Martyrs’ Crossing (44 page)

•  •  •

T
HAT'S HIM
. George stood at the bottom of the stair. In the corner over there. It wasn't as if there were any question about it. The man was in uniform, for Chrissakes. George had never seen anything so arrogant before. And yet the soldier seemed to be trying to hide.

Maybe someone called him a name, George thought.

Maybe someone stuck out his tongue at him.

The fellow had a kind of courage, to come
here,
and to see
him.

Doron picked up his head. He looked searchingly at the door that led away to the elevator near the bar.

George watched him from the other side of the room. Doron was looking for
George,
of course, George realized. The soldier was tall, well made, handsome in uniform, like a propaganda poster's soldier for Zion. My fate, George thought. He contemplated the soldier, quietly. A big boy, he thought—could be Leila's dead son.

And there he was. So very imposing. What was this calm that was washing over George like lake water? It was the same as the quiet he felt in Dr. Rodef's waiting room, on Dr. Rodef's table. The peace of recognition, he told himself. Maybe I should just turn around before he sees me, and go back to my room and finish that bad hand. That's what I'll do. And he had just begun to turn when Doron saw the movement out of the corner of his eye, and turned to him, and started to come across the lobby.

George shook his head. No! Jesus, everyone was watching the soldier. Doron understood immediately, and moved back near his corner, sitting at one of the low brass coffee tables there, behind the newspaper rack. George walked over to reception and picked up his messages. He made a reservation in the dining room for the evening. Anything to put off the inevitable moment and to deflect attention. George hated the man for dressing like that. It was bravura. Yet he admired the soldier's courage.

George walked out into the courtyard, past the fishpond, and then around through the other entrance, past the bar and the bathrooms, and finally into the lobby from the hallway Doron had been watching. He sidled past the bad watercolors into a chair at Doron's table.

And then he didn't know what to say.

They looked at each other, then both looked quickly down.

“So?” George said, finally. He shut his eyes tightly for a moment.

“I brought you something,” Doron said in English. He pulled the plastic bag out of his pocket and uncrumpled it. A grocery bag? thought George. An odd gift. George watched the soldier's big, strong hands flatten the plastic against the brass table. He seems so competent, George thought. The soldier took the bag and put it behind his back.

What
is
this? George asked himself. In a day filled with bad magic tricks, was this another?

Doron brought the bag back in front of him, and laid it on the table. Now there was something in it.

“There,” Doron said, pushing the bag toward George. This is unseemly, George thought. But he took it.

He knew immediately what was inside. The shape was unmistakable. He felt the tip of the muzzle, the stubby barrel, the sweep of the trigger guard, and the hard, smooth butt. He looked up at the soldier.

“What for?” he asked.

“Oh,” the soldier said, trying to seem cool and remote. “To do with whatever you like.” But he looked wounded.

“Is it loaded?” George asked. Must be practical, after all.

“Yes, it is.”

“And what do
you
suggest I do with it?” he asked Doron.

“Whatever.” The soldier looked away from the table. “It's yours.”

George looked at the soldier. His eyes were downcast, and his long lashes were like a child's. I don't even know how to shoot a gun, George thought. Don't tell Grandfather. Anyway, George supposed, it couldn't be too hard. I mean, look who usually shoots them.

“I don't even know how to shoot a gun,” George said aloud. Does he think I'm some kind of a Vengeful Arab? There were plenty of people George would like to see dead. For example, right now, George wanted to kill the soldier in the way people usually say that: I just want to
kill
him! But he didn't actually want to
kill
him. This soldier was not someone whom he had ever imagined in a pool of blood. He wondered why not.

Doron looked up again. Raad was more wasted and handsome in person than on television, Doron thought. Hollows in the cheeks. Yellowed teeth. And those deep black eyes, like sultans' pools, and the incredible haughty demeanor that was not intended or cruel but was somehow superior and condescending. Don't even know how to shoot a gun. The sound of Raad's voice echoed in Doron's ears. As if knowing how were somehow wrong. . . . Maybe he'll shoot me—that's one way to learn how: use it. Doron thought. And is that what I want? he asked himself. Is that what I'm searching for? To put myself up on the block for retribution? Doron wanted to tell everyone that he was sorry, but he knew it wasn't enough. He didn't want to die, didn't want to be someone's target practice—he wanted coffee, and to
live
for a long time, but with an innocent conscience. What he wanted was impossible. He looked at George. What was the Arab thinking?

Oh, Yizhar would be angry, so hopping mad. No contact with the relatives, that was one of the rules. If there was ever another meeting in his office, Yizhar would definitely take out his gun and not hesitate to use it, especially if Doron were to tell him that he knew, he knew who had given him his orders.

“What were you thinking?” George asked.

Doron tried to focus on him again. He had thought their meeting was at an end. He looked up.

“I'm sorry,” Doron said. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, what were you thinking on the night my grandson died?” He was the first person George had dared to ask a specific question about the incident. Not Marina, because it would hurt her. Not Sheukhi, because it hurt George. But this fellow, yes, because he was so obviously in some kind of pain, himself, already, and, as he had put it, he was the commanding officer.

Doron looked down at his hands lying flat on the table.

“You don't really want to know.”

“No, you're wrong. I do,” George said.

“I was thinking that this can't be happening.”

“But it was.”

“Yes. I was thinking, This can't be my fault.”

“But it was.” George felt bad saying this, but it did give him some pleasure to see the man wince.

“Yes, it was.”

“My daughter will never recover.”

“I know. Believe me.”

George could see that what had happened weighed heavily on this person who was sitting here in front of him with his big manly hands and solid, upstanding mien. Good. He deserved to suffer. Ayie noh. Beleef me. He couldn't seriously think that George was either going to forgive him or to execute him here in the lobby of the American Colony Hotel, splattering blood all over the watercolors and inconveniencing the reception desk, but still, just being here showed the beginnings of a proper desire for
some
kind of atonement.

Doron sat there, looking down at his hands through long lashes.

George fiddled with the gun through the plastic bag.

“Why don't you go now,” George said, finally.

“What?” Doron asked.

“Why don't you just go now? You've done what you came here to do.”

Doron looked at the bag in George's hands.

“Yes, you're right.” He stood. “I'll be going, then.”

George stood also. The correctness was habitual.

Doron stood there on the other side of the table and openly stared into George's eyes.

George looked back, unfazed.

“Yes,” he said, in answer to something unasked. “I'm one of the ones you hurt.”

Doron kept looking.

“Now, go,” George said.

Doron nodded. Without a backward glance, he turned smartly on his polished heel and went.

•  •  •

G
EORGE WENT UP
to his room, carrying the bag from the Israeli supermarket up the long staircase. Ahmed is on Jabal Il-Aalam, he was remembering, that empty, disputed hill between Jerusalem and Bethlehem. Har Olam, the Israelis called it—the Hill of the World. Ahmed on his high hill. Making another grand gesture. Har Olam was not more than fifteen minutes from the hotel. George let himself into the room.

Philip was standing in front of the French windows. He looked at George.

“It's okay, Philip,” George said. “I'm fine. He was far better than Sheukhi, I must say.”

“Well, what did he say?”

George shrugged. “Let's talk about it later, okay?” Sometimes Philip's curiosity got the better of his sense of decorum. “Are you going out?” Philip had his jacket on.

“To Jaffa Gate, for souvenirs,” Philip said, with a smile of self-deprecation.

“Blunderbusses and sabers, Philip,” George said. “You can buy them there, right next to the menorahs and the tee shirts that say, you know, ‘Shalom ya'll,' et cetera.”

Philip smiled.

“And what do we have in the bag?” Philip asked.

“Oh, a blunderbuss.” George set the bag down next to the bed and plunked himself down heavily in front of his laid-out game. You can never get away with anything with Philip around. The cards shifted slightly, and George began carefully realigning them.

“A blunderbuss?” Philip raised his eyebrows.

“Don't worry, Philip.”

“I worry.”

“I'm not a little boy.”

“I know.”

“I'll be careful. I won't do anything foolish.”

“Maybe I shouldn't go out.” Philip started taking off his jacket.

“Philip.”

“You seem on edge.”

“That's my own business. You go on out, now, and leave me alone.”

“But . . .” Philip hesitated, his arm halfway out of the jacket sleeve.

“Go . . .”

“You . . .”

“I'm just going to sit here and finish my game, okay?”

Philip stood there, vacillating.

“Philip, I'm fine. I'm not going to whack myself, just yet. So get the hell out, now, will you?” George smiled a nonsmile at him, and started turning over cards. “Go do your errands.”

“All right,” Philip said. He sounded sad. He began buttoning his jacket.

“Don't put that plaintive tone in your voice, for Chrissake, Philip. I'm
fine.
I'll see you in an hour or so. You'll have your arms laden with goodies, and I'll be sitting here winning another round. Okay? Go on, there's a good boy.”

“Okay, okay,” Philip said, and walked out the door.

“Good,” George said out loud, staring blankly at his cards.

He knew just what he was going to do. It might be an impulse, or it might be his last unswerving belief. But the means had just been put into his hands, and he was finding it uncharacteristically difficult to argue with that. He thought he'd take a taxi.

•  •  •

“T
HERE HE GOES,”
said Jibril.

Mahmoud had already started the car. “Yeah. We're lucky his car is so recognizable, eh?” He wondered what Doron could have possibly been doing in there for so long. It wasn't a place where they welcomed Israeli soldiers.

“Hard to miss,” said Jibril. He rubbed the stubble under his nose. It felt itchy and unaccustomed.

“I am
so
glad your grandmother is taking the bus home with the others,” Mahmoud said.

“You're a good planner, Uncle.”

The boy always knew
just
what to say.

They were traveling up Nablus Road back toward the Hyatt when they heard a huge explosion.

“Sonic boom?” Jibril said to Mahmoud.

“I don't think so.” If it was a bomb, that was a problem. Bombs always complicated life on the ground. For Palestinians, anyway. And it didn't take long.

“Sounded pretty huge, no?” Jibril said.

“Who knows?” Mahmoud said. “Depends where it was. If it was really near, that wasn't such a big sound, but if it was far away, it could be very very huge.” He hoped it was a sonic boom. Bombs made life difficult for everyone, especially for people who needed to get across the checkpoint. But he knew it was not a sonic boom. He looked over at Jibril.

Jibril was smiling.

Why did young people like destruction so very much? Mahmoud wondered.

The Israelis were right to try to keep the young ones out.

D
ORON TURNED OFF NABLUS ROAD
and went past the hulk of the Hyatt toward the road to Ramallah. If I don't think about it, I'll get there. Just drive straight, straight, straight. We've done this before, Ari. Watch the road. Don't hit any schoolchildren. Don't get back-ended by any pickups. Watch the lights.