7
The mood in the office was boisterous—our boss was on vacation. One colleague had even brought in cake to celebrate the occasion. I, too, did nothing except click through the entire Internet. Then I decided to call Sami in California from the office phone. I went into the kitchen and shut the door behind me. It was the only non-air-conditioned room in the building, so I opened the fridge door and stood in front of it for a while.
He answered on the first ring and didn’t bother with small talk, but got right down to business: “I can’t do this any longer. An Arab moved in next door.”
“So what?”
“Come on, Masha. You know how it is. He’s a real Arab, born and raised in Egypt.”
“But isn’t that what you are?”
“Precisely. When he found out, that’s when the shit hit the fan. He started inviting me over all the time, coming over unannounced, constantly borrowing stuff and never giving it back. At some point he found out that Minna is Palestinian and spat at my feet.”
“What?”
“He spat at my feet.” Sami laughed. “And you know what? That wasn’t all.”
“What else?” I asked.
“He also gave a little speech. You fled and left your land, your houses, and your families behind. The only reason you’re still alive is that you took up with the occupying forces.” As Sami recited this speech in Arabic he imitated the Egyptian accent, pronouncing the words especially hard and talking so fast and loud that it sounded hysterical. I couldn’t stop laughing, especially since Sami normally attached such importance to his Lebanese accent, which was softer and quieter than the Egyptian one. “Then he started insulting me as the representative of all Palestinians. You gotta hear this. Cowards, a disgrace to the Arab people, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. And then the highlight: Your daughters are sleeping with Jews.”
I fell silent.
“Masha, are you still there?”
“What did you say?” I asked hesitantly.
“That this is complete bullshit. That my daughters would never sleep with Jews, that I didn’t even have a daughter. Besides, that I’ve slept with a Jew. And not only slept with. Loved.” This last part Sami said very quietly, hardly audible.
Elias stood next to me, completely immersed in cutting vegetables, his movements fast and precise. His bangs had grown out, so that he looked a little like Harry Potter.
I choked, tears welling up. I could have said something, but instead I reached out for Elias and asked, “Then what?”
“Well, yesterday somebody scrawled a swastika onto my front door.”
I thought of an incident in an American zoo: A boy was so enraptured with a baby penguin that he sneaked into the compound and stuffed him into his backpack. The penguin suffocated. Sami had told me this story, when I told him for the first time that I liked him, by which I meant, loved. He never forgave me for using that word. Rightly so, as I was to find out later.
The next day I called in sick, went up to the deck, and looked out at the ocean. The water shimmered. The air was warm. I went back to bed.
I forced myself to call my parents. The conversations were a drag, but I was still playing the role of successful daughter. Except that they didn’t buy it anymore and had begun searching for cracks in the paint. But my grief was no illness and Israel no sanatorium. My father had even sent me a telescope that almost didn’t make it through customs.
And all along, I didn’t know why I couldn’t just talk to them. A few minutes into a conversation and I’d already had enough. Had nothing to say and wasn’t listening anymore. Ironic, as I made my living from listening. I wished that I could show more interest and care for them, but I neglected them and lied to them about the state I was in.
On the other hand, when I talked with my mother on the phone, sometimes I was hit by a longing for a home, even if I didn’t know where that was. What I desired was a familiar place. In general, I didn’t think too highly of familiar places. To me, the term homeland always implied pogrom. What I longed for were familiar people. Except that one of them was dead and the others I couldn’t stand anymore. Because they were alive.
Tal and I were watching the sunset. The air covered us like a duvet. This time the sun set without dramatic changes of light. The waves swam toward the shore and the light slowly disappeared behind the bulwarks. Everything was in its place, the beach empty with the exception of a few couples and the rare jogger.
She lay right in front of me, head turned to the side, eyes closed. I watched her belly rise and fall. Two large birds were tattooed into her shoulder blades, black and precisely drawn. They might have been blackbirds or bluethroats. She had tied her hair in a bun, revealing the tattoo on her neck—four tiny Hebrew letters: aleph, he, beth, he. Ahava. Love. I began massaging her back, first along the spine, then the shoulders and arms. When I looked at Tal I felt slightly nervous and sick to my stomach, accompanied by a faint gag reflex. Maybe I simply had to fill in a blank and Tal was as good as any.
Tal let out a contented moan and slowly relaxed. I opened her bikini top. My fingers now kneaded specific muscles, then I stroked her back with my flat palm and finally I bent down and traced her back with my mouth, from tailbone to neck.
A military plane passed over us and left a white condensation trail in the sky.
“Maybe they’re finally off to bomb Iran.”
I couldn’t tell if she was joking.
“A Douglas A4,” Tal said.
The condensation trail dissolved. I took a sip from the water bottle in my bag. A cool breeze swept by. I lay down on top of her and breathed in the scent of her skin.