The Land Agent

by J David Simons

  ‘Have you satisfied yourself, Mr Sela?’

  ‘Yes, I am satisfied. I was on a field trip to our settlement there a week ago. I just wanted to make sure what I saw on the ground was the same as on the maps.’

  ‘I had no doubt it would be.’

  ‘Good. I thank you for your time.’

  Raynsford carefully placed a large brown envelope on the table alongside the maps. ‘I thought you might like to inspect these also. They have just come into our possession.’

  ‘What are they?’

  ‘As we both know, this is a very sensitive part of the country. Very sensitive, Mr Sela. Very sensitive, indeed. Especially when we British handed over Trans-Jordan to the Emir a couple of years ago. So the Royal Air Force in Amman – Number Fourteen Squadron, I believe – were instructed to take some reconnaissance photographs. To make sure from the air that everything was hunky-dory on the ground. You may wish to peruse the results.’

  Lev opened the envelope. There were twelve large aerial photographs of the area. It took him a while to arrange the proper sequence, lay them out in a four-by-three format on the table. He quickly located the southern tip of the Sea of Galilee, then further south to the Yarmuk River – and there it was… Photograph Number Eleven. Zayed’s piece of land. Why shouldn’t it be there? The maps might be inaccurate but the photographs wouldn’t be. He made a show of comparing the aerial photographs to the actual maps, nodding studiously at their supposed similarity. He then very quickly gathered the photographs together, slipped them back into the envelope.

  ‘Have you looked at these yourself, Mr Raynsford?’

  ‘Just a cursory glance. As I said, these photographs were just received. I haven’t even had a chance to index them properly. As you can see’ – Raynsford nodded towards his desk where large stacks of maps, deeds and envelopes lay – ‘there is much to be done. Now, in Uganda–’

  ‘Well, these photographs were as expected. Please let me put them back for you.’

  ‘That’s kind of you, Mr Sela. As I said, it is always a pleasure to do business with PICA. Yes, just there. On top of that mountain of paperwork.’

  Lev placed himself between the desk and his host. ‘You were telling me about Uganda…?’ he said as he slid the envelope into the very bottom of the pile.

  The ancient buildings on either side were high, densely packed, closing inwards. Washing hung on lines, tarpaulins were draped across the lane against the rain, but still the sun managed to push its way through, picking out passers-by in beams of coloured light. The effect was biblical, Lev thought, like those auras surrounding Jesus in the paintings for sale in the Christian Quarter.

  He sat outside Uncle Moustache’s café in the Arab section of the Old City. There was no mistaking the owner, a big-bellied Egyptian with a magnificent drooping moustache. Lev had come here on Mickey’s recommendation, for the café boasted the best fava bean stew in the whole of Jerusalem. Inside, men at tables played cards or clicked away with their dice and counters at shesh-pesh, others smoked water pipes. He was the only one to submit to the traffic in the lane. The packed mules, the ‘Yalla, yalla’ of the barrow-boys, the constant bell-ringing of the bicycle riders half-on, half-off of their saddles, the flies, the dust, the smell of dung, the people pressing by, always in a hurry.

  Mickey had been right about the stew, Lev’s stomach was stretched full of it. He now sipped on his thick coffee – hel the Arabs called it, flavoured with cardamom, the taste of the spice drowning out any taste of coffee. The sweet, sticky pastry that came with it was delicious, coating his lips with honey and sugar. He felt calm in the middle of all this busy-ness. His job was done. He had a few minutes to sit down before his bus back to Haifa, to enjoy his accomplishment, to imagine the days if not weeks it would take Douglas Raynsford to reach the bottom of his stack of maps. He had bought a newspaper. He would now sit here quietly, reading about worldly matters. Like a man of the world.

  Someone poked at his shoulder.

  ‘Jew?’ a voice said.

  Lev looked up. A skinny, pallid youth stood before him dressed in the black medieval garb of the Orthodox. A seminary student. With his skullcap and sidelocks, his eyes squint from too much Talmudic study, thick black coat despite the heat.

  ‘Jew?’ the boy asked again.

  ‘Yes,’ Lev said wearily as he waited for the request for a donation to some seminary cause. Instead, a leaflet was pressed into his hand.

  ‘What is this?’

  The youth spat out the words in a stale breath: ‘The Jews of the world must unite.’

  ‘Unite against what?’

  ‘This injustice against the Jewish people.’

  ‘Everywhere there is injustice against the Jewish people. I can’t fund every single one.’

  ‘I don’t want your money,’ the student said with disgust. ‘Read, go on, read. Read about the Wailing Wall.’

  ‘I don’t need to read on. I am not a religious man.’

  ‘Pah! This is not about religion. This is an insult against our people. The tears of our nation have washed these stones for two thousand years. Two thousand years. The Wall must be restored to us. So that we can pray in peace.’

  ‘If I want to pray in peace, I can do so in the quiet of my own room.’

  ‘What kind of Jew are you?’

  The question caught Lev off-guard. What kind of Jew was he? He looked up at the sickly youth. He certainly wasn’t like this Jew in front of him, who must spend each second of God-given light crouched over in detailed examination of every letter of the Torah.

  ‘Read it,’ the student continued to insist.

  But the youth’s pleas had alerted the attention of Uncle Moustache, who waddled out to the front of his shop, barked at the student to move on. The youth ran off, one hand to his skullcap, his coat-tails flapping behind him, shouting, ‘Jews of the world unite.’ The café owner swore, wiped his hands on his dish-towel, went back inside. Lev looked down at the leaflet. It bore the headline: If You Wrong Us, Shall We Not Revenge?

  Thirteen

  LEV HAD JUST BROUGHT his employer his customary eleven o’clock glass of black tea alongside a bowl of sugar. With head bowed, Sammy stirred in his usual helping of three cubes with his teaspoon. This tap-tap-tapping of metal on glass was the only sound in the room now the ceiling fan had finally given out, having relentlessly served not just PICA but decades of Ottoman administrators before it. On the hat-rack behind Sammy’s desk hung the variety of headgear that made Sammy the stand-out character he was on the streets of Haifa. The panama hat (his head-covering of choice), a red velvet tarboosh, a khaki pith helmet, a yarmulke on the holiest of days, a kufiya on the hottest of days, and even a bowler hat on special occasions. Sammy would doff his headgear at whomever he happened to meet before spouting forth in his greeter’s native tongue. It was this remarkable ability to speak Yiddish, Hebrew, Arabic, English, Russian and French that was so impressive. Sammy’s body would also adapt to the language of the conversation – he would straighten up in English, swagger in Hebrew, bow slightly in Arabic, hunch slightly more in Yiddish, become agitated in French. The combination of language and hats also had its comic side. He could be a Yiddish speaker in a tarboosh, a skullcap-wearer chatting in Arabic, a Frenchman in a bowler. But it was without any hat that Sammy now raised his head, and said: ‘You should have stolen it.’

  ‘The envelope?’

  ‘Just that one photograph.’

  ‘And if Raynsford had caught me?’

  ‘A slight embarrassment, that’s all.’

  ‘I would have been arrested. For theft. For treason.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. A mere misdemeanour. The British would have made a formal complaint to PICA. I would apologize and promise to punish you appropriately for such destructive behaviour.’

  ‘What destructive behaviour?’

  ‘I would expect you to have destroyed the photograph before you were arrested.’

  ‘I thought I showed enough i
nitiative by hiding the envelope.’

  ‘And for that you are to be congratulated. But Douglas Raynsford is a fastidious man. His suspicions were probably aroused by your enquiry alone.’

  ‘If Raynsford was so fastidious, he would want to go through his pile in the order the files appeared to him.’

  ‘Perhaps. Perhaps not. But these photographs have arisen at an awkward time. They provide documentary proof of the land’s existence where previously there was none. We need to register the owner as quickly as possible.’

  ‘But who is the owner?’

  Sammy smiled, sipped on his tea. ‘You tell me.’

  ‘I don’t know. I assume the British can claim it as part of their Mandate once they know it exists. Perhaps even the French in Syria for the same reason. Or Emir Abdullah in Trans-Jordan. Or some absentee Arab owner that we don’t know anything about. The Bedouin have no lease, they pay no rent, they don’t know who the owner is either.’

  ‘So? What is the answer?’ Tap-tap-tap. Sammy’s teaspoon on the side of the glass insisted on a reply. ‘Come on, Lev. If you want to be a good land agent, you need to find solutions.’ Tap-tap-tap. ‘What can we do here? What have I taught you?’

  And then he had it. ‘Of course. Mewat.’

  ‘Exactly. Mewat.’

  ‘The British don’t like Mewat.’

  ‘The British hate Mewat. But to hell with them. Mewat is the simplest solution. As long as these Bedouin are out of earshot from the nearest settlement then the land is Mewat. Dead land. This Zayed and his tribe? Have they actually cultivated the land, not just pitched their tents?’

  ‘They have vegetable plots. They graze some livestock.’

  ‘Excellent. Then Mewat allows them to register their ownership. I suggest we help them do just that. On condition they sell us back the part that is swampland. At a nominal price, of course, considering our efforts on their behalf. They will have title to their land, we will have access to the river. Everyone is happy. And Those Bloody Zionists won’t know a damn thing about it.’ Sammy raised his glass of tea in self-congratulation. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘I think you are a bloody genius.’

  ‘Good. Because this bloody genius needs you to find out if the land is indeed out of earshot.’

  ‘You want me to go back to Kfar Ha’Emek?’

  ‘As soon as you can.’

  Lev tried to hide his delight. ‘I will send them a telegram immediately.’

  ‘Do that. But say you are coming in a private capacity, nothing to do with PICA. The place is probably a hotbed of Zionist spies.’ Sammy rose from his desk, put on his panama hat. ‘And get someone to fix this damn fan.’

  Lev skipped back through to his own office where he discovered to his annoyance that he had a visitor. The man was seated with his back to him, his dark hair greasy and long over his collar. There had been an attempt to buff up the shoes but Lev noticed the sole of one was split along the side of the upper. As he drew closer he could see the man’s hands placed on each of his long thighs, stretching the too short sleeves of his suit even further up his arms. There was a genuine lack of hygiene about him too. It was not unusual for destitute Jews to turn up here. Sammy usually gave them a few coins, sent them on their way. Despite being funded by one of the richest men in the world, PICA’s office in Haifa was a land agency not a charity.

  Lev moved around to his desk. Before he had a chance to say anything, his visitor had jumped up from his seat.

  ‘Lev,’ the man cried out. ‘Yes, Lev. It is you. I would recognize you in a thousand years.’

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Who am I? You don’t recognize me? You don’t recognize your own brother? Lev, it is me. Amshel.’

  Lev looked at the tall, skeletal figure standing in front of him. The dark, sun-blasted skin of his bearded face. Or was it just ingrained dirt? The stained trousers tied up with a worn-out leather belt, the dirty vest where the shirt was open for want of a button. This man with his wound-up body dressed in a tight, ragged suit, his hands in a twisted clasp as if he were begging for his prayers to be answered. This was Amshel? He tried to remember how many years it had been. Twelve? Fifteen? Amshel, who showed him how to use a catapult. Amshel, who revealed to him all his secret hiding places in the woods. Amshel, who had wiped his bottom, tied his shoelaces, licked down his hair for lack of a mother to do the same. Amshel, who taught him how to read, who took him hunting, who could distil alcohol from a variety of vegetables. Amshel, who went down to the butcher for the Sabbath meat and never came back. Yes, this was Amshel. He stepped forward into his brother’s stinking embrace. ‘Amshel. What has happened to you?’

  Amshel clung on to him. Lev could feel his brother’s bones through the worn cloth, the spasms that caused the ribs to lift and fall. Lev realized his brother was crying, then he was crying too.

  Amshel pulled away, sat back down. He rubbed the palm of one hand over and over again across his brow. ‘I know, I know,’ he kept on saying. ‘I am a mess.’

  ‘We need to get you cleaned up,’ Lev said, kneading the tears from his own eyes. ‘Cleaned up and fed. Then we can talk.’

  Lev took Amshel back to Madame Blum’s. She wasn’t sure how to react to this beggar who had turned up at her door claiming to be Lev’s brother. But her maternal instincts took over and she was soon ushering him into the shower room. She looked out a suit from her late husband’s wardrobe as well as a clean shirt, socks, underwear, a pair of shoes. She then called Lev into the kitchen where she was now having to prepare her second breakfast of the day.

  ‘I know he is your brother, Lev,’ she said, holding up a knife smeared with cream cheese, ‘but a few days, that is all. He can sleep on the floor in your room. I only want you and Mickey as my two lodgers in this house. You understand? Just you and Mickey. After a week, you must find him a hostel.’

  Showered down and dressed in his new clothes, Amshel began to look something like the brother Lev remembered, but a reduced, thinner, less confident version. Lev watched him eat, how he tried to hold back from stuffing the food down his gullet even though he must have been terribly hungry. In between mouthfuls, Amshel would smile back at him through broken, blackened teeth, saying ‘My little brother’ before forking up another portion of scrambled egg. After he had eaten, Lev took Amshel to his room where he immediately stretched out on the bed, fell asleep. Many hours later, Lev had to make do with the floor, listening to his brother’s heavy breathing as he tried to find his own sleep.

  Fourteen

  A HALF-MILE NORTH out of the town of Haifa, away from the market, the harbour and the olive oil factory, through clumps of skinny palms, a broad beach stretched along the curve of the bay, bordered by the smooth wind-sculpted slopes of the white dunes and the occasional tufts of tussock grass. It was here Lev took Amshel to talk. Lev walked barefoot, but Amshel kept his shoes on. The fact that Amshel’s shoe size matched exactly that of Madame Blum’s late husband augured well for the future of his brother’s feet.

  There was so much to say, to find out, to remember, it was difficult to know where to start. From the beginning, where his brother had walked out on their family? Those lost middle years? Or here at the end, as to how Amshel had managed to track him down?

  ‘Who could have imagined this scene?’ Amshel said. ‘The two Gottleib brothers walking along the sand in the Mediterranean sunshine. Who could have imagined? In the Holy Land.’ Amshel lifted his head back to the sky. ‘All this sun and glorious warmth. What about the old winters? You remember them? When we had to hammer out the water from the barrels. When our piss would freeze mid-stream. When the snow reached past the rooftops.’

  ‘We would go skating at the lake.’ Lev recalled slipping and sliding hand-in-gloved-hand with Sarah, her cheeks red like a painted wooden doll, the smooth slice of the blade on the ice, the laughter, the mingling steam of their breath, these images frozen in time.

  ‘And our old zeide. What happened to him?’

&n
bsp; ‘He died about five years ago. A disease of the lungs.’

  Amshel stopped walking. ‘I am sorry to hear that. He was a wise man. A righteous man. I liked him a lot. And that woman he lived with in the woods? What was her name again?’

  ‘Zelda.’

  ‘Ah yes, Zelda.’

  ‘Our brothers too.’

  ‘What about our brothers?’

  ‘They went off to war. They never came back.’

  ‘What? Hershel and Baruch? Dead?’

  ‘Yes, both dead. You abandoned us. They were killed. In the end, it was just Papa and me.’

  Amshel looked down at his feet, at his newly inherited shoes. He ground the toe of one of them into the sand, then the heel. Lev watched him stand like this, rocking this one foot back and forward in a quiet meditation of grief and grinding sand. A light breeze arose, causing the palm branches to creak, stirring up the beach, billowing out their shirts. The smell of citrus in the air. Amshel sniffed hard, slapped Lev across the back. ‘Come on. I’ll race you to the top.’

  Amshel was off first up the face of the dune but Lev was sure he could catch him. The headway wasn’t too tough on the lower slope but as he climbed, his legs dug in deeper, dragging him down into the sand. He was surprised at how quickly he began to tire. He could hear the heavy wheeze of Amshel’s breath up ahead but he still couldn’t catch up with his older brother. Surely he would start to tire too, slowed down by the sand in his shoes if not by his poor health? Yet Lev had underestimated his brother’s fitness. Amshel pulled away from him just as he always used to do, almost skipping up the higher slopes until he reached the top where he let out a loud whoop. Lev finally made it to the summit, Amshel grasped his shoulders, pulled him down on to a grassy clump.

  ‘Still can’t beat your old brother?’

  ‘Get off,’ Lev gasped. ‘I let you win.’

  His brother laughed. ‘I doubt that.’