The Celestial Gate

by Avital Dicker

  Anise

  Yesterday, during school recess, Eleanor screamed at her that she was a stinking Muslim Arab who only wanted to kill Jews and that she should quit being so stuck up just because she had blonde hair. Anise skipped school in the middle of the day and headed straight for home.

  She knew her mom was Arab. So what? In her class, there were Christian kids and Filipino kids. She’d grown up with them, with all of them, and nobody made any trouble for them. She was the only one who got picked on, all the time.

  It hadn’t been like that at first. As little kids, everyone played with everyone else and nobody cared where anyone was from. But, lately, the whole issue had become more and more problematic and the fact that, this past year, Eleanor had gotten fat and broken out in acne didn’t help. Besides, her mom wasn’t into religion. She was an atheist. And Mor, who was like a brother to her, was Christian on his mom’s side and Jewish on his dad’s.

  But that didn’t seem to matter, because all her friends were now keeping their distance. It really hurt. Everything around her had changed. It was as if she’d stopped being a person and had become an enemy, as if by being a Muslim she was personally responsible for everything that happened.

  Anise opened the door to the house. It was relatively early, so no one was home yet. Sual was still at university and Mor wasn’t back from school. Anise kicked her shoes off and went into the kitchen to make herself a Nutella sandwich. Chocolate always made her feel better.

  She turned on the TV. Channel 2 was broadcasting live coverage of a terrorist attack that had taken place somewhere in the south of the country. Four people had been killed, and the newscaster added that ISIS had assumed responsibility. Anise’s spirits sank further. Great, she thought, now I’ll get harassed even more in school and Eleanor will use this to make life a living hell.

  It was three in the afternoon. Her shift at Israel’s first aid organization, MDA, started at four.

  Anise loved being in the ambulance, where nobody cared who she was or what she believed in. All that mattered was saving lives and the patients were grateful for the help they got. She remembered that the station director had asked her to bring in her vaccination card, which they needed for insurance or something like that.

  She finished her snack, turned off the TV, and went into Sual’s bedroom.

  Her mother thinks Anise doesn’t know where she hides her important papers. In general, her mom is sure Anise doesn’t know many of the things she knows. In Sual’s mind, Anise is still a baby, even though she’s almost fifteen. Her body remains thin and boyish, but lately, men in the street have started to give her weird looks.

  Anise opened the middle drawer inside the closet. Under a stack of bills, she found a large brown envelope. She took it out and opened it. It contained her mother’s ID card, her own vaccination card, and a bunch of old photos, some in black and white. She still had a few minutes before she had to leave the house and Mom never showed her pictures from when she was young. Curious, Anise took out the photos.

  In the first picture, she saw a woman wearing a burka. It was difficult to see much through the thick scarf covering almost the entire face, but Anise knew it was her mother. She’d know those eyes anywhere. And, on her right hand, she saw the ring with the large red stone her mother always wore. It’s weird she used to dress like this, Anise thought. Next to her mother stood another burka-clad woman who, based on her posture, must have been older.

  The second photo, apparently taken at some family event, showed several people. Anise recognized her mother who, this time, was wearing just a hijab covering her hair; her face was exposed, maybe because she seemed very young, close to Anise’s own age. Next to her mom, close but not touching, was a skinny teenager with black hair and a hooked nose. Mom never talked about her family, and whenever Anise asked about them, Sual almost always found a way to avoid answering.

  Anise looked at her birth certificate. At the top, it said she’d been born at Hadassah Hospital in Jerusalem, and underneath, in the line intended for the father’s name, it said “Mahmud Issa.” Which totally made no sense at all. Long ago, when she was little, her mother had told her that her father had died before she was born, in which case the certificate should have read “Mahmud Issa, deceased.” That was not the case. She stared at the paper for several long minutes. It isn’t possible that my father is alive and that mom is hiding it from me, she thought. It had to be a mistake.

  That evening, Sual came home at the usual hour, put her bag and laptop down in the entrance, and hurried to the kitchen to start making dinner. Anise was sitting upright and rigid in a kitchen chair. Seeing the look in her daughter’s eyes, Sual realized that the moment she’d been afraid of had come.

  When Anise was little, she never stopped asking where her father was. Mor had a dad, so Anise wanted one too. Sual couldn’t tell her the truth. For one thing, Anise was too young to understand the need for secrecy and was liable to blurt out the truth to the wrong person. Also, Sual didn’t know how to explain her complicated life. How do you tell a five-year-old child that her mother’s family had forced her to marry at sixteen? She wouldn’t understand. And that was the easiest part of the whole story.

  Sual didn’t regret a thing. Against all the odds, she was now leading a life that, as a child, she had never imagined possible. Still, she’d been raised as a very observant Muslim in a culture where many subjects were taboo, and to this day, it was difficult for her to speak of the circumstances that led to Anise’s conception and birth. She had no idea where to start. How, for example, would she explain to her daughter – who was growing up as an equal member of society – that she, Sual, had been raised in a culture where women had no rights at all?

  Sual busied herself at the kitchen counter, making hot chocolate and cutting a thick slab of the chocolate cake she’d baked that morning. “Eat and then we’ll talk,” she said in the calmest tone of voice she could muster.

  Mom had lost all the color in her face, and it was obviously hard for her to talk. But the last thing that interested Anise at this point was how her mom was feeling. She wanted to kill her. Mom started speaking, saying that she’d been born to a very religious Muslim family and that she’d only been a smidge older than Anise’s age when her family married her off to the son of a neighboring family, a boy she’d been promised to from the moment she was born. That’s what the families had decided and nobody asked her opinion on the topic because, as a woman, what she thought was totally irrelevant.

  Then, Mom said, they’d forced her to stop going to school. She wiped the tears that wouldn’t stop rolling down her face and then blushed when she came to the part about Mahmud being homosexual and how they both had to keep it a secret, otherwise the family would have killed him.

  Anise found it hard to buy that last bit. At her school, there were kids who had two dads and nobody made a stink. These days, nobody was bothered by gay men or women.

  Finally, her mom came to the part Anise had been waiting for: her real dad. Sual stumbled around for the words, saying his name was Michael and that he was the most beautiful man she’d ever seen. Sual spoke slowly and softly, almost in a whisper, and Anise saw her mother’s eyes grow dreamy. It was because of him that Anise had blonde hair and blue eyes, she explained. Mahmud’s name was on the birth certificate because she’d been afraid for her own and Anise’s lives, she said. But when Anise was born, she realized that they had to flee, because nobody would believe that her gorgeous blonde daughter had been fathered by Mahmud and both of them would have been killed. Family honor was the most important thing in the culture she grew up in. Mom again said that Anise had been too small to hear the truth. It would have been enough for Anise to say a wrong word to the wrong person for both their lives to be in danger.

  All these years she’d thought her father was dead and it turned out to have been a lie. And the worst thing about it was that her real father had no i
dea even that he had a daughter in Israel who’d give anything to meet him and know him. No. She was never going to forgive her mother. Anise ran out the door, far from her mother, far from everything.

  A few hours later, when Mor came home from school, he found Anise, exhausted, curled up in his bed. Her eyes were so swollen and red he could hardly see her pupils. He looked at the heaps of used tissues covering his bed and thought, this must be really bad.

  Anise spent the next hour crying on his shoulder, not saying a word. She was soaking his shirt, but Mor was afraid to move.

  Bit by bit, past the tears, Mor managed to gather sentence fragments and, more or less, piece together what had happened. Finally, Anise looked at him through swollen eyelids, saying, “I’m going to look for my father and, as far as I’m concerned, I no longer have a mother.”

  “At least you have a father and he’s alive,” Mor tried to comfort her, thinking he’d give anything to meet his mother even once. Trying to be practical, he suggested they start by finding the hostel in the Old City were Sual and Michael had met. Maybe they’d kept their old guest registers; maybe they’d be able to find her father’s address, even if it wasn’t current.

  For the first time in hours, Anise smiled and Mor thanked God.

  Girls are so complicated, he thought, knowing that if he uttered one wrong sentence she’d burst out crying all over again. Knowing Anise and how stubborn she was and how her anger might last until hell froze over, he debated if he should say anything. Eventually, his love for Sual won out. Carefully, he suggested that maybe, just maybe, it was a tiny bit possible to understand her mom, because after all she – Sual – was just a kid herself and was probably totally freaked out and thought that she was protecting Anise. Sure, she’d made a mistake, but it was worth remembering that Sual would do anything for the two of them.

  Anise’s eyes started leaking again, and Mor realized this hadn’t been the right moment to try to defend Sual. He hurried to change the topic. “Listen,” he said, “on Saturday, a new exhibition is opening at the consulate. It’ll feature works by two artists, one Israeli and one Italian. It’s something to do with the Cultural Exchange Week or something. Dad and Sual are going to be busy with guests; we just have to drop in and show our faces. It’s the perfect time to begin the search for your father. We can start with that hostel in the Old City.”

  Finally, Anise smiled again and her tears dried up. Mor thought her smile was worth the wet patches on his shirt and that she could toss as many tissues on his bed as she wanted. It was fine with him.

  The Third Gate

  The Tunnels

  Chapter 7

  On Saturday, Anise woke up early feeling restless. She hurried to get dressed and go downstairs and walked through the exhibition to pass the time until Mor got up. Meanwhile, the large consulate space was slowly filling with guests.

  Anise wandered around the rooms, looking at the paintings. One not particularly large piece drew her attention. It was a rather gloomy watercolor depicting a stone wall. It reminded her a little of the Old City. The wall showed a gate stopped up with rocks, and a very skinny hen was wandering around, looking for food under low, gray clouds. Although the painting as a whole projected an atmosphere of sadness and neglect, Anise was unable to walk away from it. It was as if the painting struck a chord and touched a distant memory. To the right of the gloomy piece was a pencil drawing of a little boy flying a kite on a beach. His back was tilted back a bit, both hands holding the string tightly, and his light curls were being tossed about by a strong wind that looked fierce enough to pick the kid up off his feet. The smiling child looked so joyous. Anise admired his dimpled cheeks. The boy was glancing at some object outside the frame, making Anise wonder what he was seeing. She stepped up to the drawing. The look in the boy’s eyes reminded her of something she’d forgotten long ago. She felt she knew him, even though she was sure she’d never seen him before.

  “Hi, I’m Yam,” said someone behind her back.

  The voice was low and clear. Anise turned around and her jaw dropped. The child in the picture was standing right there! In the drawing, he was around six or so, but the tall boy in front of her was about her own age. The long curls in the drawing had been cut shorter and were darker, but those eyes… She’d know them anywhere. He smiled at her, revealing both his dimples.

  Anise couldn’t stop staring. It took her several seconds before she realized that the boy from the dream she dreams practically every night was standing right in front of her and holding his hand out.

  “Good morning,” said Mor, who had suddenly appeared next to her. It was clear he’d just woken up. He was tucking his shirt into his pants as he was speaking.

  “Couldn’t find your comb?” Anise smiled at his rat’s nest, grateful he’d finally come downstairs.

  Mor pulled his fingers through his stubborn hair. “I’m hungry,” he announced, sizing up the guy in front of him. Unconsciously, he tilted his head a fraction to the left, an involuntary motion whenever he sank into thoughts.

  Mor’s presence gave Anise confidence, which could not be said of the weird sensation this Yam character was causing her to feel.

  “I’m Yam,” said the person from her dream to Mor.

  “Mor,” said Mor and gave him a friendly smile. “Have you guys eaten? I’m starving.”

  After a brief pause, Yam answered, “Yeah, I could eat.”

  “Looks like we’re in the right place then,” Mor laughed, slapping Yam on the back. “Come with me. I know the best parts of the buffet. After all, I live here.”

  “You live in the consulate?” Yam gaped.

  “Yeah. Me and Anise both. My dad is the consul,” Mor explained as both of them moved toward the beautifully arranged spread.

  Anise dawdled behind, frowning. Yam’s presence unsettled her. That’s all I need right now, she thought, wondering if he, too, dreamed the same dream she did. The very idea made her blush and she was happy that the two boys were intently examining the buffet and had their backs to her.

  Meanwhile, the boys were busy heaping their plates. Anise made do with a croissant. They looked for a place to sit, but all the seats around the tables were taken by the guests.

  “We can go up to the roof. It’s closed to visitors today,” Mor suggested.

  Anise wanted to kill him. It was bad enough that he and his new buddy were ignoring her and seemed to have totally forgotten about their plans, but now he was inviting this unsettling Yam dude to their private corner.

  Mor started up the stairs, still talking to the blond kid, oblivious to her feelings.

  They’d almost made it to the roof when Mor heard Sual calling their names from below. He stopped. But Anise demonstratively ignored her mother and continued walking. The look of disappointment on Sual’s face pained him. He’d have to talk to Anise about her behavior, but this wasn’t the right moment. He’d find the right time later.

  Unlike the auditorium downstairs, the roof was empty and silent. The three found a sunny spot and sat down to eat. Yam could not stop exclaiming over the beautiful view of the Old City. The domes of the mosques glinted in the sun and the narrow alleyways teemed with traffic. It was a breathtaking sight.

  Anise closed her eyes, giving herself over to the pleasant sunshine, hiding the disquiet Yam stirred in her. Mor was deeply intent on his plate, focused on inhaling every last molecule of pasta.

  A few minutes later, Anise opened her eyes and sipped at the cola she’d brought. “Your dad is the painter, right?” she asked. Yam nodded.

  “Next to the drawing of you, there’s a painting of a gate,” said Anise.

  “Yeah,” Yam smiled. “My dad has an interesting story about that, a sort of legend he always tells about that painting,” he said. He then went on about the lost culture of the Mayans who’d disappeared and the gate to heaven that had once been open, a gate that allowed huma
ns to enter and exit heaven until God got angry with them and stopped it up with rocks. “According to the legend, the gate is located here in Jerusalem, but nobody has ever found it,” he finished.

  Anise wasn’t really able to concentrate on the story because her hand had accidentally brushed against Yam’s shoulder, sending an electric current all through her body. As if scalded, she drew her hand back sharply.

  Mor was staring sadly at his empty plate, trying to decide whether to go downstairs for another helping. He finally decided against it. “So that’s the gate your father painted?” he asked, finishing his meal by eating what was left of Anise’s croissant in a single bite.

  “No. That’s a real gate, one of the gates in the wall around the Old City, not the gate from the legend,” he answered. “I don’t remember its name, but the Jews believe that when the Messiah comes he’ll come through there. They even buried this famous rabbi and kabbalist – Ba’al Haleshem – on the mountain across from it. This kabbalist was considered the greatest Judaic scholar of his generation, and the Jews think he’ll be the Messiah. When the Muslims found out that Ba’al Haleshem was buried across from the gate the Messiah is supposed to enter, they built a cemetery right in front of it where they buried forty brave fighters who would fight the Jews’ Messiah when he rose from his grave and tried to enter the city.”

  “Idiots! Fighting even in the grave,” Mor laughed.

  “You know, that story makes me want to go look for the gate,” said Anise, who’d been deep in thought throughout Yam’s recitation. “I’ve got a thing or two I’d like to tell God. Or three or ten,” she said, thinking about the father she’d never met and didn’t even know she existed.