Through long darkness I waited. At last, the quiet of his return, silence above like the sealing of a pact.
And in the middle of the night I woke to the sound of the palm tree whispering my name in the courtyard, and understood at last: The fight was a sign.
Yes. The fight was the first sign, brought to show me the American is the one. The American, at last, will reveal herself.
For so long I have waited. My eyes have grown dry with the stacking of days.
Above me the American moves in her appointed place. She knows I have seen her, now she awaits my devotion. Out of such darkness I lift my gaze to the ceiling, whence will come my aid at last.
And now it is plain what is necessary.
In the dim room I rise and grope my way to the closet. Tears of joy blur my vision. Somewhere, here. Leather shell creaking open, cloth lining the inside, shredded. A case. Given, so long ago, by American relief workers.
I kneel and open the case on the floor, and the air that rises to meet me weeps rust and disinfectant. I close my eyes against the smell, I gasp for air Nothing must stop me.
I begin to pack. First a dress, then a pair of shoes. I fold and place each thing; I must not waste. I will be worthy. I will be patient, and good.
I listen for the scuffling of the American’s feet, I listen to her soft music in the apartment above, and as I pack I ready myself for each further sign that will come. Each further sign to bring the day when the American will sweep aside all that has passed, right tumbled years and redeem every hour. Even the blacks will rejoice, on that day when they see why she has come among us.
Sitting at last next to the door with my case beside me, I listen for the signs that will bring me closer each day.
Part Three
7
When I dial the number of my relatives at last, the reprimands are immediate and unabashed. The man who identifies himself as Nachum Shachar berates me cheerfully over the telephone. “So many months here and you couldn’t find time to call? What, not a minute? Not two minutes?” My protests are brushed aside at once—he appears to find his own complaint far more entertaining. “What, no five minutes to call family? All right, so never mind. You’ll come tonight.” I take down the address and directions.
“They’re good people, my mother says,” I tell Gil once more as he pulls up beside the building on Wolfson Street. “Some kind of distant cousins. Are you sure you don’t want to come in and meet them?”
“Not a chance, thank you.” He taps the steering wheel impatiently, then smiles and pulls me to him by the waist. His kiss is airy and gentle. “I’ve got to work tonight.” And I know he will, the bare bulb above his drawing table burning until well after every other apartment in the building is dark. His boss at the gallery has decided to give him the exhibit, after all. Talent, Roni says, is what’s most important, and he doesn’t need to know anything beyond that. “So the subject is closed,” Gil reported in such firm tones that I decided to postpone asking my own questions for the moment. I’d find out what a Profile 21 was in some other way, then I’d broach the subject with Gil.
Since Roni changed his mind, Gil has been working with double his previous intensity. He’s kept his moodiness in check around me, and were it not for the soft curses I sometimes hear as I pass the living room, I wouldn’t guess at the tension behind his fierce concentration. One day when I woke there were flowers beside my pillow, and every afternoon this week he called from the gallery. I could hear the telephone ringing from the bottom of the stairwell, then cutting off as I climbed, only to start again a few minutes later, when I had unlocked the door and stood breathless in the dim entryway. “I just wanted to see if you’d gotten in from classes,” he would say. “And tell you I miss you.” Every evening he sat opposite me at the dinner table and asked after the details of my day, patient and careful not to miss a thing.
In the car, Gil’s touch is a bright and perfect light. I delay pulling away from his kiss, in the hope that he’ll change his mind about coming into the Shachars’ apartment. I want to bring him into the building with me, up to where my faceless relatives wait. I’ll meet these strangers armed with good news; we’ll sit in their living room, sip orange soda, and marvel together over every proof of how loving Gil is.
“Are you sure you won’t come?” I ask.
At the door, Tami Shachar accepts the flowers I give her. She seems mildly puzzled. “You didn’t have to do that,” she tells me.
She is a plain-faced woman, with short light-brown hair tucked behind her ears, and an unnerving air of preoccupation. She smiles briefly as she thanks me. “Welcome.” She turns to rummage in a cabinet for a vase.
“We’re thrilled to meet you, at long last.” The woman who introduces herself as Fanya takes me by the arm and steers me down a narrow hallway into the living room. There, a man I assume to be Nachum Shachar shakes my hand and settles back into a worn armchair. I sit in the chair that Fanya indicates. There is a short silence. Then Fanya, all satisfaction and charm, smooths our way into conversation. In pleased tones and with little assistance, she carries on a discussion of which distant relative I most resemble, which one had honey-colored hair like mine or those same blue eyes and heart-shaped face. I’m very Dutch-looking, Fanya announces. Surely people have told me? Blushing under the attention, I respond to each question. I watch Fanya perched on the edge of the sofa, her legs crossed elegantly at the ankles, and I’m struck by the sharp contrast between this woman and her daughter.
The Shachars’ apartment is small and tidy, with a sense of barely restrained clutter. The furniture is simple. Slightly blurry framed posters line the walls, showing wadis carved through pale stone, a view of the Galilee from the shore. Nachum, seated across from me and listening to his mother-in-law with amusement, is just as I pictured him from his voice on the telephone: wide-faced and stocky, with a heavily stubbled jaw and an easy smile. And playing quietly under a side table is a girl whose name I don’t catch. Every now and again she peeks out at me from a house of pillows and cardboard dividers that she builds and rebuilds under the awning of the tablecloth.
Now the girl crawls out from under the table and pads over to the sofa in stretched-out pink socks. She taps my wrist, lisping something I have to lean forward to hear. She is eight years old, she informs me, and is going to show me her dolls.
After a few more digressions concerning a great-uncle’s famous green eyes and a recollection of my mother’s dark hair, Fanya sighs. She pats her hands contentedly on her knees—a sign, I assume, that she is finished with her subject.
Nachum turns to me. “Where’s your boyfriend?”
“He had to work tonight. He was sorry he couldn’t come, he said to say hello.”
“Work, at night?”
“He’s very busy,” I explain.
“Better he should relax here with us.”
“You know, your mother writes to us every few months. She has for years.” Fanya speaks as though granting a favor with each statement. “She’s an unusual person, yes?”
Passing in and out of the living room, distractedly offering me more Coca-Cola or nuts, Tami says almost nothing as the conversation proceeds. Nachum is telling a story about the workers in his shop, and although I don’t follow all the details, I see that he’s a good storyteller, his laughter ringing out easily as he gestures and pauses and begins anew. All I need to do is nod, and I’m grateful.
Dinner is overcooked vegetables and soggy couscous.
“Thank you, it’s very good,” I tell Tami, who from the look of it doesn’t believe the lie and doesn’t care enough to be hurt.
The girl, whose name is Ariela, eats dutifully, one forkful after another. Nachum—intrepidly, it seems to me—asks for seconds.
“I’m sorry that you won’t get to meet Dov tonight,” Fanya says, laying aside her fork. “He arrives only tomorrow. Dov is a fine boy. You’ll have to meet him. And he has friends, your age. Good-looking boys.”
“Fanya,�
� Nachum says. “Maya has a boyfriend already.”
“So what’s wrong with a girl having more than one boyfriend?”
“Not me,” I assure her solemnly.
Fanya rolls her eyes. “So serious, all of you young people.”
We sit at the table in silence after we’ve finished eating. The noise from the street sounds very far away. After a while Fanya excuses herself. Then, at some wordless cue from Tami, Nachum stands and leads me to the living room. I hear the banging of pots from the kitchen.
Nachum is talking about the day’s headlines, which apparently had something to do with peace talks. I sip at the coffee I’ve carried with me from the kitchen; it’s black and bitter.
“Peace. If they can make peace here”—he stretches his legs in front of his chair, props one foot atop the other—“they can do anything. If it works, they should go fix up Ireland. Africa, too.”
Last night, when I paused over a letter to my mother and asked Gil about the talks under way in Washington, his sarcastic reply surprised me; now I recall a pained expression on his face as well, softening the sharpness of his response. Here in the Shachars’ apartment, I repeat Gil’s words to see how they sound in my mouth. I say to Nachum, “But how can they expect to make peace if Israelis can’t even agree among themselves what they want?”
“Ah.” Nachum claps his hands together and squeezes them tight, obviously relishing the opportunity for argument. “Well. I’m not left and I’m not right, understand. I’m not dove or hawk. I’m not anything but a man who runs an electronics shop and knows how to watch out for bad customers and dishonest dealers.” His mouth twists wryly. “So I’m not an easy one to convince. Everyone will have to prove they can behave and make peace before I’ll believe.”
Ariela has chosen this moment to climb onto Nachum’s knees. Giggling, she lays a plastic doll on his head, then retreats to the sofa to observe. Nachum continues to speak, holding his head at a slight angle so the doll will not fall. “But if we can do it . . . If we can do it, we can do it. What I mean to say is, we will do it. If the leaders agree, then the hard-liners and black-hats will make way. They’ll have to. And whatever terrorism problems or repercussions come, we’ll hold our course.”
Tami, circling the living room, hands me a plate of cookies. I balance it on one knee; my coffee cup and saucer rest unsteadily on the other. My first attempt to take a bite of a cookie is short-lived—the plate teeters, and I lower my hand. I glance around for a table, but none is within reach.
I realize that Nachum is awaiting my reply. “Maybe that’s right.” I stall.
His cocked head is still, giving the impression that he is attending to my every word. I search for something intelligent to say. Frozen in my own precarious pose, I think how ridiculous the two of us must look. “What if Arab terrorism is too strong and moderates are too weak?” I ask. “Or what about the Jewish side? What if the leaders make an agreement, but some Israelis just don’t want to give up land for peace?”
Nachum makes a tsking sound, shakes his head slightly. The doll shifts. But somehow it doesn’t fall. “People are better than that.”
I don’t know what to say. I stare at the doll, its coarse blond mane flopped in a synthetic puff over Nachum’s thinning hair. “My boyfriend thinks maybe they’re not,” I blurt. “He says there’s no peaceful solution.”
Nachum’s stiff posture makes me wonder whether I’ve offended him. “Is that so?” he says, his expression thoughtful. Ariela’s doll slides to one side. Just as it’s about to drop, Nachum reaches up almost lovingly to catch it.
The soft patter of feet reminds me that Ariela has been watching us. She runs to her father’s side as he straightens, then bears the doll safely back to the sofa. Nachum shrugs. “If I believed even half of what’s said about us in the American press, I might be inclined to agree with your boyfriend.”
I redden at the accusation.
“So why do Americans want to judge us for our problems?” Nachum warms to his new subject. “You also have terrible problems and people warring in your own country. I see it in your movies all the time. Cities, black people and white people fighting.”
“But that’s different. First of all, black people are American and have the same rights as white people. Plus you have to consider—”
“What about your riots? Last spring. Los Angeles.” He pronounces the name with such obvious pleasure, I wonder if it’s the sum of his knowledge of English. “This isn’t what people do when they think they have rights.”
“But that wasn’t like—”
“Tell me, do you live in a black people’s neighborhood or a white people’s neighborhood in America?”
“It’s not that simple.”
“Look, you criticize us for our situation. Because, for example, we seal off territories after terror attacks. But you seal your neighborhoods too, when you’re afraid—all right, so maybe you don’t do it with soldiers and barricades, but still, there must be a reason black people don’t like to go to white people’s neighborhoods in America. Here we suspect strangers in our neighborhood because they’re Arab, there you do because they’re black. In America, white people put black people in jail all the time. I saw this on the television—black people in jail.”
“But it’s not that simple. It’s—”
“Also, there was a program on militias,” Nachum continues meditatively. “This is another thing I don’t understand about America. How can you like Hitler after you defeated him?”
I struggle to keep track of the objections and counterobjections competing in my head. “Things are better now in America than they used to be,” I begin. “I’m not saying we have it right. But at least we’re trying.”
Nachum raises one eyebrow in silence.
“Some people are,” I say.
“Maybe so. But what I’m getting at is, change isn’t easy. Do you go every morning to the other parts of your city and stand on the street shaking hands with people who maybe hate you? It takes more than a few people trying. We haven’t figured it out yet, neither have you.” He winks at me, then adds generously, “But I believe if it works hard, America can fix itself.”
I stare, ashamed that I don’t know how to answer him.
I’m relieved to hear Fanya’s laughter from behind me. “Let the girl alone. You forget she’s not one of you news-crazy Israelis.”
“Well, all right.” Nachum is smiling. “But of course we’re news-crazy. We live in a country with some difficulties.”
“Life isn’t so easy in America.” My face is still hot.
“Ach, you have no idea what living in difficulty is.” Nachum shakes a hand at me pleasantly.
“Don’t you know how to treat a guest, Nachum?” Fanya scolds. “She’s not her mother, her mind isn’t filled with these political matters.”
“All right,” Nachum concedes. “Maybe so.”
I’m startled by the crashing of my cookie plate to the floor. The plastic plate bounces, cookies scatter beneath my chair. I wave off all offers of help and clean the mess myself, then escape to the kitchen to dispose of the crumbs. When I return, I don’t take my seat again but rather kneel beside Ariela, who is playing with three battered dolls beneath the table. She makes space for me on the carpet as if she’d been expecting me, and presents the dolls in a dumb show: one blond, one brunette, one with a mangy scalp sprouting pink hair. Her silent acceptance of my company is a relief, and I compliment each doll with enthusiasm. Ariela smiles but doesn’t reply. If I hadn’t heard her speak earlier, I might wonder whether she had a voice at all.
Tami is seated on the sofa; standing behind her, Fanya brushes invisible lint from her skirt. I notice only now that Fanya has fixed her hair and is freshly made up.
“The rest of you can sit around chattering politics all evening if you like,” Fanya announces. “I’m going to walk the galleries in Yemin Moshe.”
“So late?” Nachum teases, and I see that Tami has a tight look on her face.<
br />
“Yes, so late.”
“And who is the lucky man this evening, Fanya?” Nachum persists.
Fanya dimples and lets a girlish giggle escape. “Really, Nachum. When I visit Jerusalem I like to go out and see friends. I don’t know why you assume there’s a gentleman involved. Although there happens to be, this evening. Rafael Berenbaum. He’s a friend of the Leben-sohns’.”
Fanya puts on a pale-blue cardigan, one sleeve at a time. She buttons it carefully and smooths her hair. “Maya, I thought perhaps you’d join us? Breathe a little night air, see what’s to be seen?”
I consider the lateness of the hour, wonder whether Fanya will feel the need to inform her friends of other ways in which I’m not like my mother, and can’t escape the conclusion that I’d rather spend the remainder of the evening under a table with Ariela. “Do you think I might join you some other time?”
Fanya’s soft smile is a promise.
Nachum has hoisted Ariela to his knee and she is whispering excitedly, her hand cupped to his ear. When she has finished, he nods and rests a broad hand on top of her head.
“Why don’t you stay the night, Maya,” he says. “You’ve made a friend here.”
The invitation catches me off guard, and I smile wholeheartedly for the first time in the evening. “Thank you. But really, I wouldn’t want to make trouble.”
There is a clucking of tongues from all around; even Ariela has piped up.
“Trouble, what kind of idea is that?” Nachum says. “That’s the American in you talking, so formal about everything. Trouble, nonsense. Stay. Stay, you can sleep in Dov’s room.”
“No, really . . .” I want to show them why I have to get back to my apartment. But I can’t think how to explain that I don’t want to miss out on the wonder of Gil’s tenderness, proving daily that everything is really all right. I can’t think how to explain, either, that Gil needs me; that lately when I’ve been gone too long he seems to crumple. I return to the apartment to find him despondent at his drawing table, speechless with a sorrow that he can’t explain and that only my presence seems to relieve.
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