by Pam Jenoff
“I don’t understand.”
“Aviva was Arab.”
For several seconds I am too surprised to respond. “I had no idea,” I manage finally. “I always pictured her Israeli.”
“She was. Her family was Druze.” I tilt my head, not understanding. “They’re Israeli Arabs.”
“Muslim?”
“Kind of an offshoot of Islam. The Muslim world doesn’t really consider them to be a part of it, but they aren’t Jewish or Christian. They keep to themselves for the most part. Very few fight in the army, and so it was a huge controversy when Aviva decided to join. And then, when she met me . . . ” He looks away, scratching his head. “I don’t think my family would have cared so much, if they had still been alive. I mean, they had been through so much prejudice and hate in their lives. But who knows? Anyway, her family forbade her to see me and when she disobeyed they disowned her. It broke her heart. She gave up everything for me. They never even met Yael.”
“I’m so sorry.” I fumble, still trying to comprehend what he has told me. “I just assumed . . . ”
“That she was Jewish? No, and her family could never accept that I was. They didn’t come to her funeral, though I’ve seen her mother at the cemetery when she thought no one else was there.”
I fight the urge to reach out and touch him. “It must have been so hard for her.”
“It wasn’t easy. She was rejected by her own people and was an outsider among those she was serving with. But for us the army was never ideological. It was about defending our country, doing a service.”
“She sounds like an amazing woman,” I say.
“She was. Not perfect, of course,” he adds with a smile. “Like I said, she could be stubborn. You remind me of her,” he adds abruptly.
“Oh?” I am caught off guard by the comparison.
“Yes, she challenged me, like you do, on politics and everything else. We used to have great debates, arguments, really, about the state of Israel. She was angry at how it treated non-Jews, that a country that fought so hard for the rights of one people could oppress others.” He bites his lip. “And then there was the question of Yael. What religion to raise her, that is.”
“Of course.” Their daughter would not have been Jewish by birth when the mother was not.
“We were going to raise her with both and let her choose herself . . . when she grew up.” He stares off in the distance and I can tell he is seeing the life his daughter never got to live, the dreams unfulfilled. A hand seems to wrap around my heart, squeezing it hard.
“It didn’t matter, about the religion,” he continues. “I mean, it bothered me a little sometimes, you know; being the child of a Holocaust survivor, there was always a lot of pressure to propagate the religion.”
I nod, understanding. Even with my secular upbringing, there had always been a certain unspoken guilt that if I intermarried, I would not be doing my part to keep the faith alive. Not that marriage has been a big issue in my life.
“But in the end, we loved our child and each other. That was the thing; she stuck with me through everything I did, all that happened. Though, sometimes I think she would be ashamed of me if she were here.”
“Why do you say that?”
“At least then I was fighting for principle. And now . . . ” He trails off and I remain silent for several seconds, hoping that while lost in thought he will say more about his work. Instead, he clears his throat, then pulls on his shirt and stands, picking up the plate and disappearing below.
I look out across the horizon to the west where the sun has dropped behind a low raft of thick gray clouds. I shiver, gazing up at the stars that are appearing in the darkening sky.
A few minutes later Ari reappears, carrying an extra sweatshirt that he drapes around my shoulders without speaking. He sits down on the deck once more. “And you and Jared, how did you meet?”
I consider the question, wondering if he is only trying to be polite. But his expression is one of genuine curiosity. “I was studying abroad at Cambridge. We were on the same rowing team.” I feel silly, as though trying to equate a college romance to his marriage. “We actually hated each other at first, fought like crazy.”
“Ah yes, the best ones always do start with arguments,” he says knowingly. “It’s that spark that tells you something is there.”
Ari and I have been fighting since we met, I realize. But despite what happened between us at the hotel in Vienna, this is not, I remind myself, a romantic situation. He’s attractive, but I’m here to find Jared.
“Anyway,” I say, clearing my throat, forcing myself to continue with the story. “At some point we stopped fighting and acknowledged our feelings for each other and then we were together.”
“Did you have much in common?”
“Not at all, other than the rowing.” It is, I realize, the first time I’ve admitted that to anyone, including myself. “We just kind of got each other somehow.” He tilts his head, as if the phrase is unfamiliar to him. “I mean that we understood one another completely.”
What had drawn Jared and I together? I wonder now. We were such different people: him brooding and serious, me energetic and outgoing, at least back then. Yet there was this strange, inexplicable connection. I remember one time, shortly before I was supposed to leave England for good, when we were away on a weeklong rowing retreat with the crew, staying at a bed-and-breakfast outside the picturesque town of Henley-on-Thames. After two days the constant presence of the seven other boys, whom I otherwise adored, became unbearable and I grew frustrated because Jared and I could not find time to be alone. Suddenly at dinner that night everything caught up with me—the fact that in a few weeks I would be leaving the place that I loved more than anywhere else on earth, that I had no control over the life events that seemed to be spinning out before me. I began sobbing, to the surprise and dismay of the boys, who had been bantering jovially. But Jared led me calmly by the hand to an empty bedroom, lay down beside me on the bed, and didn’t speak, seeming to know that I needed his presence more than any words he could offer. When my tears subsided, he made love to me simply, sweetly. In the preceding weeks, I had silently prided myself on being there for him, through his black moods and the indescribable demons that were chasing him. But in that moment the roles were changed and he took care of me. And I, for the first time in my life, let myself be cared for. It was the sealing of our bond.
I look up, rousing myself from my memories. Ari is still watching me, an intrigued expression on his face. Faint warmth creeps up my neck and into my cheeks. “Anyway,” I say, embarrassed to have been caught so vulnerable and exposed, “we only had a brief time together, a few months before I was supposed to move back to America. And then he was gone.”
“It must have been quite a connection,” Ari remarks, “to have stayed with you so long afterward.”
“I suppose.” But my words ring hollow, without conviction. For so long I had painted Jared and me as this great love story, ripped apart by the fates. In light of his marriage to Nicole, it seems foolish, a college fling easily forgotten. My mind rolls back over the years, to the men I had pushed away, the potential relationships I’d left untested. At the time I told myself that my unwillingness to get involved was a result of my feelings for Jared, a wound that would not heal. But now it seems that had been an excuse. Glorifying the past had been so much easier than dealing with the messiness of real interaction, and so I used Jared as an alibi to remain emotionally isolated. For years I’ve worn my independence as a source of pride, a kind of armor. But in fact I’ve been hiding behind it.
There had almost been someone once, I remember then. In Liberia, my colleague Eric and I had grown close, a bond born of spending too many hours working alone together, holed up in cars or tiny apartments, waiting. There were long looks across crowded streets that made my breath catch, tiny protective gestures that told me it might have been more than sex if I let it happen.
But I hadn’t. Eric was marrie
d to a third country national, a sweet Filipino woman he’d met on an earlier assignment, who was back in Washington with their three children. “We can’t do this,” I told him firmly after he had leaned toward me one night in the room we’d been forced to share. My denial came minutes later than it should have, after a kiss had been tried on and considered. In a world where I could see few rules clearly, it was the one I’d always had and I could not break it, even in that moment with the tantalizing possibility of real intimacy dangled before me for the first time in years.
He tried once again, as though the kiss would be persuasive enough to override my defenses. But then I put my hand on his chest and he retreated wordlessly to his corner of the room. And less than twenty-four hours later he was gone, lying on the ground in Liberia as the helicopter pulled me to safety from a country turning inward to destroy itself.
My thoughts turn to Sarah, who was alone for so many years before finding Ryan. Here she is, staring death squarely in the face. But she isn’t hiding behind her illness. Instead, she’s going out and embracing love, believing against the odds that she has the same chance at happiness as anyone else.
“What do you think Jared will be like now?” Ari asks, interrupting my thoughts. He rolls over and as he does, his hand brushes my knee, taking me back to the night before, sending shivers through me.
I look up, considering the question. “I don’t know.” In my mind’s eye, Jared remains the same as the night I last saw him. But the years have surely changed him as they have me.
“You know, it’s been a long time . . . ” Ari says gently. “A lot may have changed. He could be working with Nicole or . . . ”
“Jared would never do that.” But even as I speak, I can see where Ari is going with this, the validity of his point. How could Jared live with Nicole all of these years and not know what she has been doing? Of course, I’d been by his side at Cambridge for months and had never guessed the depths of his darkness, or the trouble that he faced.
“Didn’t you ever wonder where he got the money?” he asks. “To fake his own death, change identities, live on the run all of these years?”
I start to reply that Lord Colbert, the Master, or head of our college, had helped Jared because he was one of his students. But the Master, while wealthy, did not have that kind of money. He surely assisted with the logistics of leaving, but I doubt he could, or would, have been willing to finance Jared’s living expenses indefinitely.
“And what has he been doing?” Ari presses gently. “I mean, you said Jared was an academic, but there’s no record of him teaching or publishing. How has he been supporting himself?”
“I don’t know!” I explode, my frustration bubbling to the surface. “What are you saying?”
He shrugs. “It’s just conjecture. But his low profile, his ability to move beneath the surface, combined with Nicole’s activities . . . ”
Would have made Jared the perfect black market accomplice, I think, finishing the thought when Ari does not. “I just can’t believe it,” I whisper. Jared had almost died, had given up everything for the principles he believed were right; I cannot envision him as a petty criminal. “He would never do something like that.”
“Maybe it isn’t true,” he offers. “Like I said, it’s just speculation. The sooner we find them, the sooner we’ll know for sure.” He lifts his head to the now star-filled sky. “It’s getting late. We should get some rest.”
I glance toward the galley uncertainly. The narrow bed downstairs is a fraction of the one we shared in Vienna. Does he mean for us to be together again? But he unrolls a blanket. “Help yourself to the cabin. I’m going to stretch out here.”
“Okay . . . ” I falter, standing up. “Good night.”
I take a few steps, then look back, wondering if he will say something more or try to stop me. But he has turned away and is staring out over the water, seemingly deep in thought.
As I make my way below, my confusion swirls. What happened? I thought after last night he would surely want to pick up where we left off. Brushing my teeth in the tiny washroom, I wonder whether he has lost interest, if I had said something wrong during our conversation tonight. Perhaps it is all the talk of his wife that has made him distant. Or was it something else? There’s so much I don’t know about him.
I remember the photos we had taken earlier. Pulling out my phone, I open the email from Lincoln, then hit reply and attach the photo of Ari before sending. I know you said there was nothing on Aaron Bruck, I type. But here is a photo, just in case.
I put the phone back in my bag and climb into the narrow bed, still puzzling over who Ari is, how he feels about me. It doesn’t matter, I tell myself, trying without success to push the image of him lying on the deck above me from my mind. Soon we’ll find Jared and all of this will be over. I draw the thin blanket up around my neck, then close my eyes, lulled by the gentle rocking of the sea.
chapter TWELVE
I AWAKEN TO THE sounds of pots banging. Bright sunlight fills the tiny cabin and the savory smell of grilled meat tickles my nose. Swinging my feet to the ground, I pad toward the kitchen where Ari stands, open boxes of salt, flour, and other ingredients strewn across the countertop, spilling onto the floor.
“Good morning . . . ?” I say, as much question as greeting. He does not answer but continues staring into a frying pan, perplexed. “Everything okay?”
“I wanted . . . ” he begins then stops again, gesturing to the mess on the stove top. “The eggs are all right, but the pancakes . . . ” He holds up a bowl of what was supposed to have been batter but is instead a thin gray water.
I suppress a smile. He is trying to make me an American breakfast, I realize, touched. “Why don’t I finish up here?” In truth, I’ve never been much of a cook. My father grew up in the restaurant business, a skilled but unwilling disciple of the culinary trade. Then he met my mother who, as the child of bohemian artists, had never cooked a meal in her life, and he taught her the basics before permanently abdicating all kitchen duties. She never quite caught on, though, instead relying on premade mixes and packaged foods. But once, when I was six and my mother was away for the weekend, my father made pancakes, teaching me his secret recipe for the batter, how to heat the griddle just enough. After that, I subjected all houseguests, regardless of the meal or time of day, to my breakfast specialty.
Ari gives me the spatula, then raises his hands in a gesture of surrender. “What time is it?” I ask.
“Nearly eleven.” I blink at him, surprised. I had no idea I’d slept so late. “It’s the sea air,” he explains. “Good sleep, no?” I nod. I cannot remember the last time I felt so well rested.
He disappears up the stairs. Fifteen minutes later, I climb to the deck, balancing two plates. Ari is shirtless and barefoot, working on a coil of rope at the bow of the boat. Watching him, I feel a tug in my stomach.
“Breakfast,” I call.
He turns toward me. “Good news. I’ve done some checking with one of my contacts, and he confirmed that Nicole has been seen on the eastern side of Zakynthos in the main town Zante. He didn’t have an exact address, but he told me of a restaurant there, Café Nikolai, where I can ask for her.”
I look at him evenly. “You have some impressive contacts for a private investigator.”
“You know how it is,” he replies, seemingly unruffled. “Some of my army pals are now in government, and we trade favors every so often.”
Thinking of Lincoln, I decide that the explanation is a plausible one and that pressing further would be fruitless. I scan the horizon. “Where are we, anyway?”
“Just off Croatia, north of the Albanian coast. We should reach the island by midmorning tomorrow, all being well.”
The island where Jared may be living. “What is it?” Ari asks, noticing my expression.
“The fact that we’re so close, that I might see . . . ” I trail off, suddenly self-conscious talking about Jared with Ari. “It’s just that for so many years,
I thought he was dead.”
“You know, you never really told me about that. I mean, about what happened when you went back to England, how you found out that Jared was alive.”
I study his face, wondering if he is trying to get information from me for his own purposes. But he appears to be genuinely concerned. I know him now, I think. I can trust him. “Like I told you, last month when I was in Washington, I got a letter from my friend Sarah, who is very sick with ALS, asking me to come to England. Or so I thought—the letter turned out later to be a fake. It was actually sent from someone who needed me to come to London to find Jared and lure him out of hiding.”
He scoops a forkful of eggs from his plate. “Why?”
I pause uncertainly. The instinct to bury the past in order to protect Jared is so ingrained in me it is hard to overcome. “Jared had found information during the course of his doctoral research that was damaging to some powerful people.” I still cannot bring myself to share what Jared found, the extent of its implications. “And those people wanted to see what he had learned buried forever. Fortunately, we were able to stop them and get the information to the authorities before it was too late. But the betrayal included some of my closest friends and coworkers.”
He whistles long and low. “That’s wild. But it doesn’t explain how you found out Jared was alive.”
He’s right, I realize, swallowing a mouthful of pancake. What happened in England has so many pieces, it’s hard to put them in a logical order. I need to back up. “When I first got to England, an old college friend, Chris, contacted me with a hunch that Jared didn’t drown, as we were told, and he asked for my help figuring out the truth. We started digging and found out about Jared’s research and the fact that people wanted him dead. And at the same time I was working on the government investigation. There were some strange coincidences—I had to speak to another classmate, Duncan Lauder, about my work investigation and he wound up telling me about Jared’s research. Then Duncan disappeared and when I went to talk to his significant other, Vance, about the research Duncan had done with Jared, he mentioned something that connected it to my investigation.