The Land Agent

by J David Simons

  Amshel sniffed. ‘Then what?’

  ‘I want you to start calling out my name. As long as I can still hear you, I’ll make the signal. Then I’ll keep walking and you’ll keep shouting. And when I can no longer hear you, I’ll cross my arms above my head. Like this.’

  ‘I still don’t understand.’

  ‘You don’t need to understand. Just do what I’ve told you.’

  ‘And when you can no longer hear me?’

  ‘You can go back to sleep.’

  Lev set off briskly along the track on its serpentine descent towards the Bedouin encampment. The sun was so hot now he could actually feel it blistering his scalp, scalding his already cracked lips, burning up his brain, making him dizzy. He held up his handkerchief. Amshel called out twice to him. He kept on walking, repeating the process, until he could no longer hear his name. He twirled the handkerchief in the air again just to make sure. Nothing. He crossed his arms above his head, scraped around in the dirt for some stones to mark the spot. Any land further on from here was Mewat. Dead land according to the ancient laws. He kept on walking. As expected, his exploits had caused alarm at the encampment. Two horsemen were now riding out to meet him. He recognized both of them. Zayed and Ibrahim.

  ‘Assalaamu aleikum,’ Lev said.

  Zayed stayed back while his son approached. ‘Wa-Aleikum Assalaam,’ Ibrahim said.

  ‘Do you remember me?’

  Ibrahim nodded. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I want to talk again about your land.’

  ‘There is no more to say.’

  ‘The situation has changed. Let me speak.’

  Ibrahim turned to his father, who dipped his head.

  ‘Say what you need to say,’ Ibrahim said.

  ‘There is a way we both can have what we want.’

  This time it was Zayed who spoke. ‘You promise we can still come and go as we please?’

  ‘There are legal matters to settle. But yes, I can promise.’

  ‘Forget about the legal matters,’ Ibrahim said. ‘How much will you pay?’

  They began to clap as Lev entered the kibbutz dining room. It started slowly, then gradually the noise built so that cutlery was tapped against cups and plates, palms slapped on the table-tops, until the whole performance soared into raucousness. And then everyone was singing ‘Lai, lai, lai, lai, lai, mazel tov’ as if he were a groom entering his own wedding reception. He had no idea what was going on. His first thought was that he might be hallucinating. He was exhausted, battered by the heat all day and had just drunk two glasses of arak down in the Bedouin camp. Then he feared it might be something to do with the negotiations with Zayed and Ibrahim. But how would anyone know about that? And then he realized that what had started as a simple gesture of appreciation had quickly escalated into one of irony among the members, mocking themselves for the fact they could be so hopelessly grateful for a simple gift.

  Lev looked around among the hot, laughing faces until he was able to locate his brother.

  ‘The great hero…’ Amshel said. ‘Comrade Lev and his tins of sardines.’

  ‘I’m glad I didn’t take Mickey’s offer of the false teeth.’

  ‘I’m glad I did,’ Amshel said, pointing to his mouth. ‘Once I’m in America, I’ll have these rotting beauties taken out.’ He pushed a plate of food at him. ‘Now eat.’

  Lev forked up a portion of sardines. They really were tasty.

  ‘How was your afternoon with the Bedouin?’ Amshel asked.

  ‘I can’t discuss it.’

  ‘I’ve heard people talking here. I know it’s about their land in the valley.’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘Just take it. That’s the only way you’ll get on in Palestine. Forget about all this shouting and handkerchief waving. Take what you can get, Lev. Snatch it up. Because nobody’s going to give you anything.’

  ‘That’s not PICA’s policy.’

  ‘To hell with PICA. I don’t know why you listen to that Sammy.’

  ‘Sammy is a decent man. He looks out for the fellaheen. He’s looked out for me ever since I came here.’

  ‘Well, good for Sammy. Clap your hands together for Sammy. And give him your undying loyalty.’

  ‘It’s not just loyalty. I agree with him.’

  ‘Listen, Lev. You always were the good son. Looking after Papa…’

  ‘I was the only one left–’

  ‘And now you’re looking after the Bedouin. Making nice little property deals, trying to satisfy everyone. Well, that way of thinking doesn’t work here. You need to be tough. You need to be more like the Zionists.’

  ‘And be… what?’

  ‘Realistic. We’re never going to get on with the Arabs in one big happy family.’

  ‘You should know all about that.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Making a mess of families.’

  ‘What?’ Amshel was all riled up now, his dark eyes flashing, his throat flushed. ‘I’ll tell you something,’ he said. ‘My life was miserable back then. In that stinking hellhole of a village with that drunken bastard for a father. It wasn’t a difficult decision to make. To get the hell out of there. You can’t blame me for that.’

  Lev remembered this was how Amshel could be. These explosions of anger, then the sudden calming once the damage had been done. He was just about to get up from the table when a hand pushed him down.

  ‘I know you’re here in a private capacity,’ Rafi said. ‘But I thought you might like to meet this gentleman.’ Lev looked up at the stocky, cream-suited figure standing next to Rafi. Square face with a dark shock of hair, small moustache, round glasses, expression etched into a fierce scowl. ‘Lev. This is Gregory Sverdlov.’

  Sverdlov bowed his head slightly. ‘You work with Sammy?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Gregory is an engineer,’ Rafi said.

  ‘From Russia,’ Sverdlov added.

  ‘He is on a survey mission of the region.’

  ‘Surveying what?’ Lev asked.

  Sverdlov looked vaguely around the room as if he had already lost interest in the conversation. ‘Different sites. For different potential projects.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘If I am more specific, the price of land would double – no, treble – overnight.’

  ‘Then what is there to talk about?’

  ‘I heard your Anonymous Donor is due to visit Palestine.’

  ‘There is a rumour.’

  ‘You cannot say for definite?’

  ‘If I were to tell you, the price of land might treble overnight.’

  Sverdlov laughed, turned to Rafi. ‘Ah so, we have a smart one here.’ Then the laughter stopped, and Sverdlov’s gaze was back on Lev. ‘You tell Sammy that Gregory Sverdlov has a very interesting proposition to make to his employer if he should happen to sail into port in the next week or so. A proposition that will benefit not only the entire population of Palestine, but also your Anonymous Donor’s own commercial interests. I, of course, will make my own approaches. But any mention of Gregory Sverdlov’s name in PICA’s circles can only be of mutual benefit.’

  Nineteen

  LETTER 12

  Kfar Ha’Emek, Jordan Valley, Palestine

  My dear Charlotte

  It was so good to receive a letter from you this morning. I kept it unopened all day until I had some free time and then I walked down to our small cemetery to read it. Yes, we have already lost two dear souls in our little settlement. Before I came, a young man was killed when a paraffin lamp spilled over and set his tent on fire. Only last year, a baby was stillborn. They have a beautiful resting place here overlooking the valley. There is a bench where I can sit and contemplate (and read letters), young eucalyptus trees that will grow to provide shade. In the spring, you can see wild lupins here and anemones. Lavender and sage. Also, some plants I only know the names of now in Hebrew, for we never see them in Scotland.

  I so enjoyed hearing about your holiday in R
othesay with Maggie and Big Bessie. I remember when we made the same trip ourselves, just the two of us, going down the Clyde in the paddle steamer from Glasgow. We took the temperance boat, of course. No drunken singing and vomiting on our vessel, or fighting couples on the way back home. We stood on the deck up against the railings, gazing out through the mist in wonder at the giant ships in their docks, as we sailed out passed Greenock and Dunoon, the sailors unloading the crates and milk churns at the pier as we got off the boat. It was so busy. It must have been the Glasgow holidays. We had to share a room and a double bed with two strangers. I even remember their names, Eileen and Lizzie. One of them snored and the other wore a nightgown with cigarette burns all over it, I can’t remember which one was which. It rained the whole time except for the one day we could walk along the esplanade without our umbrellas. Everyone and their grannies must have been out that day. I don’t know what was worse, the crowds or the rain. We could hardly move or eat our ice creams for want of someone jostling our arms. And then there were these two young lads from Edinburgh having a lark with us, making us laugh at their stupid jokes. Do you remember them? I can’t remember laughing so much in my whole life. I hardly laugh at all now.

  I would love a holiday, even if it were two weeks of rain down in Rothesay! We pray for it to rain here. It is strange how our needs are so opposite in these different parts of the world. I was sick for a few days with a very high fever and stomach cramps. I am all right now but I feared it was malaria. The thought of getting that disease terrifies me, never getting rid of it, always suffering the return of its fits and fevers.

  Do you remember that young man I told you about? Lev. The one who said he might come to visit. Well, he did come. Along with his brother, who is going to build us a children’s house. They came when I was sick. I wonder what Lev thought of me, this sweaty young woman smelling of vomit and antiseptic? He was kind to me. He held this poor patient’s hand and told me his life story when he thought I wasn’t listening. He has now invited me to visit him in Haifa. I may go. One of the members here has a relative with a house in Haifa so I have a place to stay. As I said, I would love a holiday even if it were only for a day or so. Just to see the sea. To breathe in the salty air. To feel the sand between my toes.

  I saw your Arabian prince today. Or I thought I saw him. When I was sitting reading your letter, looking down at the valley, I could see the Bedouin camp. I saw two horsemen riding out with their hounds. The dogs are called salukis. They are like magnificent greyhounds, not bare and skinny like those we might see running around the streets of Glasgow. They have this long hair on their limbs and faces that flows back when they run. Anyway, I am sure one of these horsemen was your prince. He is such an elegant rider and really does sit perched on his mount like royalty. Of course, I cannot ride well although you would be surprised to learn that I am quite good with a horse and wagon these days. But you, Charlotte, with that fancy upbringing of yours, I remember you grew up with horses. I can imagine you and this handsome Arabian prince riding out together into the desert with your two salukis running alongside. I told you before that his name is Ibrahim. I still don’t know if he has any wives. Perhaps he is waiting for you.

  I must finish this letter now if it is to make today’s post truck. I must also go to the kitchen to help prepare the evening meal. I am sure you are also busy with your campaigning. If you keep getting women to sign up their husbands on these temperance pledges, the divorce courts will soon have to shut down.

  I apologize for such a brief letter but I promise to write more soon.

  All my love, as always

  Celia

  Twenty

  ALONG WITH HER COMPLAINTS, Madame Blum served up a Polish breakfast. Eggs (soft-boiled or scrambled) accompanied by copious amounts of bread as beds for the white cheese, slices of vursht, honey and various jams laid out across the table. There was no place for the bitter green olives of the region, the yoghurt cheese dripped with oil, the warm flat bread, the tomatoes and the cucumbers. When Lev first arrived in Haifa, he had appreciated Madame Blum’s steadfast refusal to adopt the local fare, for her meals reminded him of home. But after over five years of Madame Blum’s Eastern European cuisine, he would have preferred the lighter breakfast, the one that sat easier on his stomach during these hot, hot days. Although that still did not prevent him from calling out ‘Scrambled’ to Madame Blum’s question from the kitchen. A response Lev knew would cause Mickey to look up from his copy of the Ha’aretz newspaper purchased solely for the English language supplement of the Herald Tribune.

  ‘Scrambled?’ Mickey said. ‘Scrambled? Every morning for, I don’t know how many years, you have said: “soft boiled”. And now you say: “scrambled”?’

  A perplexed-looking Madame Blum emerged from the kitchen to confirm the request had indeed come from her Polish rather than her English lodger.

  ‘Yes, Madame Blum, you are right to be confused,’ Mickey continued. ‘Lev is having scrambled eggs.’

  ‘What’s wrong with that?’ Lev protested.

  ‘Nothing, nothing at all,’ Madame Blum muttered in a retreat to the kitchen. ‘A man has a right to choose whatever he wants. Even if it means choosing a worthless young harlot over a wife who gave him years of devotion. Otherwise I would not ask. But I may have to go out for more eggs.’

  ‘It’s all right,’ Lev called out. ‘Just the one soft-boiled. I was only joking.’

  ‘Gott sei dank,’ was the murmured response from the kitchen.

  ‘Your trip north has certainly improved your humour,’ Mickey said.

  ‘It was productive.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘My PICA business went well. And I planted some date trees.’

  ‘I’m sure PICA and palms weren’t responsible for your present cheerful disposition.’

  ‘Go back to your newspaper.’

  ‘News of your romantic endeavours is far more important than an article on Tutankhamun’s inner tombs.’

  ‘There is nothing to tell.’

  ‘Are you saying your second visit to this den of collective lust has not produced the desired result?’

  ‘Kfar Ha’Emek is not a den of collective lust. It’s a proper kibbutz.’

  ‘Aha! Now I see what has happened here. Now I see. Not only has some Jezebel captured your heart. You have been corrupted by the socialist dream. Soon you’ll be marching out to the fields to plant trees with your comrades, a spade over your shoulder, singing the Internationale.’

  Lev stayed quiet.

  Mickey put down his paper, nodded thoughtfully, assumed a more serious expression. ‘Tell me something then, about this proper kibbutz of yours. Is it a border settlement?’

  ‘It’s close to Trans-Jordan.’

  ‘And are the neighbours friendly?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘What about security?’

  ‘Nothing much from what I could see.’

  ‘Did the members carry out guard duty?’

  ‘Not in any formal way.’

  ‘Dogs?’

  ‘A few strays picked up as pets.’

  ‘Revolvers? Rifles?’

  Lev shook his head.

  ‘Are you sure? Nothing to defend themselves with? No guns?’

  ‘No guns.’

  ‘I don’t want any talk about guns in this house,’ Madame Blum warned, as she entered with a plate of cold meats, which she placed centre-table. Lev noticed the brushing of her ample cleavage against Mickey’s cheek as she did so.

  ‘Lev has decided to live on a kibbutz,’ Mickey said.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Why would he do that?’

  ‘He has fallen in love with a young woman of the Revolution.’

  ‘Oh, Lev. Is that true?’

  ‘Of course it is true,’ said Mickey. ‘Can’t you see from the colour of his cheeks?’

  ‘Finally, Lev, you have found someone.’

  ‘Nothing has happened, Madame Blum. I am st
aying here in Haifa with you. Mickey is only joking.’

  ‘What’s with all this joking this morning? This is no time for joking.’

  ‘Why is that?’ Lev asked.

  ‘You weren’t here yesterday. When the terrible thing happened.’

  ‘What terrible thing?’

  Madame Blum wriggled herself up to her full height, stroked the base of her throat, now flushed with what Lev assumed was her indignation. ‘Well,’ she said. ‘I walked into town early to Koestler’s Bakery. Just as I do every morning and have done for all the many years I have been here. To fetch the bread for breakfast. They do such a fine rye with caraway seeds, the taste always reminds me of home. And just as I was coming out of the shop, this man he spat at me. Just like that. Right at my feet. Isn’t that true, Mickey?’

  ‘I don’t know, Madame Blum. I wasn’t there.’

  ‘Whether you were there or not, you could still back me up.’

  ‘All right, I am sure it happened just as you said.’

  Madame Blum scowled back at him. ‘Just as I said.’

  ‘Are you sure he was spitting at you?’ Lev asked. ‘Perhaps he was just clearing his throat at the very moment you came out of the bakery.’

  ‘Of course he was spitting at me,’ Madame Blum shrilled. ‘Because he said the word “Jew” after he spat at me. “Jew, Jew, Jew.” As if he were talking to a dog.’

  ‘What kind of man was he?’

  ‘A young Arab. Perhaps in his twenties. Spitting at me. A respectable widow. It is a disgrace.’

  ‘There is a lot more tension here,’ Mickey said. ‘I can feel it myself.’

  ‘Tension?’ Lev said. ‘In Jerusalem. But surely not here in Haifa?’

  ‘What do you know, Lev? You keep to yourself. You only work with Jews. But in the coffee houses, the Arabs are talking.’

  ‘What are they saying?’

  ‘Too many Jews. That’s what they’re saying. Too many Jews. Poland’s taxing them out of business. And America’s toughened up on immigration. So they’re coming here in their thousands.’