will rise up where even fig trees don't have much chance. You should hear him talk: 'In three thousand years --'"
     Morag smiled. "We'll see about that. You got any fresh vegetable peelings?"
    Hoglat was puzzled. "Just parsnips and turnips. Why?"
    "I interpret them. You know -- to predict the future."
    Morag analyzed the scraps, and slipped into a trance. After many minutes she spoke: "I see..."
    "What? What?"
    "... a McDonald's." And then she snapped out of the trance.
    Hoglat did not understand. Understandably. "That's all you can tell me about Jewsalem three thousand years from now?"
    Morag shrugged. "Maybe you have an onion? I work much better with onion skins."
    The clairvoyant could now see it all: a great, white sprawling city, housing as many people as had fled Egypt. "And I see a great Temple. With a golden dome. And a sign."
    "A sign?"
    "It says, 'No Jews.' "
    "Odd."
    "There's a celebration. The city is festooned with banners and pennants. Upon each is written 'Jerusalem 3000.'"
    Hoglat whooped. "He was right! My Mephiboshet is a true prophet! He will lead his people to the wilderness and establish there a metropolis, and all the goyim shall come and pay homage to our tribe, to our king, to my husband! O, Beelzebub, what wonderment!"
    "Whoa, there. I don't exactly see universal homage from the peoples of the world. In fact -- give me another onion skin -- yes, it looks to me like one big smug snub."
    Hoglat gasped. "The king should be alerted. Immediately."
    "Honey, that's three thousand years off. There's not much he can do about it now."
    "At the very least, can you tell me, has my husband's greatness been remembered through the ages? Is the name 'Mephiboshet' on the lips of every Jerusalemite three thousand years hence?"
    Morag did not answer.
    "Nu?"
    Morag cleared her throat. "Not even as a street name."

WHEN THE king's agent returned home later that night, he was in a pretty good mood.
    "Guess what?" he said to his wife.
    She answered: "King David is going to establish his capital city exactly where you suggested, and it will perpetuate for eternity, growing so mighty it will one day have a McDonald's."
    A little deflated, Mephiboshet responded tartly: "So. The little wife seems to know more than I."
    Hoglat told him the bad news: that he was doomed to be forgotten, unappreciated, denied even a smidgeon of historic credit. "I mean, even Rehav, a nobody, seems to have a neighborhood named after him. But you? Nothing."
    "Ah, who cares anyway. The important thing is, the future of the tribe is assured. The king shall have his city. And, I get a helluva commission."       
    That did please Hoglat, and Mephiboshet saw it was good, and they lived happily ever after.
    As did the whole House of Israel, more or less.