Hope Valley

by Haviva Ner-David

  “Well, he and Talya seem to be getting along just fine. It’s not interfering with their relationship, apparently.” Tikvah sighed.

  “I don’t believe that.”

  Tikvah turned to Ruby, a concerned look on her face. Her cat-like eyes crinkled at the corners, and Ruby noticed for the first time that they were speckled with brown. “Okay. So, what do you suggest I do? I’m about to meet this guy my daughter seems to be in love with, who happens to be an Arab. Sorry, I mean Palestinian. Putting aside the fact that this is going to upset her father in ways I cannot even imagine, now you’re telling me he’s just going to see me as his oppressor anyway? Thanks a lot.”

  “Well, it might help to use his name when you speak to him. What did you say it is?”

  “Mahmoud.”

  “Oh boy. You can’t get much more Muslim than that.”

  Tikvah laughed, albeit somewhat nervously. “That’s what I said to Talya when she told me. She said I should be glad it’s not Muhammad.”

  “She’s right.” Ruby did not feel good about this guy. What was he doing starting up with a Jewish woman, anyway? “But I’ll bet he goes by a nickname that could go either way.”

  “Talya calls him Udi.”

  “I suspected he was trying to pass.” Was she being unfair? She had never met this Udi character.

  “Well, is Ruby your given name?”

  Tikvah’s spunky side was coming out again. But why was she defending him?

  “I get your point. But my case is different. Ruby is my pen name. A woman displaying her art in public is not well-received in the world I come from. And I was already black-listed because I ran away.”

  “Even when you were so far away, you were worried?”

  “One never knows. I still try not to be too out there in the Arabic press. Although, as I said, I don’t think they would harm me now.”

  “It’s so complicated,” Tikvah said, eyeing the door of the restaurant.

  “Yes, it is. And you’re about to step right into it.”

  “Talya doesn’t seem concerned.”

  “I wasn’t either.”

  “Listen, I know you asked me to come because you thought I would make it easier,” Ruby said, after a few moments of silence. “But I can’t make this any easier for you. It’s a difficult situation.”

  “I guess I assumed you’d be a better judge of his character than I would. But I also asked you to come so I wouldn’t have to make the trip alone, and I don’t know anyone else I could even consider bringing. I thought having a fourth party would take the pressure off of us all to get along, too.”

  “Well, I’m sorry if I’m not making it easier. Your daughter doesn’t know what she’s getting herself into. She’d be better off sticking to her own.”

  Tikvah shuddered. Ruby did not want to alarm her, but the truth was sometimes alarming. “Well, she didn’t ask me for my approval. She just wants me to meet the guy. I mean, Udi.”

  “You mean, Mahmoud.” Ruby opened the door. “Well, in that case, let’s go in.”

  The restaurant was small. No more than ten tables, which were covered with paper table cloths. A strong smell of cooked fish and garlic filled the room. The wall on the sea side was completely made of glass, offering a breathtaking view of the beach.

  “They’re over there,” Tikvah said to Ruby.

  The sun had dropped to the water line and bathed the room in orange light, so that Ruby could not make out the man’s features. As they neared the table, she was able to see the boyfriend more clearly. He was dark skinned, with thick, curly black hair. The young woman, a red-head, but with curls like her mother’s, spotted them, and she stood. The boyfriend stood too and stretched out a hand to Tikvah when she reached the table.

  “Welcome,” he said, in English, flashing a charming smile. His teeth were perfectly straight and his eyes were pale blue. “I’m Udi.”

  “Short for Mahmoud, right?” Ruby made sure to point out, in Arabic. He reached out his hand to her now, and she took it and shook. She hoped her reluctance was not obvious. She should give the guy a chance.

  “Who is your friend, Ima?” Tikvah’s daughter asked her mother, in the mix of Hebrew and English Tikvah had told Ruby they spoke in their house. Then she turned to Ruby, eyeing her curiously. “My mother said she was bringing a friend, but she didn’t say who.”

  The sunlight reflected off of the young woman’s abundant curls, as if it was setting them ablaze. From what Ruby had heard from Tikvah about her daughter, her hair was an outer reflection of her inner fire. She had a lioness quality to her, with that red mane, round face, and wide eyes framed by thick golden lashes. Ruby wondered if Tikvah had once been as impassioned as her daughter. There was a spark in Tikvah, but if its intensity had been as strong as her daughter’s, it had clearly diminished over the years.

  Ruby examined the young woman more closely, searching for traces of her mother. Her eyes were not hazel like Tikvah’s; they were more of an aqua-marine color, reminding Ruby of the ocean that Tikvah seemed to adore. Perhaps the color was from her father and had been part of Tikvah’s attraction to the man. Her face was covered with freckles—unlike Tikvah’s, which was clear except for a few age spots—but she had a dimple in her chin just like her mother’s. Like Ruby had, too, in fact, inherited from her father—the thought of which brought on that familiar ache in her belly. With no children, she did not know how it felt to see her father’s features in the fruit of her womb. And while this young woman was not that, she was the age her own child would have been.

  “This is Ruby,” Tikvah said, startling Ruby out of her thoughts. “And Ruby, this is my daughter, Talya, who I have already told you about.”

  Ruby took Talya’s outstretched hand. It was warm, like her smile. That pain in Ruby’s stomach was slowly turning to a longing that was traveling up to her throat. If she let it take its course, she might start to tear, even weep. She was surprised by how moved she was by this young woman.

  “So nice to finally meet you,” she managed to say. “And now I must find the restroom. I’ll be right back.”

  “That way,” Mahmoud said, pointing towards swinging wooden doors near the kitchen, and Ruby went in that direction, holding back tears. In the bathroom, she washed her face with cold water in the small porcelain sink and caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. She avoided looking in mirrors, so when she did see her reflection, it surprised her. When she had removed her hijab over twenty-five years before, she had never imaged wearing a head scarf again. Her hair had once been as thick and wild as Tikva’s daughter’s, and her face had been as open and alive, too. When she left home, she was scarred and scared, but also somewhat excited and relieved. She spent years turning that suspicious anticipation into a life with which she could be satisfied. When had this weary, covered, resentful figure taken the place of the ambitious, outspoken, content woman she had worked so hard to become?

  When Ruby returned to the table, she saw that they had been waiting for her. “Let’s sit down,” Mahmoud said, gesturing to the table. Just then, a waiter came with two bottles of wine—one white and one red. “Shukran, Nasser.” He turned to Ruby and asked her, in Arabic, if she is a wine drinker.

  “Aywah,” she answered. “Bas, shwai.” Then she switched to English so that everyone at the table would understand. “Under normal circumstances I do drink alcohol. But with the cancer treatments I’m getting, I can only take a taste.” She looked at Mahmoud. “I am not a practicing Muslim. And I hear you aren’t, either.”

  “I’m not,” he explained. “But I do respect those, like my uncle who owns this restaurant, who are. He doesn’t drink alcohol, but he has no problem serving it to guests. He has a mixed clientele. And not only Christians. Jews, too.”

  He told the waiter, switching back into Arabic, that they would take the red wine, and the waiter then poured them each half a glass. Ruby took a sip. It was good wine, despite the casual décor of the place. Was this guy trying to impress them?r />
  “I hear your English is excellent, Udi, and so is Ruby’s, as you can see,” Tikvah said in English. “Much better than her Hebrew. And, certainly better than my Arabic. So let’s all speak in English.”

  “Where are you from?” Talya asked Ruby, throwing her mother a questioning look.

  “I grew up in the village of Bir al-Demue. But I left years ago. I lived all over the world: in the U.S., Australia, India, France. Parlez vous Francais?”

  “I’m afraid not. Udi does speak some, though,” Talya said, turning to her boyfriend and caressing his freshly-shaven cheek. She kissed it. Ruby caught Tikvah flinching.

  “Where did you learn?” Ruby asked.

  Mahmoud hesitated before he answered. “I was in the American International School.” Ruby was liking this guy less and less as the conversation progressed. “For high school. Near Tel Aviv. My parents wanted me to get a good, broad education.”

  Ruby cleared her throat. “I went to the local village school. Our classes were in Arabic, of course. I barely learned Hebrew, let alone French. Even if my parents had wanted to, they could never have afforded to send me anywhere else.” She glared at the privileged charlatan. Was he with Tikvah’s daughter just so he could get ahead in this Jewish country? Sure, Talya was attractive. But so were many other Palestinian women.

  “He was on scholarship,” Talya explained. Then she turned to Ruby with a look of excited realization in her eyes. “Did my mother say your name is Ruby?”

  “That’s right.”

  “You’re the artist from the show on the port, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, she is,” Tikvah said. She smiled.

  Talya’s face lit up, and Ruby turned her attention away from the boyfriend and towards the daughter. “Ima! Why didn’t you tell me the friend you were bringing was Ruby the famous Palestinian-Israeli woman artist?”

  “I didn’t know myself how famous she was,” Tikvah admitted. “Until today.”

  Talya turned to her mother. “Tell me where you met Ruby, Ima. At an artists’ thing? Have you gotten back into painting again?” She sounded wishful.

  “We met out in the fields, while I was walking Cane. She’s been teaching me about foraging.”

  “Foraging?” She looked disappointed.

  “Saltbush, garlic, turmeric. All kinds of edible greens, roots, and flowers. Like you learned about in scouts when we moved to the moshav. Remember? Ruby says we can even graduate to mushrooms when I’m ready and the rains start.”

  “They didn’t teach us about mushrooms in scouts.”

  “No. That’s not kids’ play,” Ruby said. “The differences are subtle but can be deadly. Some mushrooms even have a poisonous twin.” She glared at Mahmoud. She did not like him, but she did like Talya, felt drawn to her energy—her mix of innocent trust and vibrant audacity—like Ruby herself once had. She hoped Talya would not be sorry, trusting others too much rather than trusting in her own spirit. Like Ruby had when she married Mustafa. She would not make that mistake again. The only person alive she knew she could fully open up to and trust was herself.

  “Well, growing up in Yaffa, we learned about hunting, not gathering,” Mahmoud said, as Nasser the waiter came over to take their order. “Fishing, that is. I grew up only a few minutes from here. In that direction.” He pointed towards the part of Yaffa that had yet to become gentrified. “And this may not be the fanciest of restaurants, but they have the best fish in town.” He put his hand through his dark curls.

  “Where did you go to elementary school, Udi?” Tikvah asked. She seemed to be making an effort to keep the conversation flowing.

  He took a sip of wine and turned to Tikvah. “I went to the closest Jewish elementary school. My parents wanted me to learn Hebrew well enough to make it in Jewish Israeli society.”

  “Well, it seems you did,” Ruby said. “You got Hebrew in elementary school, and English and French in high school. I’m surprised you can speak any Arabic.” She was becoming more and more disturbed by this Jew-wannabe. She had had to work hard to learn English and the other languages she spoke. No one spoon-fed her anything.

  Mahmoud seemed nonplussed by Ruby’s comment. He was certainly the cool one. Ignoring Ruby, he turned to Tikvah and said, “I recommend the grouper or the sea bass this time of year.”

  “Yes, Ima. Try the sea bass. I had it a few days ago.”

  Mahmoud started refilling wine glasses.

  Tikvah put her hand up to her glass. “I have to drive home. You grew up right here, by the ocean?”

  “Yes. I can’t imagine living anywhere that is not by the sea. I’d miss it too much.”

  “I agree entirely. I also grew up near the ocean. And I definitely do miss it. Instead, we have the country’s largest reservoir. No swimming allowed.” Tikvah frowned.

  “I thought you liked having the view of the water,” Talya said, taking a sip from her wine glass.

  “It’s starting to irk me,” Tikvah said to her daughter. “Like having a post card hanging on the refrigerator of a place you know you’ll never visit.”

  “You can take the camel out of the desert, but you can’t take the desert out of the camel,” Mahmoud said, setting his wine glass down on the table.

  “Amen.” Tikvah seemed to be becoming more at ease with this situation. Was she really falling for this guy’s charade? You can send a Palestinian to fancy schools, but you can’t take the Palestinian out of him, was more like it. Who was he trying to fool?

  Ruby tightened the knot on her head scarf. “You know, there are tons of Palestinians in this region who never see the sea. Especially in the occupied territories. They’re landlocked and many never even leave their villages.”

  Tikvah looked like this was news to her, which made Ruby even more annoyed. “Do they choose not to leave, or are they forbidden from leaving?” Tikvah asked.

  “Both,” Mahmoud jumped in with an answer. He seemed overly eager to Ruby. “It’s a procedure to leave, and some can’t get the right papers. Others never bother to try.”

  “Yes, some are just too defeated and demoralized,” Talya added. “It’s not just having Israeli soldiers swinging their guns around and doing security checks and imposing curfews, that’s going to cause the next Palestinian uprising, now that the Peace Accords went bust. We also make it almost impossible for them to cross over into Israel proper. Their life is not only miserable where they are, but they can’t even get out for a day at the beach. It’s not only depressing, it’s scary.”

  “Yes, but let’s hope Arafat is able to rally support for the cause,” Mahmoud said. “He’s on a diplomatic tour right now trying to do just that. Violence does not have to be the only solution. Even he is beginning to see that.” He touched Talya’s hand. She rested her head on his shoulder, and he played with her hair.

  “Wishful thinking,” Ruby mumbled to herself. She believed in non-violence, too, but she also knew she was in the minority. She heard her brothers talking.

  Mahmoud’s phone rang. He took it out of his pocket, looked at the number, and answered. “Ahlan.” He looked at Ruby and said he had to go outside to take his call. Ruby assumed he wanted to speak in Arabic and did not want her to hear what he was saying. “It’s important. I’m sorry. It will only be a minute.”

  While Mahmoud was outside, Talya asked Ruby for her phone number and saved it in her cell phone. Ruby found herself hoping the young woman would be in touch. When the food arrived, the smell of freshly grilled fish reminded Ruby of her hunger. They started eating, and she was glad to be putting food into her mouth to counteract the wine.

  When Mahmoud returned, looking perturbed, he sat down next to Talya and started to eat.

  “Who was that?” Talya asked.

  He hesitated. “It was my brother. A cousin of mine in Jericho was arrested this morning. I will have to go to my parents’ house tonight, after dinner. They are very upset.”

  The conversation continued as they ate, but it was obvious Mahmoud was trying to fini
sh and leave. Ruby did not trust the guy. With fluency in so many languages, he could be working with an underground terrorist cell. His romance with Talya could all be part of a kidnapping or bombing plot. She hoped she was wrong. For Tikvah’s and her daughter’s sake.

  AS THEY DROVE north and the hour drew close to nine, Tikvah turned on the radio.

  The hour is nine. Authorities confirm. The Palestinian terrorists arrested this morning in Jericho were working with contacts here who, authorities believe, are located in Jaffa and may be connected to the March suicide bombing in Kfar Saba. Police are on special alert for rioters, kidnappings and terrorist attacks . . . More hot weather is expected for the days ahead. No relief is in sight.

  Ruby looked over at Tikvah. She was clutching the steering wheel so tightly this time her knuckles were white. Ruby took out a cigarette, opened the window, and lit up.

  JAMAL

  January 12, 1948

  Dear Father Allah,

  Ahmad finally came home today after a whole year in prison in Akka, and I am down in the cellar after a dip in the cistern, writing to thank you for bringing him back safely. Since that day British soldiers appeared at our door and took him away in handcuffs, my parents have been frantic with worry—Umm Ahmad crying herself to sleep, Abu Ahmad barely even sleeping at all. There was no official charge, but rumor has it that there’s money waiting for Ahmad in a bank account somewhere, and that the British got word of it and took him away before he could use it.

  I know better than to ask him if he is truly planning to embezzle arms into Palestine. I barely talk to my brothers these days. I avoid sitting with them in the diwan. The big talk now is about Jews being smuggled in, despite the restrictions the British promised to put on Jewish immigration. My brothers say the Jews and the British are just using the war as an excuse to create a Jewish majority here and take over the country. But I know it is more complicated than that.