The Book of Disappearance

by Ibtisam Azem

  Ariel tossed in bed recalling the previous night’s details. They had spent most of it at Chez George reminiscing about that first meeting. A bit after eleven, Alaa said he was very tired and couldn’t drink anymore. He had to wake up early for work. They paid the bill and headed back. They walked from Chez George at 45 Rothschild to their building at 5A in less than fifteen minutes. Although they’d downed a whole bottle of Nero d’Avola, they didn’t felt tipsy.

  Ariel tried to fall asleep, but kept tossing and turning. He felt insomnia hovering around his bed. He carried out the usual rituals to ward it off. He drank a cup of chamomile tea. Then he ran warm water in the tub and slipped in. He tried to read Amos Oz’s latest novel. His mother had praised it and gifted him a copy, but he couldn’t finish a single page. He got out of the tub, dried himself, and went back to bed. But he still couldn’t fall asleep. He turned on the radio. David Broza’s voice came through singing “The Woman by My Side.”

  The song awakened a bittersweet memory. Zohar, his ex, used to dance and sing along loudly whenever it came on. They were together for a year, but she meddled so much in his life that he felt suffocated. He broke up with her and still feels guilty about it. But he didn’t miss her anymore, not the way he did in the beginning. He looked at his cell phone. It was three fifteen in the morning. His vacation starts tomorrow and there’s no need to get up early. He turned it off.

  5

  Flower Farm

  Just before sunrise, as if yawning, carnations bloomed in the plastic greenhouses. At four in the morning, Shimon’s tense and raspy voice would billow, urging Maryam, the oldest and most experienced of his workers, to get to work, even before the shift had begun officially. Once the sun is high up, and the flowers are in full bloom, the crop would be ruined. They had to be plucked when stems were the longest to be ready for export.

  Inexpensive foreign labor from China to Romania had flooded the market in recent years. But Shimon preferred Palestinian women from the West Bank. Despite the difficulties of securing work permits for them, they were faster and more efficient. Moreover, he didn’t need to worry about finding housing or health care for them, as is done with foreign laborers. A car took them from the edge of Balata refugee camp in the morning and went through the checkpoint to drop them off at the farm. He doesn’t know anything about them, or their lives, except for their full names and ID numbers, which he’d recorded. He only dealt with Maryam. Even when he needed to address the other workers, she was his messenger. When he happened to be in a good mood, he joked with them, but that was quite rare. He often chastised them and ordered them to keep plucking flowers whenever he heard chatter, or noticed that their work rhythm had slowed down a bit for whatever reason.

  Maryam’s days started before dawn. She woke up at three in the morning to do some housework and prepared school sandwiches for her kids. Everyone would still be asleep when she left and sat silently with the others in the car. Even the soldiers at the checkpoint on the way to Shimon’s farm were sleepy. But they insisted on being sticklers and made everyone wait for a long time. She usually sat next to the driver and would look at the spectacle through the windshield. Waiting for a signal from one of the soldiers to move forward. Every single day a gesture from a soldier’s hand, or his finger, decided their fate as they crossed the checkpoint from Palestine to Palestine. The despair of all the workers crossing was hidden beneath the morning calm.

  When Maryam got to the farm she plunged her whole body into a sea of flowers, waiting to be plucked. Her back would bend and rise, as if it were independent of her fatigued body, or the silent morning. The white cover she used to wrap around her head and face could only repel the chemicals drenching the flowers. Their odor, and that of her own sweat, which trickled down her face and body, would soon reach her nostrils.

  Her coworkers often accused her of taking Shimon’s side and always coming to his defense. But all she wanted was to keep feeding the bodies waiting for her back at home. The Israelis threw her husband in jail, and when he was released, she didn’t recognize him. He waited for her at home and she wasn’t sure he recognized her. “They threw him out on the street after keeping him in prison for six months. No one knew where he was. He came back a mad man. I don’t know what they did to him.” She would say that and quickly wipe her tears away. “There is no time for sadness or pain. Come on, girls, let’s finish our work, for God’s sake. We don’t want any trouble.”

  They complained about the chemicals Shimon sprayed. Badriyya once protested: “This guy drenches the flowers with chemicals. I’ve had so many problems with my face and skin since I started working here. I guess we should just dress like the Taliban and cover our faces and leave nothing but a sieve to avoid all these chemicals.”

  Maryam shushed her: “For God’s sake, Badriyya. You never stop complaining. God help whoever is going to marry you. I’ve been working for years. I cover my face with a cloth and never had problems. Let’s pluck them roses. May God pluck our lives to end this one.”

  Shimon used to tell them to stop blabbering when he heard them arguing. But this morning he stood alone, perplexed amid a sea of silent carnations. No whispers, complaints, or the sound of scissors severing elegant stems. Where are they? Why are they late? It’s not a holiday. He thought of what he was going to lose that day because of their absence. He looked at his watch again, stumbled out of the farm, and headed to the storage room. He wanted to look at the calendar on its wall to make sure today was neither a holiday nor a feast for any sect or religious group in the country. It turned out to be just another day. He headed to the main door of the storage room, opened it, and stood watching the road leading to the farm.

  He reached into the pocket of his khaki pants and took out his cell phone to call the neighboring farm and ask the owner if there were any closures in the West Bank. Maybe they couldn’t cross the checkpoint. His neighbor confirmed that there was no curfew or problems at the checkpoint and said that his Arab workers were no-shows too.

  Shimon was so angry he almost injured his fingers dialing the driver’s number. Nidal’s cell phone was lying on the kitchen table at his home, right next to a full cup of tea. The sugar at the bottom had not dissolved. The phone kept shaking as it rang. It crawled to the edge of the table with each call until it fell on the floor.

  6

  Bus Stop

  David sat down on one of the orange plastic seats at the bus stop near al-Sa‘a Square in Jaffa. He was waiting for the 5:30 a.m. bus. The cold crept into his body as he looked at the street on that calm morning. He had decided to tell Yusif about his plans to open a restaurant and urge him to agree to be his partner.

  They met at the al-Karmil Market three decades earlier when they both worked there. It was a dim and cold February evening. Many vendors had closed shop unusually early. None of them earned enough to pay one worker for that unseasonably rainy day. The old buildings overlooking the market appeared as if they were about to keel over at any moment. These were the buildings of the Yemenite neighborhood, the first of the White City’s colonies.

  Their friendship started with an animosity they both shared against Yossi, who used to exact a fee from everyone. They tried to convince the other vendors—Yemenites, Moroccans, Iraqis, and Palestinians—to rebel and refuse to pay the fee. But this didn’t bear fruit. On the contrary, the other vendors couldn’t understand why Yusif and David were so concerned with the fee when they themselves were merely workers who didn’t own their own stalls.

  They worked across from each other. Yusif sold fruit in all seasons. Winter was on its way out that day and the scent of citrus fruits wafted all around him. He loved oranges, and used to peel one every morning and keep its peel nearby, to sniff it every now and then. David, on the other hand, worked for a vegetable vendor. He mostly sold those finger-thin local cucumbers with yellowish fez-like flowers dangling from their edges. But that was long ago, because today’s cucumbers have no scent.

  Jaffans don’t like the peop
le of Tel Aviv. The reason is not jealousy, as some malicious folks claim, but familiarity. You can’t love something fake, Yusif used to say. The city that never rests doesn’t let those around it rest either. Everything was a lie, even the name itself, Tel Aviv, meaning “the Hill of Spring.” The city wasn’t built on a hill. It was a shore that had no hills. But who cares? Illusion suffices to live the lie that later becomes the truth. Yusif used to get very angry whenever he heard a Palestinian say that Tel Aviv was called “The Hill of Spring” before the nakba. He would scream at them, “How are you going to liberate Palestine with this ignorance? That’s what they called it, and there is no ‘Spring Hill.’ That is the Arabic translation, but not the name. Tel Aviv is merely Jaffa and the surrounding villages. That’s what Tel Aviv is: Jaffa and its suburbs, no more and no less. How long will we remain ignorant of our history? Don’t tell me about occupation and colonialism. What the fuck does that have to do with it? What does occupation have to do with you not knowing a simple fact?”

  On that rainy day, Yusif was looking at the oranges in his stand when he heard someone asking,

  “Are you Yusif Haddad?”

  When he looked up he saw a burly man. No sooner than he nodded, clubs rained on him. David picked up a stick and rushed to save his neighbor. He struck the burly man, but he didn’t seem to feel anything. Both Yusif and David were skinny, but they picked up every box or rock nearby and threw them at the men hitting them.

  In their version, they beat the assailants to a pulp. But those who knew them back then say the opposite is true. They both ended up in hospital for a week, and never set foot in the al-Karmil Market after that.

  Yusif stayed in Ajami and became a bus driver. David learned enough about cooking and became a chef at a Tel Aviv restaurant in Ramat Aviv, or as the people of oranges call that area, al-Shaykh Mwannis.

  Yusif always said that he loved David like he loved his brother, who left in 1948 and disappeared. When they besieged Jaffa, Tamim went to fight and never returned. His mother said he was very handsome. Some told her that he was in Lebanon, working in the refugee camps. Others assured her that they personally saw him in Gaza. There were those who said he died. No one could prove it, or tell her to her face. Once, a neighbor who meant well told her that he was probably martyred, and a martyr is like a groom. She screamed at him and almost kicked him out of the house. “It’s wrong to say that, Abu Samir. Were you there with him yourself? Do you know someone who was for you to say this? It’s unacceptable.”

  No one ever dared broach the subject in her presence. They let her talk without giving her any hope, or taking it away. She went to church every day to pray for his return, or his safety, at least. She had a feeling he was still alive and didn’t want anyone to rob her of that feeling. “Close the door and don’t be afraid. I’ll be back before you open your eyes. If I’m late don’t worry. I won’t be long. Just a few days and I’ll be back.” She never forgot that sentence.

  She would close her eyes and open them again, searching for Tamim, waiting for a miracle that never materialized. Um Tamim, as she liked to be called, refused to lock the door with a key when she slept or went out. “What if he comes back, how would he come in?” Her husband would respond, “How can he come back? They don’t allow anyone to return. God knows if he’s still alive anyway. He would’ve at least contacted us by now.” When she heard that, her tears would flow. She couldn’t believe that he lost all hope, and wanted to kill the hope she still had. Hope dies last. Even after she and his father both died, the front door was never locked.

  “Do you know what it means to spend your life waiting? Waiting for those who left to return? You wait your whole life and keep talking about the past. But the past grows bigger and devours you. An entire people, those who stayed, seem mad when they talk about all that was before. As if what was wasn’t, or it was a world that only existed in their imagination. Jaffa. Jaffa is a name that pains me. I curse it every day, because I still love it. Can you spit at what you love? Yes, because this love kills you. Look at our situation. The drugs, poverty, and disgust. Just look. Staying here means bleeding and living with an open and gushing wound, but you keep on living. How can I explain what I feel? I feel happy that I stayed, despite the misery, pain, and forgetfulness. Yes, forgetfulness. No one understands. No one understands our disaster, but they all exploit it. No one realizes the extent of the loneliness those of us who stayed here feel. My father was right when he said that tears have dried up. Our tears have dried up.”

  This is what Yusif once said to David after an argument they had about politics. He said it all angrily, and in Hebrew.

  David remembered that today while he was waiting for the bus. Sunlight had made its way in the sky, driving away the darkness. He looked at his watch. It was odd that the no. 10 bus he took from Jaffa to Tel Aviv was forty-five minutes late. A crowd had gathered around and people were grumbling.

  Yusif was the one who usually drove that bus. He started his shift early in the morning. David took a deep puff from his cigarette, as if it were an oxygen tube, and then threw the stump on the asphalt. Had he walked, he could’ve reached the center of Tel Aviv and taken a bus to work from there. Why were the buses late? Why was Yusif late? When the bus finally arrived, it was packed with passengers who resembled fish cramped in a sardine can. Three of them got off. Some of those waiting, including David, rushed to catch it. But it drove away, puffing its exhaust smoke in their faces and showing them its backend. There was an ad featuring a blond woman trying to hold down her white dress in the wind, à la Marilyn Monroe. Those chasing the bus looked at her red lips as both she and the bus moved away.

  “He’s a fucking son of a bitch,” said a tall thin man to David.

  “Yusif must be sick. I know him. He would never be late or miss work unless it’s an emergency.”

  The man didn’t appear to understand what David meant. The number of passengers waiting at the bus stop increased as did their complaints. Taxis and buses full of passengers drove by, but they didn’t stop. After more than an hour, an almost empty bus stopped. Those still waiting got on quickly and heaped their anger at the driver. “What the hell is this? Are we in the third world?” “Only in this country do buses run away from passengers.” “You should be ashamed of yourselves. What kind of service is this?” The driver absorbed their anger with his silence and nods, indicating that he understood their complaints. David went up to him to ask about what was going on.

  “The Arabs have declared war and are on strike today.”

  “That’s impossible. Why didn’t we hear anything about a strike on the news? I have a lot of Arab friends and none of them said anything. I would’ve known.”

  “What? Are you their legal adviser or something? Anyway, excuse me, sir, I have to pay attention to the road.”

  David stood there, holding on to the iron bar in the middle of the bus, looking at the street as the bus drowned in chatter and prognostications. Meanwhile, the phones at the Dan and Egged companies were ringing nonstop, with variations on one question: Why were the buses late? Both companies instructed their customer support employees to stick to the following message in answering all queries:

  “We apologize for the delay. We have no information as to why Arab drivers did not report to work today. We have no knowledge of any strike. We will try to resolve the issue as soon as possible. We would like to assure you that this will not affect traffic today, because we have recalled Jewish drivers who were on vacation. We ask for your patience. The country is going through a difficult time. Thank you for your understanding.”

  7

  Prison 48

  Rafi’s white face was now the color of turnip. His eyes bulged and his jaw dropped when he opened the gate to cell number 5. He wouldn’t have been that shocked even if he’d seen the corpse of a prisoner who had committed suicide, or died of torture. He’s been at it for thirty years, and his skin is thicker than a crocodile’s, as he often said, sarcastically. He has
no feelings toward the terrorists. That’s what he used to call them. He might pity them at times, especially the young ones.

  He called out “prisoner number 3” into the silence of the cold cell. The silence didn’t respond. He peered inside carefully while holding the gate with his right hand. He called out again, with an anxious voice, for prisoner number 3 to come out and stand in line for the 6 a.m. count. Holding his nose to avoid the stench, he stepped into the cell. He stood perplexed in the middle, looking at the walls. As if searching for an ant or a roach, or something hiding in there, but not for Waleed. He began to sweat, felt his temperature rise, and could hear his heart pounding. He looked at the lock, looked for a hole in the wall through which Waleed might have escaped. The guard was now trapped in the cell.

  He barked into his walkie-talkie, “Prisoner number 3 is not in his cell. Repeat. Prisoner 3 not in cell 5.” Other voices yelling in disbelief numbers and similar phrases followed from empty cells and wards in prison number 48.

  Menachem was on his way to that prison, which was about seventy kilometers north of the White City. There was no sign indicating its existence. Those who drove on Route 4 to Haifa wondered about the side road branching off. There was no sign, not even one of those indicating a restricted military area. Nothing but pines and cypresses through which some dim lights could be seen.

  Menachem was driving his old Mercedes without paying much attention to road signs. He knew the road by heart. There were dark patches under his eyes carrying his fatigue.

  “Why doesn’t this bastard just die and give me a break? These idiots hit him like he’s some doll. I can’t believe that I haven’t finished my article. All because they use excessive force and then call me thinking he’s about to die. He didn’t die yesterday, nor the day before. I told Rafi to give him a break for a day. Let him sleep. He stinks. They didn’t allow him to go to the toilet. They call me for the third night in a row. As if mercy suddenly found a place in their hearts and they can’t wait for me to come for my usual appointment. When I got there yesterday he was frothing and it was disgusting. How old is prisoner number 3? Seventeen? I don’t know why I’m possessed by this one. Perhaps because he is standing between me and finishing the article. Miri! Do you hear me? Are you still there?”