Yasmine (31 page)

Ghadir was murdered, her body shattered against the rock on which she used to sit with her sheep around her. A local Arab woman, probably a neighbour, was waiting for me at the office to give me the terrible news. I informed the police and then made my way to the foot of Mount Scopus. Ghadir’s broken body was still lying on the boulder, helpless under the wide blue skies and the hot sun, covered with her darkening, drying blood. Who killed her? Her husband? Her cousin Karim? Her father? Or all three?

I couldn’t work. I said I was taking a few days off, went home, disconnected the phone and closed the shutters. I lay in bed, tormented by the thought that I had failed to save her.

After two days my doorbell rang and there was an impatient knocking on the door. It was the postman with a registered letter from the Income Tax Department. The next afternoon again there was a knock, much softer but persistent. Finally I opened the door and there was Levanah. I was unshaved, dishevelled, in a sweaty pyjama top and shorts, the room stank of smoke, the kitchen was a mess, but without a word she put down on the table a newspaper with a photo of a bloodstained rock. I recalled that not long before, when I stormed in
demanding to see the Minister after my exchange with Haramati, I had told her about Ghadir. She connected the dots.

Levanah opened all the windows and the door to the balcony, rolled up her sleeves, washed the coffee dregs from the cups, and tidied up the flat as if she knew it well. Then she sat with me in silence for a long time, without asking why I’d shut myself away. I didn’t say anything either. What could I say? Suddenly she got up, said, “I’ll be right back,” and returned with her arms full of groceries.

“Will you eat supper with me?” she asked and set the table. I nodded.

“Nuri, come back to work. You’re needed.”

“You look pale,” Aliza said when I returned to my office. My desk was heaped with letters and a stack of newspapers.
Al-Quds
did not report the murder, and
Al-Wattan
had only a brief notice: “The body of a young woman was found at the foot of Mount Sacobos.” No name or address, no possible motive for the murder or the killer’s identity. Nothing.

Aliza buzzed me. “Haramati wants you.”

“Later. I’m busy.”

“He called yesterday and again this morning. Talk to him or he’ll keep on phoning.” She tranferred his call.

“Good morning, my dear friend. How are you? It’s been a while since I heard from you, and I didn’t see you at the meeting of the consultative team yesterday. I have some good news. I can tell you it was a tough debate, but I told them, I’d bend over backwards for him, believe me, I said we can’t turn down a request from a respected member of our team. I put it as a personal favour to me, you see? The poor woman was so
desperate, she even approached the director general. Well, never mind, how could she know about our procedures? In the end I managed to persuade the committee to approve the application. We’ll inform her officially, of course, but I wanted you to be the first to hear.”

“She’s been murdered.”

“What? When? Who murdered her?”

“Probably her husband. She didn’t want to follow him to Amman,” I said and slammed down the receiver. Damn you to hell, I cursed him silently, may your shrivelled soul be stained with her spilt blood.

In the evening I went to Mount Scopus – and there was Ghadir sitting on the boulder, in a black dress that was turning gold in the light of the setting sun. I was stunned. Then I remembered a passage from the
Book of Legends
: “Said the prophet Jeremiah: On my way to Jerusalem, I looked up and I saw a woman sitting on top of the mountain, dressed in black and her hair loosed, crying and pleading, who would console her? And I too am crying and pleading, who will console me?”

When I approached I saw that the woman was not a spirit, nor was she Ghadir – it was her mother Fathiya. “Come, son, sit with me,” she said. She told me that after our visit to Ghayna, Karim, Ghadir’s cousin, began to visit their hut in Wadi al-Joz. He said he loved her, that she had been promised to him when she was eight, and he would not give her up. “He was full of lust, like a wandering Bedou. He followed her, shouted at her, threw a tantrum once when she visited your office. I did not keep silent. I told him you were kinder to her than ten brothers.

“Then one day, one evil day, Issam her husband also showed
up, may God break his neck. He said he had slipped across the border to take her back to Amman. He found Karim at my place and they went out to the mountain. After many hours passed and they did not come back I went to look for her, and found her here on the rock…I begged our neighbour to go to your office and tell you…That is all, she is gone. Since then there has been no sign of Issam, may his name be erased, and Karim has also disappeared, may Allah cut off his head, and my husband too, may his days be short.” She fell silent, evening came down and soon all was dark. “I had only her, one ray of light, and they went and extinguished her too.” She sighed and stood up to leave.

Ghadir’s death elevated her in my mind, drew all the light to her, forced me to clarify to myself what I had taken for granted while she lived, to understand what I had unconsciously sensed in her.

I had always seen Ghadir as a sweet, appealing creature, an innocent girl-woman walking down a quiet marginal path, far from the centres of power and influence, simply living and letting others live, like a little bird under the sky, a flower of the field. In a way she was the opposite of Yasmine, the educated, analytical, political Yasmine, who lived at the heart of things and rallied to the flag.

I had always thought that the politicians, the aristos, ran the world. I didn’t think of the masses of ordinary people, those who led their own lives far from politics and untainted by its poisons, as factors in the unfolding of events, capable of leaving their mark on history.

When Ghadir died, this one little bird under the sky, a stream of pure water, brought back to my mind some lines from
Bialik’s poem, “Let me be a part of you”, which I had learned at the evening school for working boys:

Let me be a part of you, the humble of the world, the mute souls, Spinning their lives unseen, modest of thought and destiny…

Michelle’s mother died. When I phoned Michelle in Paris to say how sorry I was, she told me she planned to come back to Israel after the seven days of mourning, together with her fiancé Jean-Claude. But she kept on postponing her return, sending colourful postcards in which she complained she was lonely, bored and homesick for Jerusalem.

Reading between the lines I guessed that her relations with her fiancé were at a critical stage. To be honest, I missed her. I missed her energy and the racket she created around her, her nosy curiosity about my private life and her efforts to manage it, the gossip, the gourmet meals and pampering she gave me, and the sex that was always available. She asked, in her direct way, about my plans, but I evaded the issue. I never thought of her as my future wife.

In her absence Yasmine took her place in the youth village and worked full-time, though still as a volunteer. Caring for the children, and the responsibility laid upon her, brought her closer to the place and its staff. The director even phoned to thank me for “the excellent match”. But it was always very difficult to get hold of her. When I did, she would say, “I’ll phone you,” which I interpreted as “Don’t call us, we’ll call you,” American-style. My stomach tightened at the thought that she might not.

I was wrong. In the weeks leading up to Passover she phoned often, almost every day, if only for a quick chat during working hours. Our talks, especially the long ones at night, when we would exchange ideas and views, warmed my heart and I lived in anticipation of them. We talked about everyday matters, the women’s magazine she wanted to launch, work, the family, even the weather. We didn’t clash on political issues and our exchanges were relaxed, intimate, caressing.

One day I was out for a walk in the quiet lanes of Sheikh Jarrah, taking a break from the pressures of work, when I ran into Yasmine, smiling and surprised to see me. I was so delighted that I had to stop myself rushing to take her in my arms. She said she’d heard about an explosion in the Mahaneh Yehudah market, and decided to come to my office, instead of telephoning, to see if all was well.

“The market again!” I said. “Today is Thursday…I hope my mother didn’t go there.” Despite all the string-pulling, our parents still did not have a phone. Yasmine ran with me to the office and I turned on the radio – still no details – so I phoned the sector commander and was told that the bomb had gone off on Agrippas Street. A falafel seller and a postman, who just happened to replace his colleague that day, were killed, and several people were injured. I tried to reassure myself: Mother did not shop in that street, she usually made her purchases in the Iraqi market on the Jaffa Road-side, some distance from the site of the explosion. This was a re-run of what had happened the time I had driven to Katamon like a madman.

“Why don’t you go home and make sure?” Yasmine suggested. “I’ll come with you if you like.” I agreed but only in part. First I took her home and then rushed to Katamon. Thank God, Mother hadn’t gone to the market that day.

And so Yasmine’s boycott of my office was broken. She would walk in sometimes, usually in the evening after a long day’s work, and we’d make a light supper. Standing side by side in the kitchen I longed to touch her shoulder, stroke her hair, take her arm, pass my finger over her crescent lips, but did not dare. Once her hand touched mine and they held together. A warm thrill passed through our fingers. We looked at each other, then lowered our eyes and returned to the task of washing and drying the glasses.

I was impressed by her dedication to the project of a youth village in Abu Dis. Without telling her, I asked Solly Levy of the Lands Registry to help find a plot of land for the purpose. He opened maps, checked this and that, and marked two possible locations. Then he suggested that Yasmine visit the plots with us and select the one that suited her. He promised to obtain the necessary permits. I couldn’t help myself, I ran to tell Yasmine but instead of rejoicing she said, “Thanks. I don’t want help from your side. It could damage the project.”

It felt like a stab in my flesh.

“Don’t be offended,” she said. “It’s not personal. I really appreciate what you’ve done, but…life is complicated.”

She’s crazy, I told myself. But, on the other hand, she had eased her boycott of West Jerusalem, and didn’t confine herself to the youth village, making her way there like a blinkered horse. Now she could be tempted to visit places. She asked to go to the Israel Museum to see an exhibition of Chinese painting, and once to visit the house of Anna Ticho, the artist. She wanted to sit in the Atarah café on Ben Yehudah Street, another time in Café Savyon near the Terra Sancta building. Besides the
pleasure of accompanying her, I enjoyed the admiring looks she attracted.

She suggested dining at Chez Simon. Needless to say, I couldn’t make head or tail of the menu, but she guided me confidently through the foreign dishes. The women in my life were turning me, a product of the immigrant camp, kibbutz and Katamon housing estate, into a connoisseur of fancy restaurants, and what Michelle left out Yasmine filled in. After the meal she insisted on paying. I felt like the proverbial plucked chicken, but when Yasmine made up her mind there was no moving her.

Another evening I suggested coffee at the YMCA. We walked slowly across the city park in the twilight and afterwards went up to the roof. There we stood all alone, and took in the surrounding view. The flood-lit Old City walls, the minarets and steeples, and the tops of the recently planted palm trees on the skyline, were mysterious and magical.

“It’s so beautiful,” she said. “My father brought me here when I was a child.”

“As for me, I couldn’t afford to be a member so I never went up on the roof. But I did sneak in to do my homework in winter, because the place was heated. I was always afraid they’d ask me for a membership card and throw me out.”

A pleasant Jerusalem evening breeze was blowing. I moved close to her and she put her head on my shoulder. Her breasts rose and her nostrils widened, as if she was smelling the orange blossom in the orchards. We stood like this for a long time, listening to the silence.

After I drove her home, she stepped out of the car without a word and we waved goodnight to each other, like a pair of undercover agents, acting with discretion.

I didn’t see Yasmine for the next two days, nor did she phone. When I asked for her at Al-Hurriyeh I was told she’d gone to Jericho. I longed for her and desired her like a boy in love for the first time. Yasmine awakened in me a virginal excitement, as if I’d never known a woman before.

After her return from Jericho a new chapter began in our relationship – without spelling it out, we began to act as a couple. We went together to concerts and films. She, like her father, was especially fond of the Edison cinema. “There’s something majestic about the spacious entrance hall, the lights, the big mirrors, the red upholstered seats. It has a special atmosphere, like an epic novel,” she said.

The first time we went to the Edison I was afraid that she would be disappointed, as the place had declined somewhat over the years, but she enjoyed it and liked to see and be seen in the foyer. “Suppose I hug you here,” she whispered, her face flushed, “in front of all these famous people, then everyone will know you have an Arab girlfriend.”

“You’re mistaken, they won’t know. With your Oxford English and your turquoise-blue eyes, they’ll be sure you’re a new immigrant. Some will envy me because of your beauty, and others because of your new immigrant privileges.” And then I let slip the words, “If you convert to Judaism and marry me…”

“Is it worth it? And what would your
mukhabarat
say?” she challenged me.

Studying her reflection in the big mirrors in the foyer, I reckoned she looked like a foreign tourist from a far away country. From time to time I had thought that my colleagues on the committee might be under the impression that Yasmine
was tapping me for secret information, like the legendary Mata Hari, although if anyone had said such a thing I’d have dismissed it out of hand. Everyone knew Abu George favoured co-existence, and was in touch with the “Colonel” and other figures in the Israeli establishment. My real worry was that Mother would be devastated if she found out about Yasmine. Then I’d say to myself, take it easy, nothing has happened between us yet.

When Yasmine brought me the book
The Dove’s Necklace – On Love and Lovers,
a masterpiece written in 11th-century Cordoba by the Arab author Ibn Hazm, I imagined that we would leaf through it together and enjoy its subtle treasures. I did not expect it to fall by the wayside while our love was swept into the vortex of a cataclysmic storm, overwhelming and devastating in its effects.

The evening began with a pleasant walk in the neighbourhood of my office and then we drove to the Intercontinental Hotel for a drink.

“I admire your courage in being seen with me in public,” I said to her.

“I have an obligation to be myself, and never mind what people say about me. And don’t forget I’m a widow. Anyway, I really don’t care.”

“What does your mother think about our meetings?”

“I haven’t told her. Don’t forget I lived on my own in Paris.”

“This isn’t Paris.”

“I’m a lost cause, anyway. A girl who is not married by the time she’s eighteen is already a cause for worry. If she’s divorced or widowed and approaching thirty, she’s had it. Remaining
single is considered shameful, but to me marrying an unsuitable man without love is out of the question, and my mother and father know this.”

“Where do young people in your community meet?”

“At the universities. They’re the chief match-making institutions. There contact between the sexes is open. We’re not such a backward society as your people like to think.”

I went to the bathroom, and when I returned she crossed her ankles and said to me with a provocative grin, “My lackadaisical conqueror, you’re not at all the same man I first met at the American Colony. Then you had a mischievous, greedy look in your eyes.” Her full lips laughed.

“I’ve learned to hide my intentions,” I replied and pressed my leg against hers under the table. I could feel her warmth.

“You know, after we visited the youth village together I went for my father – how could he let you exploit him, why was he seeking your help? Then I avoided all contact with you.”

“I remember. Thank God those days are behind us.”

“Then, when I began to work there, your name would come up in talks with Michelle. I could tell there was something between you two. I also had an idea that the pair of you were conspiring against me.”

I couldn’t understand why she was telling me these things now, and signalled to the waiter to bring another bottle of beer.

“That was how I felt until that day in Al-Hurriyeh when you amazed me with your knowledge of Nasser’s speeches. You probably don’t remember, but you were eating watermelon and I noticed your hands, your fingers – you have long fingers, like a musician – and I wanted to touch them, to stroke them,” she laughed. “The next time you talked about Um Kulthoum like a
poet in love. Then I said to myself, this is a different sort of Israeli, not like the others. But just then you stayed away, you kept your distance. I couldn’t understand why.” She fell silent and lit a cigarette.

There it is, I thought, she’s getting at me for that time when I learned to hide my feelings even from myself, though my soul felt tied to hers and my body burned for her, and every meeting with her was a celebration.

“I thought it was because of Michelle,” she said, putting out her cigarette.

“By the way, Michelle is getting married.”

“I know, she wrote to me.” She gulped down her beer. The omelette she had ordered was untouched.

“I’m sorry,” I said and wiped the puddle of condensation left by the beer bottle on the table. “My uncle, who was a prisoner in Iraq, arrived in Israel and I had to take care of him. I also tried to help in a case of family reunification for a shepherdess I knew on Mount Scopus. When she was murdered I blamed myself for failing to push her case through. I was miserable and shut myself at home. I wanted to quit everything.”

“Don’t take on the sorrows of all the world, you’re doing your best,” she said gently, and before I could explain that this wasn’t the way I felt, she cut me off: “Let’s go somewhere quiet. I can hardly hear what you’re saying.”

I suggested going to my place. I knew it was a serious matter for a woman like her, but I took a chance and she agreed.

Grushka was on the stairs, blocking our way.

“
Tali
ya
hilwe
, come, my beauty,” Yasmine said to her in Arabic and stroked her back. Grushka accepted the stranger’s gentle touch and revelled in the caresses.

I turned the light on inside and with a deep bow invited her to enter. “Please come in, your highness!” The place was immaculate – luckily I’d recently found a cleaning woman who took real pride in her work.

“What a nice, intimate studio,” she said and made a beeline for the Arabic shelf of my bookcase. She examined the spines, then took out
Al-Ayyam
, and leafed through it. “You like Taha Hussein?”

“Very much. I feel he has something in common with Agnon. You remember I lent you
The Doctor’s Divorce
, that my brother’s girlfriend Sandra translated into English?”

“Yes, a sad and complicated love story. I felt close to Dinah, the heroine. It’s beautifully written.”

We stepped out onto the balcony. My Orthodox neighbour was sitting opposite, on her own brightly-lit balcony, peeling potatoes. Her bearded husband was there too, bent over a big volume and rocking back and forth.

“He looks like a member of a Sufi order,” Yasmine commented.

“We’re cousins, after all…What will you have – arrack from Bethlehem, French liqueur or Scotch whisky?”

“
Yayin lekiddush
,” she said, and laughed.