The Land Agent

by J David Simons

  He sipped at his tea, sat back in his chair with a certain degree of satisfaction. Life was changing. Or as Mickey would say, things were on the up-and-up. This land deal was about to go through as soon as he went round the corner to register the necessary documents. He might be taking over shortly from Sammy at PICA. Celia had written to say she would be pleased to see him. He leaned forward to read yet again these same words when a body clattered against his table, sending his bowl and glass of tea to smash on the ground. Lev only managed to stop himself from falling off his chair by grabbing one of the canopy poles. An Arab boy had stumbled into him off the alleyway, had turned, clutching at his knee, only to be confronted by his assailants, four Jewish boys, skullcaps pinned to their heads. Not seminary students with sidelocks. Just ordinary boys. One of them held a cricket bat. The others bricks and stones. Lev moved quickly, inserting himself between the injured youth and his pursuers.

  ‘Leave him,’ he said, holding up one hand, palm flattened against the advance of the four boys.

  ‘Why do you protect the Arab?’ the one with the bat called back.

  ‘Just get out of here,’ Lev said as calmly as he could. ‘Go on. Away.’

  ‘His mule shitted all over the Wall,’ one of the other boys called out. He tossed a stone from hand to hand as he spoke. ‘Shit, shit, shit. Over our holy place.’

  ‘It was not my mule,’ the lad on the ground countered. ‘Not my mule. I did nothing wrong.’

  ‘He chased us too.’ Cricket bat boy again, advancing a step. ‘That Arab dog and his friends. They started it. Ran after us. But we lost them.’ He inched forward again, his three cohorts with him. This ringleader could have only been about fourteen, Lev thought, but he seemed to possess all the anger and aggression of a hard-bitten adult. ‘Let us past.’

  Lev held his ground. ‘Leave him alone. He is just one boy.’

  ‘Not my mule, not my mule,’ the Arab insisted, kicking out futilely with his feet.

  Lev felt a hand on his arm, Uncle Moustache gently pushing him aside. He saw the large club in the restaurant owner’s grasp. The Jewish boys could see it too. They retreated a few paces. One of them lobbed a stone at Lev. Then they ran. Shouting: ‘Arab lover. Arab lover.’

  Lev turned to the injured youth, held out a hand. The boy flicked it away. ‘I don’t need your help,’ he said, his eyes all flared up, not with anger but with a kind of hatred that made Lev shiver.

  Uncle Moustache shouldered his club. ‘Bah,’ he said. ‘Every day it is like this. One thing or another. It is not good for business.’

  The youth scampered off as best he could with his injured leg. Lev returned to his table where Celia’s letter lay sodden and stained with tea.

  The thin figure of Douglas Raynsford, the chief clerk of maps and surveys at the Department of Land Registration of Palestine, slowly emerged from a dim corner of the map room.

  ‘Ah, Mr Sela. Our friend from PICA. It is so nice to see you again. Come in, come in.’

  They sat down at one of the map tables, Lev on one side, Raynsford on the other. Raynsford laid out his hands in a clasp in front of him. ‘Are you all right, Mr Sela? You look a little pale.’

  ‘There was a fight in the street.’

  ‘Were you hurt?’

  ‘No, no. I’m fine. But it seems every time I sit outside in the Old City, there is always some incident.’

  ‘Ah yes. That is the nature of Jerusalem. Here we are in this holiest of places where one might expect a little – how can we say? – spiritual decorum. And instead, we see the basest of human instincts. Greed, jealousy, intolerance, violence. It is shameful. But at least you did not suffer an injury. Now, what can I do for you?’

  ‘I would like to register the title to some land.’

  ‘PICA has purchased some more property?’

  ‘We are merely acting as agents on someone else’s behalf. We would like to register this land as Mewat.’

  Raynsford sat back abruptly in his seat. ‘Mewat, Mr Sela?’

  ‘Yes, Mewat.’

  ‘You are aware we British passed the Mewat Land Ordinance several years ago prohibiting the further use of land registration via Mewat?’

  ‘I am aware of that law.’

  ‘I am sure you are. Sammy the King certainly keeps himself up to date with all the most recent developments in the legal arena. So you will be aware then that all potential claimants were required to register their title within two months of said legislation being advertised in the Official Gazette.’

  ‘I am also aware of that, Mr Raynsford.’

  ‘And that those two months obviously passed several years ago.’

  ‘Yes, I am aware of that too.’

  ‘The law is very clear, Mr Sela. Two months to register one’s claim. That was all.’

  ‘You know as well as I do, Mr Raynsford, that the time limit was seen as unfair in the case of the Bedouin. Given the unlikely event they would ever be able to obtain, never mind read, a copy of the Official Gazette.’

  ‘And your client is a Bedouin?’

  ‘He is.’

  ‘And can he read?’

  ‘He is illiterate.’

  ‘And was his tribe in possession of the land in question prior to 1921?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And can you prove the land in question is outwith the earshot of the nearest settlement?’

  ‘I have here a statement signed by an independent witness and myself declaring this to be so.’

  Raynsford looked at the document and sighed. ‘I have always been impressed by PICA. Because PICA is precise. PICA submits the proper documents. PICA respects the process. And where precisely is this land you would like to register?’

  ‘I’m afraid this land does not appear on any of your maps.’

  ‘I see. And is this land in the Jordan Valley by any chance?’

  ‘It is.’

  Raynsford stood up. ‘One moment, please.’ He went over to his desk, returned with a rolled-up map, which he spread out on the table. ‘Show me.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr Raynsford. I just told you this land does not appear on any map of the area. I saw this for myself when I was last here.’

  ‘And you didn’t point this out to me at the time?’

  ‘I’m sorry. I wasn’t sure about…’

  ‘Even though you saw that the land did appear on the reconnaissance photographs I made available to you during your visit?’

  ‘Yes, but…’

  ‘As I said, show me.’

  Lev looked at the map. The course of the Yarmuk River had been crudely altered to show how it now travelled in reality. Within the grasp of this new version of the river was the Bedouin land shaded in yellow. Lev pointed to it. ‘That’s it there. Between the PICA settlement of Kfar Ha’Emek and the river. That’s the land we’d like to claim on behalf of the Bedouin. By Mewat.’

  ‘Well, I’m afraid you are too late,’ Raynsford said triumphantly. ‘That land has been registered to someone else.’

  ‘What? That’s impossible. No-one knew about this land. Who has it been registered to?’

  ‘I’m afraid I cannot tell you.’

  ‘You have to tell me. This is a public register. These details are open to everyone.’

  ‘That is true. But only after such details have been published in the Official Gazette.’

  ‘When will that be?’

  Raynsford shrugged. ‘Oh, I don’t know. As you can see, I am very busy. There are so many applications and registrations and disputes concerning land in this tiny part of the world it beggars belief. Now when I served in Tanganyika, I had time to attend to all the necessary paperwork. And, of course, I had assistants as well. Three of them, as a matter of fact.’

  Lev stood up. ‘I insist you tell me who registered the land.’

  Raynsford sat back in his chair, gave the twitch of a smile. ‘It is of no matter, Mr Sela. For the land has already been sold on.’

  ‘Sold on? To whom?’

&
nbsp; ‘Again, I cannot tell you until these details are formally registered. And then you would have to wait until they are published in the Official Gazette.’

  Lev thought he had witnessed enough violence for the day, but he could easily step forward and punch Douglas Raynsford across his smug little mouth. Instead, he controlled himself, asked as calmly as he could: ‘Was there a land agent involved in this sale?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You can at least tell me his name.’

  ‘I could do that.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘First, I think you owe me an apology, Mr Sela.’

  * * *

  ‘Khaled Al Hamoud,’ Lev said.

  ‘Ah yes, Khaled Al Hamoud,’ Sammy repeated softly. ‘Khaled the Broker. That would make sense.’

  Lev expected Sammy to be furious. To be pacing up and down on a carpet already well worn from previous rages. To be swearing at the injustice, the selfishness, the deceitfulness, the opportunism, the lack of appreciation, the sheer ingratitude. Instead his employer just sat slumped in his seat, his face crumpled in disillusionment, his chair half-turned to the window so he could look out to the harbour and the sea. The fishing boats were in. The market-traders were shouting out their prices, gulls screeched and squawked over the scraps from the catch. A large ship stationed far out in the bay raised excitement levels even higher as tourists arrived, ferried onshore in longboats. A line of fresh passengers waited to be taken out to the vessel.

  ‘I used to pity them,’ Sammy said, more to himself than to Lev. ‘Those poor immigrants turned emigrants, queuing up to leave. Waiting for that ship to take them… where? Back to where they are hated? Across to an America that won’t let them in? Yes, I used to pity them. Now I am as disillusioned as they are. Perhaps I should purchase my own ticket out of here.’

  ‘Who is Khaled the Broker?’

  Sammy continued to stare out of the window. ‘Every day brings something else to eat away at my faith in human nature. Like a rust. Like a cancer. When I was younger, I had the strength to bounce back from all of this, Lev. But now, I feel myself being crushed by this greed. And I don’t have the vigour, the optimism, or even the desire to fight back. It is time for me to pay attention to my roses.’

  ‘Can you please stop all this talk of retirement? Who is Khaled the Broker?’

  ‘He works out of Damascus. I used to deal with him a lot in the past. He acts as a middle-man, especially when Arabs want to transact with Jews. The Arabs are frightened the Zionists keep secret lists of all of their compatriots who sell land to Jews, lists they will use later to expose them as traitors. So they sell to Khaled first. That way it’s his name on the deed.’

  ‘It had to be Zayed’s son, Ibrahim. Zayed would never have given up his land to anyone. But Ibrahim? He wanted the money. I could see it in his eyes when I was negotiating with him. He was already spending it.’

  ‘And no-one else knew about our intention to use Mewat?’

  ‘Just the Bedouin.’

  ‘So you think this Ibrahim stole our idea about Mewat, registered the land in favour of himself, then sold it on to Khaled?’

  ‘I don’t see who else could have done it.’

  ‘Well, your Ibrahim has outsmarted us.’ Sammy plucked a cheroot from his shirt pocket, struck a match to it but the breeze through the window blew it out.

  Twenty-four

  LEV BROUGHT FLOWERS. Freshly cut roses courtesy of Sammy’s garden. They were in full bloom, all that Sammy could give him at this end of the season, which meant he had to tread carefully with his bouquet otherwise the petals dropped off too easily. The flowers were Mickey’s idea.

  ‘Not for Celia,’ Mickey had advised, ‘but for the woman of the house. Who is she staying with?’

  ‘The Greenspans. I think they’re British.’

  ‘Perfect.’

  ‘Why is that?’

  ‘Because we British like our gentility, our politeness, our protocol.’

  ‘So why would I bring Mrs Greenspan the flowers?’

  ‘As we say in English: it would be killing two birds with one stone. You have this expression in Polish?’

  ‘We say: cooking two meals over one fire.’

  ‘Two meals, two birds, two women, it is all the same.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, if you brought the flowers for Celia, this would be too obvious an expression of your affection.’

  ‘But I do like her.’

  ‘Of course you do. That is why you must give the flowers to Mrs Greenspan.’

  ‘I still don’t understand.’

  ‘If you give Mrs Greenspan the flowers, it will immediately soften her heart towards you. And there is nothing better than to soften the heart of the chaperone.’

  ‘It is Celia’s heart I want to soften.’

  ‘Celia, of course, will see the flowers on your arrival, assume they are for her, will feel flattered but will also feel that, as the object of attention, she has the upper hand. Then when you pass the bouquet to Mrs Greenspan, Celia will feel surprised, perhaps embarrassed by her initial assumption, but then impressed by your consideration for her hosts. You will therefore not only have won the good favour of this Mrs Greenspan, but also impressed Celia and gained the advantage all at the same time. In fact, three birds with one stone.’

  ‘You make it sound like a battle strategy.’

  ‘Not a battle. A war.’

  And so, with petals falling all over the place in his nervous grasp, Lev used his free hand to raise the brass ring gripped by the lion’s mouth of a door-knocker, and struck three times. He was surprised when a young housemaid in full uniform answered the door. In his imagination, this was not how he had planned his entrance.

  ‘Yes?’ The maid looked down at his petal-covered fist and smiled.

  ‘I am Mr Lev Sela,’ he said, feeling the flush to his cheeks from this young woman’s attention. He wanted to turn around and flee.

  ‘If you are here to sell flowers, Mr Sela, then I suggest you–’

  ‘I am here to see Miss…’ He realized he didn’t know her family name. ‘…To see Celia.’

  ‘Is Miss Kahn expecting you?’

  ‘Not exactly.’

  ‘Well, she is or she isn’t?’

  Before he had time to answer, a large, elderly woman with a full bosom and bustle appeared behind the maid. ‘Who are you?’ she demanded.

  ‘I am Mr Lev Sela.’

  ‘And what do you want?’

  ‘He wants to see Miss Kahn,’ said the maid.

  ‘Well, what is he doing on the doorstep? Come in, come in.’

  Lev stepped over the threshold. ‘These are for you, madam,’ he said, handing over his bouquet.

  ‘Oh,’ she said, looking down at his gift with a mixture of surprise and disdain. ‘Don’t give them to me. Give them to Ruta. She will put them in a vase. Now what did you say your name was?’

  ‘Lev Sela.’

  Mrs Greenspan turned to her maid. ‘Please find Miss Kahn and tell her a Mr Sela is here to see her. Then add one more for our afternoon tea. We’ll take it in the front room. And bring a broom for all these petals.’

  The room was heavily curtained, filled with dark furniture, the walls hung with several paintings of landscapes that Lev assumed were representative of a longed-for English countryside. He was sunk down uncomfortably in a giant armchair of soft cushions and loose upholstery. Mrs Greenspan had taken up her position opposite in a similar chair. He wondered if she was in mourning, given her black finery, the lack of any jewellery and the scowl on her face. She tapped away with her fingers on a wooden inlay within the arm of the chair. Through the half-closed drapes, he could see the rooftops of the houses of the German colony all the way down to the sea. It would have been a magnificent view had most of it not been sealed off by the curtains. The windows were closed. The ceiling fan remained motionless. Mrs Greenspan tapped away. He wondered whether he should begin a polite conversation although he had
no idea what a polite conversation should be in such circumstances. The door opened. Ruta entered with a vase filled with his much denuded roses. She was followed by Celia.

  Lev was so stunned by the sight of her that he forgot to stand up. He had only ever seen her dressed in well-worn work clothes, her hair mussed up and dry. Here she stood quite beautiful in a sleeveless knee-length summer dress patterned with tiny yellow flowers, her hair all shiny dark curls, the tiredness gone from her face so that her skin glowed with a sun-kissed radiance. The sound of Mrs Greenspan noisily clearing her throat made him realize what he was supposed to do. He stood up, gently took Celia’s extended hand, the skin so cool in this hot room. He found himself snapping his feet together, bowing his head slightly, something he had seen the Polish officers do, never having done it himself until now.

  Celia laughed. Not with a mocking tone, but happily as if she actually might be pleased to see him. ‘My, my, my,’ she said. ‘We have become all gentlemanly.’

  ‘I-I-I… It is so good… I am pleased to see you.’

  ‘And I am pleased to see you.’ She turned to her host. ‘That was thoughtful of Mr Sela to bring flowers.’

  Mrs Greenspan reluctantly dipped her head then snapped her fingers at Ruta. ‘Tea.’

  Ruta exited the room and quickly returned, rolling in a tea trolley that must have been standing outside the doorway. Mrs Greenspan ushered her guests to a large, oak dining table in the corner of the room. ‘Sit, sit,’ she instructed.

  If Lev had been nervous before, he was even more anxious now by what confronted him. He had never partaken of afternoon tea before. The china cups with their delicate handles, the various silver pots, jugs and bowls, the tongs for the sugar cubes – and where to start on this three-tiered stand of cakes and sandwiches? Even though he liked his tea sweet, he decided against the perils of tackling the tongs. He waited instead until Celia had made her selection from the cake stand then followed her lead. Meanwhile, Mrs Greenspan asked him what he did for a living.