Martyrs’ Crossing (43 page)

One good thing, though, and the thing that kept the friend's friend in business, was that the car had yellow Israeli plates instead of blue West Bank plates. It meant that you could go anywhere in the car. Yes, yes, you risked a stoning on the West Bank if people didn't look hard before they threw their rocks, if they assumed you were Israeli—but still the plates were invaluable once you were inside Israel. They added one more positive element to the package Mahmoud had put together to get himself and his nephew across the checkpoint this morning.

He had taken every measure available. He and Jibril had both shaved off their moustaches in order to appear less threateningly Palestinian, because it was well known that the Israelis thought any youngish man with a moustache was a probable terrorist. In the backseat, they had stowed Adnan's wife and her sister and their mother, all three of whom had Jerusalem passes. Women, especially sainted grandmas, provided additional authentication of innocence. Men with wives were also considered a less likely threat than single men. A valid Jerusalem pass could come in handy, though it could also be ignored, if the soldiers felt like it. A granny's pass was less likely to be challenged than anyone else's. And, oh, if only you could get some small children on the bandwagon, that was even better, but Mahmoud had looked around, and none was available. They were all in school, for heaven's sake, when they could have been making themselves useful.

“This is easy,” Jibril said, as they drove down Kakal. He giggled nervously. He checked under the attaché case at his feet. There were the handcuffs, borrowed from a friend who worked for the section of the Chairman's security force that occasionally employed Jibril. Under the handcuffs, the knife.

“This part is easy,” Mahmoud said. The knife made him edgy. He was glad that the women had already been dropped off at Damascus Gate to go shopping.

Where was this nut of a soldier going? That's what Mahmoud wanted to know. He seemed to be headed right into Palestinian territory. Just as well, from Mahmoud's point of view, but pretty weird for an Israeli soldier.

What? Turning right here? The man was heading for East Jerusalem! Mahmoud didn't understand, but then he saw it. The American Colony Hotel. Mahmoud quickly decided to park the car on the little road across from the hotel's driveway, in front of the work sites for the new hotels. He certainly wasn't going to risk anything here in this hornet's nest of security guys and undercover people and UN forces. It was way too public and international. He'd probably end up getting interviewed by CNN with the cuffed soldier standing behind him, or something.

“What are we doing?” Jibril asked.

“We'll just wait,” said Mahmoud. “I don't think he's checking in.”

Jibril laughed. He jiggled his foot under the attaché case again and drummed his long fingers on the black rubber of the car's window frame.

•  •  •

D
ORON WALKED INTO
the lobby of the American Colony Hotel. He'd heard about the place—den of iniquity was the consensus among his friends, on those rare occasions when the hotel happened to come up in conversation. Filled with Israel bashers, hatching their evil plots. But he didn't buy anyone's propaganda anymore. The butt of his gun was biting into his back. He tried to adjust it, but it kept pinching.

The hotel was conveniently located down the street from Orient House, the unacknowledged Jerusalem headquarters of the Authority. That was the beauty of it for the Palestinians. They could sneak away from what Doron assumed were their ugly warrens of renovated offices inside beautiful old Orient House and go have a long lunch at the hotel, consort with foreign women, be toasted, feel classy and important, maybe even powerful for a few minutes. He understood. Doron had counseled the police on security for one of the Israeli demonstrations against Orient House last year; he had passed by the hotel in his Humvee, but never gone in. Never even thought about going in.

He had felt odd in his Palestinian wardrobe in Ramallah, but here, in full Israeli uniform with a few medals pinned on and his service pistol visibly tucked into his belt, he felt like some kind of towering monster. Why was he taller than everyone in the lobby? He had made himself into an object of scrutiny, derision, and fear. He wanted it, though—he wanted to be as much of an Israeli soldier as was possible, and he had done it. The men and women milling around seemed like figures seen from a great height, pea-sized and alien. They were carrying dolls' accessories, tiny briefcases and little cups of coffee, and they smoked magical cigarettes: how could anything so small actually be lit, and send off smoke? He saw his immense hands hanging at his sides as he gazed down on the women, who wore little Barbie high heels and seemed to teeter. Did he hear these miniature beings talking? They made a continuous squeaking sound in his ears, like mice at a cocktail party.

Doron looked down at them and they all were looking up at him, taking him in. He wanted to hide from their stares, but of course, he was too big to hide: where was he to run for cover—through a door that would turn out to be a mouse hole?

He was here to take responsibility as an Israeli soldier, and then to surrender his Israeli soldierhood. Take my gun.

He wanted to surrender his gun to the enemy because the enemy was no longer his enemy. The enemy was a two-year-old in a Ninja sweatshirt.

Doron tried to stay still and self-contained in that tiny lobby, and not cause any damage. But he had to find Raad, if Raad was here.

He lumbered toward the reception desk. Why did no one at reception seem to notice the huge creature who required their attention?

“Excuse me,” he said, in English, so as not to offend with his Hebrew, but of course, he reminded himself, the uniform was enough offense. He got no response.

“Slicha,”
he amended, switching to Hebrew.

A young man in an impeccable hotel jacket looked over at him with cold eyes, and then looked away again.

“Oh, come on,” Doron said, switching back to his stilted English. “I want just to call one of your guests.”

The only woman behind the desk approached him—slowly and cautiously, it was true, but at least she was headed his way.

“Yes, who is it, please?” she asked.

“George Raad,” he said.

All three receptionists looked at Doron.

“Well?” he said.

The woman looked at one of the men, and he shrugged at her.

“I'll connect you,” the woman said.

•  •  •

G
EORGE WAS PLAYING
solitaire. He was sitting on the bed with his legs crossed and his hair in disarray, his back bent over at an angle that wasn't comfortable. But you had to, for solitaire. This was the time-honored position, the way he'd always sat down to the game. He liked solitaire, loved it, really. Because if he wasn't winning, he could just out-and-out cheat, which you couldn't do in a game where other people might notice and not take so liberal a view of your cheating as you yourself did. He had tried solitaire once on Philip's computer, but when he realized you couldn't rearrange the cards on that program, he gave up in disgust. The
fun
of the game was cheating. Cheating the cards, cheating fate. What a preposterous idea. But if he could not do a switcheroo, it took everything out of it for George.

Things on the bedspread had come to a stalemate. He dealt himself a seven of hearts. No earthly use.

Let's just slip ourselves the jack of spades or clubs here instead of that damn black ten we keep getting, shall we? He lifted his sleeve and looked at the new gauze pad he had put on his arm. Bloody again. Must be the anticoagulant. Was it an emergency? he wondered. Let's ignore it. Jack of spades, it was.

The fun of being alone, too. Playing alone. No one to fuck you up.

Plus of course you had to win or there would be another heart attack.

I am not winning here.

Oh, let's give the cards one more chance, George thought, reserving the jack of spades under a finger, but leaving it in the deck. This was an extremely fraudulent magic trick. Why the pretense, George? he asked himself. But he always did it this way.

He drew a four of diamonds.

“Shit,” he muttered.

“Are you winning?” Philip called across the room. Philip knew that George always won in the end.

“Yeh-sss,” George growled at him. He slipped the jack of spades out of the deck into the place it rightly should have occupied all along, if only fate were on his side, which it wasn't, was it? Don't let that thought into your head.

In solitaire, the way George played it, you had only yourself to blame.

The phone rang.

“Pick it up, will you, Philip?” George said. His concentration was fierce as he played out the round. Now that the jack was in place, everything was working smoothly. Red, black, red, black.

Ta-da, he thought to himself, as he put the final king on each of the four final stacks. He looked down with satisfaction.

“Again,” he said to himself. As he began shuffling for a rematch, George watched Philip on the phone.

Philip put his hand over the mouthpiece.

“He won't say who he is, Doctor,” he said in a loud whisper.

George began laying out the new game.

“So tell him I'm busy.”

“It's an Israeli, I think.”

“Tell him I'm
very
busy.” George smiled at Philip over his glasses.

“I think it might be an official, or something,” Philip said. “Speaks English, and quite secretive.”

“You think I should talk to him?” George asked.

“I think.”

George turned over a disappointing hand including not only the three of clubs and the three of spades but also the fours of both those suits, and picked up the receiver. He pulled at his sock.

“Yes?” he said.

“Hello, Dr. Raad?”

“Yes,” George said. It was something untoward or sinister, he felt it immediately. He stopped adjusting his sock. Philip came over.

“Who is this?” George asked. The accent on the other end was heavily Hebrew, and the voice was very quiet and low.

“Um, I don't know how to say this.”

“Well, just go ahead,” George said, dealing out his hand. Why was an Israeli calling him, and wasting his time?

“Come on,” George said. “Speak.”

“I was the commanding officer at the checkpoint the other night.”

Three of clubs, three of spades. George kept his eyes down.

“My God,” George said into the receiver. “My God. . . .” Then he thought: But was it some crank? Some insane nutter?

“Tell me your name,” George said.

“Doron. Ari Doron,” Doron said. “I'm downstairs.”

“Oh, Christ,” George said. “Why?”

“I wanted to see you,” Doron said.

“Why?” George said. He shook his head at Philip, who stood near the bed, watching the conversation. George's heart fluttered in a disorganized way. So this was to be the end of the story, he thought.

“Just to, explain, or, I don't know, apologize, or . . .”

“I feel this is very awkward,” George said. His spine stiffened, and yet there was the curiosity, he felt that, too. Would George want to kill this man if he saw him? Well, would he? Would he hate him? George hated him now.

“Please.” There was a pause. “Would you come down?” The man was pleading. For what?

George hesitated. He unhooked his legs and dropped his feet to the floor. What would it mean to see this man? Did the soldier wish him harm? That was possible, too, he supposed. In
this
world, anything was possible, even likely.

“You wait there,” George said. “I can't decide like this. It's too sudden, or something. You wait. And if I come down, then, then I come down. That's how I can do this. If I can do this at all.”

“Okay,” said the soldier. “All right. I will wait.”

Ole rrrrrhite, George repeated to himself. I
weeel
wait.

•  •  •

D
ORON WAS TRYING
to hide near the newspaper rack in a corner of the lobby where sentimental watercolors of Jerusalem were on display on a series of stand-alone easels. But people kept coming up to find or return a paper, and when they saw him there, lurking and cowering, they turned away, or looked at him with loathing.

But I'm here to humiliate myself, he wanted to tell them.

He kept his eye on the stairway that came up into the lobby from the elevator bank near the bar.

It felt like an assignation. Would the beloved show up? He was frightened that Raad would not come. And he was plain frightened of Raad and that superior stare he had seen on the book jacket. The man would not be impressed by Doron's humility. It would be a miracle if he came down, really. But Doron was counting on curiosity. Oh, fuck, what he really wanted desperately was coffee! You couldn't be in this setting and not want coffee. Everyone in the lobby was drinking coffee. But Doron didn't dare try to order it. He couldn't meet another look of disdain without running away.

The watercolor canvases that nearly hid him from view showed a sun-drenched Jerusalem—monuments and temples, all built of pale pink stone and sprayed over with a spatter of blue skies and yellow sun, and gleams and patches of pink and pale blue. Looking at them while he waited, Doron felt disoriented. Who is right? he wondered. The person who painted those, or me? Does Raad think Jerusalem is like that or could be like that or once was
like that?
Was this some kind of
Palestinian
fantasy? Probably this is their image of Jerusalem
without the Jews.

Jerusalem is a dark place—Doron always felt it. Even when there was sunlight, the city was stony and rubble-strewn. Even here, at midday, at the hotel, dark was descending, he felt that. Well, at this time of year it
was
dark. He liked dark. He liked those dark corners of stone walls in Yemen Moshe near the old windmill, the angles where the walls meet the stone pathways, and black pebbles and old dirt and bits of gray mortar and old piles of pigeon shit seem to grow like lichen, unprepossessing and unstoppable. Doron was sick of the domes and monuments and holy fucking places. The landmarks of Jerusalem are checkpoints, watchtowers, prisons and crowded unpleasant markets, pedestrian malls, and playgrounds dotted with dog shit. I know, I know. I know the dry, sagging willows overhanging the unused railroad tracks: I
know
those old trees. Don't show me rays of sunlight, and warm walks. I drive a piece of shit through long tunnels to get to ring roads, and I park in dark piss-smelling underground lots. Let's be honest. The real holy place of Jerusalem is some square little colorless synagogue in a remote undistinguished neighborhood, or an unwelcoming cement-block mosque across from a kindergarten, or that Russian immigrant church he had noticed once, down a forbidding alley off Bezalel, with a blond prostitute standing outside, one naked leg exposed to the cold through a slit in her skirt. The real holy place is Best Buy.