“How awful.”
Raphael indicates the luggage carousel with a lift of his head. “Anyway, I’ve been waiting here for a while. Nothing yet.”
Joanie points at a full-size, well-worn green suitcase circulating away from them on the other side of the carousel. “That’s mine.”
“Go for it,” Raphael says, “I’ll watch this one for you.” He pats Joanie’s roll-on and winks at her.
Joanie flashes a thumbs up and sprints around to the other side of the carousel. As she bends forward to lift her suitcase off the conveyor belt, Raphael unzips the side pocket of Joanie’s roll-on, slips his hand inside and grasps the wallet that is still under the socks. Joanie straightens and elevates her suitcase, victoriously beaming a broad smile at Raphael from across the room, and catches sight of Raphael zipping the side pocket closed. Her smile immediately evaporates. She slowly walks back to Raphael lugging her suitcase across the hall. When she reaches him, she takes hold of his wrist and guides him to a corner away from the crowds.
“What were you doing just now?” she asks, pointing at her roll-on.
“Doing you a favour,” Raphael says, rubbing his wrist. “The zipper was open, so I closed it for you.”
“It wasn’t open.”
“Sure it was.”
Joanie shakes her head and looks away from Raphael for a moment, then looks back at him, her eyes brimming with tears. She unzips her bag and rummages through the compartment. After a few seconds of looking in and around the mass of socks stuffed inside, she zips it closed and stares at Raphael.
“What?” Raphael says.
“You stole that flight attendant’s wallet, didn’t you? You stole it and hid it in my bag.”
“That’s a horrible thing to say.”
“Did you or didn’t you?”
Raphael looks away for a beat and looks back at her. “The idiot deserved it.”
“You didn’t!”
“I’m afraid so.” Raphael pats his back pocket with his hand.
“That is so messed up. How could you do that?”
“Like I said, he deserved it.”
“Don’t you even feel bad?”
“Why should I?”
“Because it’s a sin! You know, thou shalt not steal. It’s in the Ten Commandments. Your part of the book.”
“Yeah, well, it’s complicated.”
“Sheesh!” Joanie stamps her foot. “I should turn you in.”
“Be my guest.”
“Seriously, I really should.”
Raphael spots his suitcase circulating on the carousel and shoulders his backpack. “But, you’re not going to, are you?”
Joanie surveys the crowd, which is starting to thin out. About half the members of her group have begun congregating around their leader, who looks across the hall at Joanie. He mouths the words Is everything OK? Joanie holds up a hand and nods, forcing a smile and looking back at Raphael with a pained expression on her face.
“I won’t turn you in if you promise to hand it over to the airline desk over there.” She lifts her head in the direction of the information booth at the back of the hall.
“How am I supposed to do that without incriminating myself? They already have a record of the accusation against me. I’d be practically admitting it if I showed up with it now, wouldn’t I?”
“You can’t just keep it.”
“I have a better idea.” Raphael digs the wallet out of his back pocket and pushes it into Joanie’s sweating palm. “I’ll head out to the arrivals area, and you turn it in.”
“Me?”
“Tell them you found it or something. Don’t give them any details. Say that you saw it lying on the ground as you were coming out of the plane and leave it at that. Then walk away.”
Joanie looks at the wallet and back up at Raphael.
Raphael plants a wet kiss on Joanie’s cheek and walks away. Swinging past the luggage carousel, he grabs his suitcase off the conveyor belt and speeds out of the baggage claim area.
When he emerges into the arrivals hall, he is confronted by a mass of humanity holding welcome signs in Hebrew, English, French, Spanish, and Arabic, and calling out people’s names. He drags his suitcase past them into the coffee shop to the west of the entry doors and buys a sandwich, a packet of crisps, and some Turkish coffee. Then, after washing his hands at a micro sink using a battered tin wash cup, he positions himself at a table at the entrance of the coffee shop, where he can survey the masses of people entering and exiting the arrivals hall.
As he downs the last of his coffee, he spots Joanie’s tour group entering the arrivals area, including Joanie, who trails behind. They gather at the far end of the hall next to a bronze statue of David Ben Gurion, and their tour leader pulls out a guitar and leads them in the singing of a happy-clappy song. Once they finish, they all close their eyes and bow their heads, their hands clasped in front of them.
Joanie drifts away from the group and strolls around the hall, taking in the sights around her, the signs in Hebrew, machine gun-toting soldiers not much older than herself, flocks of black-clad Chaddisim and their large families, groups of nuns and priests dressed in the habits of their various orders arriving as part of a religious pilgrimage. Suppressing a yawn with the back of her hand, she leans heavily against a hoarding across from the coffee shop where Raphael is sitting and closes her eyes. When she reopens them, their eyes meet, and Raphael lifts a hand and smiles. Joanie jogs over to Raphael, who stands to greet her.
“I would have thought you were long gone by now!” Joanie says.
“I was starving.” Raphael sits back down, and Joanie joins him. “I’ll be catching a cab to Jerusalem in a few minutes.” He vigorously rubs his hands on his jeans, then leans forward and whispers, “Anyway, how did it go, you know, with the—”
“Let’s forget about that, OK?” Joanie says, lightly touching Raphael’s knee. “It’s all taken care of.”
“Thank you.” Raphael drains the last of his coffee and pushes aside his tray.
“I still don’t understand why you would do such an awful thing. But it’s in the past now. I forgive you. It’s what the Lord would want me to do.”
“Got it.” Raphael stands and stretches his legs. “I’ve got to get going, sorry. I need to get to my grandmother’s before the Sabbath starts.”
Joanie glances in the direction of her group and sees the leader speaking with the local Israeli coach driver. The rest of her group is starting to mobilise behind him. One of her friends waves and Joanie holds up a hand signalling her to wait, then she turns back to Raphael.
“I’d like to see you again,” she says with a broad smile. “Like I said before, I’m here for three weeks. Maybe we can get together and, like, do something fun, and talk some more.”
“That’s going to be difficult.” Raphael shoulders his pack and drapes his camera around his neck. “I’m only here for a couple of days, then I’m gone to the desert for a long time, and I don’t mean for a holiday.”
The smile disappears from Joanie’s face, and Raphael holds out his hand to her.
“I guess this is where we part ways,” he says.
Joanie looks at the extended hand. “Can I at least have your number?”
“I don’t have one. But”—he pulls a small notepad out of his backpack and scribbles on it, then tears out the sheet and hands it to her—“that’s my name: Ralph Dweck. And this”—he points at the sheet—“is where I’ll be staying: Nachlaot here in Jerusalem, and after that, I’ll be over a hundred miles away in a hellhole called Mitzpe Ramon. I’ve written the information in both English letters and in Hebrew. I don’t know the addresses by memory, sorry. If you’re able to make it to either of these places, just ask around, and most anyone should be able to point the way to me.”
Joanie looks down at the little sheet of paper pinched between her fingers and back up at Raphael.
“I can’t promise you anything,” Raphael says. “You might be wasting a trip if yo
u do actually make it to either of these places.”
Joanie nods and puts the paper in her brown suede handbag. She takes Raphael’s hand and holds it tight; then she pulls him toward her and hugs him. When she finally releases him, Raphael arches his brow at her and moves toward the door. Once outside, he lets out a long breath and joins the snaking taxi queue.
“I forgot to tell you…” a familiar voice calls out from behind him a few moments later.
Raphael turns and watches in disbelief as Joanie pushes through the grumbling queue to join him. “We’re staying at the hostel in the Old City across from the Tower of David in case you want to come see me. It might be easier that way.”
“We already said our goodbyes, didn’t we?”
“Yes, but—”
“Look, miss, I like you and all that. So, please don’t make me say or do anything I’m going to regret, all right? I really need some alone time.”
“But I thought… because I helped you—”
“And I appreciate that. I really do. But, my life is completely turned upside down at the moment, and I need to make sense of things. So, pretty please, just leave me alone.”
“Yes, OK. Sorry.”
Raphael points at the tour group, which is slowly making its way out of the terminal building and headed in the direction of the coach park. “I think you’d better join your friends.”
Chapter 6
The cab driver drops off Raphael in front of the Beit Knesset Ohavei Zion synagogue, and Raphael drags his suitcase into the winding lanes that make up his childhood neighbourhood of Nachlaot. The quarter is now nearly devoid of people in the lead-up to Shabbat. The few that are still around are busy closing up shop or hurrying home, their arms laden with bags overflowing with last-minute shopping.
Raphael navigates the narrow passages, hidden courtyards, and crumbling buildings in the waning light, past ancient homes, shops, yeshivot, cafes, and shtiebels, until he turns the familiar corner where the bakery that specialised in Syrian bread used to stand, now a pile of rubble, and unlatches the front gate of his savta and saba’s house. He pauses briefly to press his lips against the familiar cool metal of the ancient brass mezuzah his father’s paternal grandparents brought with them from Syria in 1905 to what was then known as the Ottoman province of Palestine.
He pounds on the heavy wooden front door and waits for a bit, then knocks on it again. A moment later, the door swings open, and he finds himself suddenly enveloped in the enormous arms of his savta as she holds him close and kisses his head, whispering “motek, my little motek” over and over again. They stay that way for a while, then, guiding Raphael’s fingers onto the large, stone mezuzah on the doorpost and kissing them with her moist lips, Savta leads him into the front room that serves as both reception and dining room. Raphael sets down his bags and is suddenly overwhelmed by the familiar aroma of Savta’s Aleppo-inspired cooking as it wafts out of the kitchen, the memories of his lost childhood causing him to blink back the sting of profound emotion.
They sit on a well-worn leather sofa, and Raphael takes his beloved savta’s hands in his and contemplates her, hardly believing he’s finally looking at her after so long. Always more a mother to him than a grandmother, he marvels at how she doesn’t seem to have aged in the five years since he last saw her at Uncle Shimshon’s funeral, an eternity ago. She is dressed as ever in her cornflower-blue housedress with red trim, a colourful kitchen apron, and a finely-knit grey cardigan. He kisses her soft cheek, gazes lovingly into her deep-set, dark blue eyes, and caresses her wavy salt-and-pepper hair that she wears pinned up in a bun.
“It’s good to have you back, motek,” Savta says, gently squeezing his hand.
Raphael looks around the room and shakes his head.
“What is it, motek?”
“I don’t want to go to Aunt Penina’s, Savta. I’m happy to stay here with you. But over there, it’s going to be torture.”
“Let’s talk about that later, motek.”
“I’ll go crazy, Savta, I know it. Plus, I haven’t done anything wrong.”
Savta shakes her head and kisses his hands. “Later,” she whispers.
Tears pool in her eyes, and there’s an ever-so-slight trembling of her head that makes Raphael’s chest go tight. He dabs her cheeks with a handkerchief.
Savta stands and wipes her face on her apron. “I’ve prepared Shabbat dinner.” She checks her watch. “That’s not for another hour. Your cousin Yossi will be joining.”
“Yossi?” Raphael is surprised to hear Savta mention the name of his twenty-year-old cousin, Uncle Shimshon and Aunt Penina’s second son, the quiet one who used to disappear for hours without explanation and send his parents into a mad panic.
“The dear boy drives up from Mitzpe Ramon nearly every weekend and spends Shabbat with your saba and me so we won’t feel so alone.”
Savta presses a framed photograph of Aunt Penina and her three sons into Raphael’s hands. “This is your cousin Yossi now.” She points at the young man standing slightly apart from the rest. “This was taken under the big carob tree in front of the house this past July when Penina and the boys came for a visit. Yossi hired a professional photographer who spent all afternoon taking pictures of us, and of the house, and all around the neighbourhood. We felt like real celebrities that day.”
Raphael examines his cousin’s image. He looks to stand around the same height as Aunt Penina, who Raphael doesn’t recall as being that tall, perhaps five feet five inches or so, with a wrestler’s build, short and meaty. His panther-black hair is clipped short, and he is clean-shaven. Out of Aunt Penina’s three boys, his complexion is the darkest, most likely from extended exposure to the desert sun. His lower lip is quite full, and his nose is aquiline, though not as prominent as Aunt Penina’s or his brother Assaf’s. But most noticeable are the thick black eyebrows that frame his large, clear hazel eyes, and the same inscrutable, serene expression that Raphael remembers from childhood.
He hands back the photograph to Savta.
“We’ll do candles and Kiddush as soon as Yossi arrives.” Savta moves toward the kitchen. “In the meantime, I must finish getting the table ready.”
“Savta,” Raphael says as she pulls a white tablecloth out of the cupboard. “Where’s Saba? How is he?”
Savta shakes her head slowly and points at the darkened hallway off the living room. “Your saba might still be awake. He’s in your Uncle Shimshon’s room.”
Raphael pads down the hall to the very back of the house. He hears a siren wailing in the distance, announcing the thirty-six minutes remaining before the start of Shabbat. Pausing at the door to Uncle Shimshon’s old room, he listens for a moment. Then, hearing nothing, he eases it open, lightly grazing the mezuzah with his fingertips, and pokes his head into the room.
Inside he sees a hospital bed on which his grandfather is resting, eyes closed, looking thin and frail. His thick black hair has been replaced with wisps of grey; his once elegant nose now juts out of an emaciated, angular face, framed by a scraggly, unkempt beard. Raphael moves to his side and watches him sleep.
He thinks back to the last time he saw him, at Uncle Shimshon’s funeral. After the service, Aunt Penina had lost her mind and had physically attacked Raphael’s father. Saba had been able to pull her off him and shepherd her to a quiet corner where he calmed her down. At the time, the only signs of his illness were a tremor in his left arm and a stiffness in his left leg that made sitting for long periods uncomfortable for him. But he was still strong then, ever the unquestionable leader of the Dweck clan, commanding the love and respect of all members of the family. And although Aunt Penina continued to blame Raphael’s father for Uncle Shimshon’s early death in a cave-in at the clay mine where he worked, on that terrible day Saba was able to broker a fragile peace between them that was still holding. Barely.
Raphael takes Saba’s thin hand and kisses it gently, then places it back on his chest. Saba’s eyelids flutter, then they open wide, and he
stares unfocused at the ceiling. Raphael passes his hand in front of his face, and Saba turns his head and blinks at Raphael.
“Hello, Saba.”
Raphael caresses his arm. Saba glances down at Raphael’s hand and blinks. Raphael gently strokes his beard, and Saba responds by closing his eyes and pressing his face against Raphael’s palm, softly moving his cheek against his grandson’s fingers, the way he used to when Raphael was a little boy. Raphael recalls how Saba would hum his favourite hymn to him at bedtime, which always helped him fall asleep. Remembering the tune, Raphael sings it now to his grandfather. When he finishes, he leans over and kisses his forehead, kisses each of his eyelids, and lovingly kisses him on the cheek before leaving the room and closing the door behind.
Raphael finds Savta sipping tea on the sofa, looking expectantly out the front window, her back turned to the hallway. The table is now set for Shabbat, adorned with a delicate white lace tablecloth, an arrangement of sunflowers, two large home-baked Sabbath loaves on a cutting board covered with an embroidered gold-yellow cover with white fringes, a silver kiddush cup brimming with wine, and, in the centre of the table, the antique candlesticks Savta and Saba received from Savta’s grandmother on their wedding day. Raphael feels momentarily disoriented at the sight of them, recalling the ones in Shona’s office, and experiencing a sudden mix of guilt and anger he finds difficult to place.
Turning away from the table, he joins Savta on the sofa and stares at her without saying a word. Savta continues looking out the window, occasionally glancing into her tea glass and absently swirling the liquid.
Raphael touches her wrist. “How long has Saba been that way, Savta?” His voice trembles with emotion.
Savta sets her glass on a side table and meets his gaze. “Your saba, he took to bed about a year ago. Before then, he hardly ever got up from his chair anymore, and he never left the house.”
“He didn’t recognise me, Savta.”
“Your saba’s gone, motek,” she says softly. “He left us a few months ago. The doctor says it’s some kind of accelerated dementia associated with the Parkinson’s or perhaps with the medication. They don’t really know which.”
The Death of Baseball Page 16