The Land Agent

by J David Simons

  ‘She really loved him,’ Mickey told him.

  ‘She hardly knew him.’

  ‘They were lovers, Lev. Had been for many years.’

  ‘Lovers? Don’t be ridiculous.’

  ‘Look how the poor woman grieves.’

  ‘Remember when he was over here for Friday night dinner? It was the first time he had been in the house.’

  ‘That may have been true. Madame Blum preferred to conduct their affair at Sammy’s residence. That way, she felt she wasn’t betraying the memory of her dead husband.’

  ‘She hated her dead husband.’

  ‘Women have strange loyalties,’ Mickey said knowingly as he helped himself to another piece of cake. ‘This strudel is delicious. Did Ida bake this?’

  ‘Forget the strudel. You knew about this affair all along?’

  ‘She knew I could keep a secret.’

  ‘And I couldn’t?’

  ‘No. With you, I believe she was embarrassed.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have cared.’

  ‘With you and Sammy working so closely together, she felt it might be complicated for you.’ At this remark, Mickey drifted off, leaving Lev to contemplate what had just been said. Sammy and Madame Blum. It seemed so obvious to him now, how had he missed it? He wondered if Sammy had other lovers as well, one to suit each occasion, just like his different hats.

  He felt a touch to his arm, then the softly spoken words: ‘A great loss to all of us.’ Lev looked up into the grey eyes of Chaim Kalisher. Lev had noticed him before. His large, elegant frame sliding effortlessly around the room from one knot of mourners to another, shaking hands, bending forward to provide an appropriate comment, the Anonymous Donor’s representative in Palestine handing out his largesse. There was a benign smile on Kalisher’s lips, no doubt perfected for the beggars and the bereaved, as he went on to say: ‘How hard it is to know the soul living inside every one of us.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘It appears I was the last person to witness Sammy alive. After he left my office, he returned home and then… well, to be honest, I didn’t notice anything unusual. He had been so agitated recently.’

  ‘Enough to make him go off and kill himself.’

  Kalisher sighed. ‘These things build up over time. As you know, Sammy had an immense trust in the overall goodness of human nature. A misguided trust perhaps. But a noble virtue all the same. When he came across others who didn’t behave according to his expectations, he became very depressed.’ Kalisher withdrew a cigar case from his inside jacket pocket, snapped it open. ‘Can I interest you?’

  Lev shook his head.

  Kalisher looked around the room. ‘Perhaps I should go outside. Come and see me, Lev, when all this has settled down.’

  ‘And join an alliance with the Zionists?’

  ‘PICA has to move with the times. Even our Anonymous Donor recognizes that. There is so much tension these days with the Arabs. What the Zionists can offer in the way of security cannot be ignored. They have weapons. They have trained fighters. They have influence. PICA by itself is no longer in a position to protect its investments.’

  ‘It was the Zionists and their policies that caused all the tensions in the first place.’

  ‘That may be true. But pragmatism rather than idealism will always prevail. Sammy thought very highly of you. Let us at least have a friendly chat at a more appropriate time.’

  There was no time to respond, for Madame Blum had emerged from her bedroom. She wore a dressing gown she had cut and slashed in places, a torn garment in the tradition of a mourning wife. Her grey hair, rather than stretched tight in a stylish bun, hung greasy and loose over her face, down to her shoulders.

  She clutched her gown tight with one hand, pointed at Kalisher with the other

  ‘It was you,’ she screamed. ‘It was you who betrayed Sammy.’

  Mickey rushed towards her, clutched at her sobbing figure, tried to lead her away. But she was able to wriggle free. ‘You betrayed him,’ she shouted again. ‘You and your Anonymous Donor.’ And with that final remark, she slapped Kalisher hard across the cheek.

  The sound split the room, all eyes centred on Kalisher. The man’s face had hardly flinched from the blow although red blotches were beginning to form on his check. Madame Blum collapsed back into Mickey’s grip.

  ‘All this talk of betrayal,’ Kalisher said calmly, lighting up his cigar. ‘I am afraid the woman is deranged with grief.’

  After the reception was finished, Lev went over to Sammy’s office. A stack of letters remained on the man’s desk which so far he had not been able to bring himself to open. He swivelled in Sammy’s chair, the leather singed in places from the burnt ash of his cheroots, then rolled over to the filing cabinet, a bland-grey, rusted unit inherited from the previous Turkish administration. There was no system or order to Sammy’s filing which amounted to nothing more than placing a folder in a drawer, any drawer. No index, no alphabetic list, Lev wasn’t sure where to start. But it didn’t matter, for he came across the man’s file in the first compartment he opened. The folder was named simply ‘Khaled the Broker’.

  He looked through the various papers, noted down the Damascus address. There was even a telephone number he could call to make an appointment. He then pulled out the bottom drawer of the desk, the one which held the small safe. He fiddled away with the numbers on the combination lock until he could open it. Inside, he found what he was looking for. An envelope containing the money Kalisher had given Sammy for the Bedouin land purchase. He slipped it into his satchel, shut up the safe.

  Thirty-two

  WHEN THE TRAIN STOPPED at Samach, Lev got off for a short walk while the Hejaz Railway crew took over from the British-run Palestinian Railways. The station wasn’t the official border between Palestine and French-controlled Syria – that was technically further up into the Golan Heights at al-Hamma – but here at the southern tip of the Sea of Galilee, Samach served as a more natural hand-over point between the two crews for the journey on to Damascus. It was also where the first-class compartments emptied as the tourists descended for their boat-ride across the lake to the religious sites at Tiberias. Lev was watching the fishermen out on their boats, thinking how envious he was of their simple lives uncomplicated by land deals, when he heard a buzzing sound coming from behind him. He looked up to the sky and where he expected to see a swarm of bees, instead he found himself witnessing the arrival of a sea-plane. He wasn’t alone in his astonishment. The rest of the passengers stopped and watched too, their hands held over their eyes against the sun, listening to the drone and the occasional cough and stutter of the engine as the plane dropped out of the sky then skidded across the water to a halt, a performance it seemed put on just for them. ‘A miracle,’ someone close to Lev said. ‘Like walking on water,’ was the whispered response, as Lev and the rest of the audience applauded spontaneously.

  From the lake, the train travelled upwards through the Golan. But even with the release of its recent load of wealthy travellers, the locomotive gradually slowed to almost a standstill as the gradient increased. Some of the male passengers used the opportunity to open up the carriage doors, leap out onto the passing hillside to pick wild flowers, before grabbing the handrail of the last carriage to swing back on. There was much laughter and back-slapping at these feats, as well as shy gratitude from the women who became the recipients of these impromptu bouquets.

  At the small, sun-baked town of Daraa, a junction on the line that ran all the way from Damascus to Medina, the carriages filled up again, this time with pilgrims returning from Mecca. Again Lev used the time to disembark the train, to have his shoes shined, to purchase some slices of watermelon and a yoghurt drink. He was just a few miles over the mountains from Palestine, yet he felt he had emerged into a vastly different land, a lone Polish Jew among a crowd of dusty pilgrims, armed Bedouin, clerks and businessmen in their tight suits and tarbooshes, the French language mixing in easily with Arabic. Yet he was gla
d of this feeling of alienation, for somehow it took him away from his grief.

  Once back in his carriage, the rhythm of the track, the heat, the empty white plains of the Hauran plateau forced him to half-doze as others around him talked quietly, played cards or just stared out at the blank landscape. It was good to close his eyes, keep to himself. He almost wished he could continue on like this, trundling through unknown lands, with no particular destination, detached, suspended in time, a simple orphan.

  When he awoke, the train was pulling into Al Hijaz station. He thought Damascus would remind him of Jerusalem, but even with its plethora of ancient domes and minarets, the city presented itself as a much more modern place. There was the usual traffic of camels and horse-drawn carriages but also electric tramcars and more automobiles than he had ever seen before. The streets were wider too, and tree-lined. There were squares with fountains and monument columns. There was even an opera house.

  Mickey had given him the address of a travellers’ hotel in the Jewish quarter, only a ten-minute walk away from the station. Darkness was already creeping in over the hills but many of the market stalls of the old city were still open. He spoke to one of the basket-sellers who gave him directions. The hotel of his destination had its own courtyard, weeds sprouting between the paving stones, the pillars cracked and worn, it would have been a grand place in years gone by. The old woman who answered the bell looked at him suspiciously until he gave her Mickey’s name. She spoke of Damascus with the same bitterness Madame Blum spoke about her late husband.

  ‘Why would a Jew come here?’ the old woman continued as she showed him his room. ‘When I was a little girl, they accused me of killing their babies. They burned our synagogues. Now they just let us dwindle away to nothing.’ She moved over to the window, pushed open the shutters. Several of the slats were missing. She ran a sleeve across the dust on the sill, coughed, then turned to him. ‘Most of the time, we are leaving. To America. Everyone wants to go to America. Do you want to go to America, Mr Sela?’

  ‘I had my chance once. But I chose Palestine.’

  She let out a rasping breath as if to scoff at the absurdity of his decision. ‘My eldest son is in New York,’ she said. ‘My daughter is also in New York. Come, they say. Come see your grandchildren. Come see our Yiddish theatres and kosher restaurants. New York is the Jewish state we dream of. But what do I want to go to the other side of the world for, an old woman like me? Better I stay here until they murder me in my sleep, take over my home.’ She grabbed his arm, pulled him in closer. ‘Tell me, Mickey sent something with you? Something to ease the pain? A little brandy perhaps?’

  ‘He gave me nothing.’

  ‘Bah,’ the woman spat as she handed over the key. ‘You tell Mickey that next time, I will murder him in his sleep.’ She laughed at that, then disappeared down the hallway, still cackling away.

  Lev surveyed his accommodation. There was a spidery-cracked hand-basin in the corner, a single bed covered with a torn mosquito net. He lay down on the straw mattress, his head against the coarse cloth of the damp pillow, listened to the noise of the street, the loudspeaker call to night prayer from one of the hundreds of minarets that populated this city, perhaps even from the Great Mosque itself. It was a comforting sound, a shepherd calling to his flock, a father to his children. ‘Come, Lev,’ the muezzin seemed to be saying. ‘Come into the bosom of the temple. Come bow down to the Father. Come bow down to your father. Come pray with me.’

  The offices of Khaled the Broker were located in the upper half of a two-storey building with tall windows and a narrow balcony in a side street off the main Marjeh Square. Lev had arranged an early appointment so he could catch the late-morning train back to Haifa, planning to disembark en route at al-Dalhamiyya to visit Celia. He chose to ignore what it would be like to see Amshel again. But in such a small settlement, it would be impossible to avoid the encounter.

  On his arrival in the reception area, a severe-looking young assistant with goatee and spectacles informed him he would be seen immediately. In his mind, Lev had already formed an image of what Khaled would look like, a squat figure made fat from the profits of his various land deals. Instead, Lev discovered a short, nervous, bespectacled man with pointed features not unlike the secretary who had shown him in. Perhaps the two were brothers.

  Khaled had been smoking outside on the balcony. He stepped back in to welcome Lev with a handshake, to direct him to a chair in front of his desk. The secretary returned with a tray of black tea and slices of sweet pastry. Khaled leaned against his desk, lit up another cigarette.

  ‘So, you are from PICA,’ he said. ‘How is Sammy the King?’

  ‘Unfortunately, Sammy is dead.’

  Khaled’s mouth twitched to the news. He then carefully placed his cigarette in an ashtray, took off his spectacles, rubbed each lens slowly with a handkerchief as he listened to what Lev had to tell him.

  ‘I liked Sammy,’ Khaled said. ‘I liked him a lot. He was a fair man. But in this part of the world, to be fair is not necessarily good for your health.’ He replaced his spectacles, retrieved his cigarette, went to sit behind his desk. ‘Now. Tell me. Why are you here?’

  ‘I believe you own a piece of land that is of interest to PICA.’

  ‘Which land is that?’

  ‘An area of about 250 dunams in the Jordan Valley. Situated along the west bank of the Yarmuk River.’

  ‘What makes you think I have anything to do with it?’

  ‘Mr Douglas Raynsford at the Department of Land Registration mentioned your name. Sammy also appeared convinced you were involved.’

  Khaled smiled. ‘I think I need to have stern words with Mr Raynsford about his loose tongue. But with regard to Sammy and his opinions, I shall be gracious to the memory of a departed colleague. I admit I do have an interest in this land that suddenly appeared from nowhere. As if by magic. A wonderful gift from God. What do you want with it?’

  ‘I would like to buy back part of it from you. I can make you a cash offer right now.’

  ‘And the reason for this purchase?’

  ‘We need access to the river for the nearby PICA settlement of Kfar Ha’Emek. For general water supplies and also for irrigation.’

  Khaled gave a short laugh. ‘Your little settlement need not worry about water supplies. That whole area is to be flooded.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I concluded the sale of that land only yesterday. You will have to deal with the new owner.’

  ‘Who is that?’

  ‘The Palestine Electric Power Company’.

  ‘I have never heard of them.’

  ‘A company newly formed for the purpose.’

  ‘By whom?’

  Khaled shrugged. ‘Investors.’

  ‘Sverdlov?’

  ‘Yes. Gregory Sverdlov is involved. How do we say? He is the architect behind the deal. I believe he has grand plans to build a hydro-electric power station there. Good luck to him. I wonder at how a mere tributary of the River Jordan can possibly drive such a scheme. But it appears his watery charm has dazzled some careless and, no doubt, greedy investors.’

  ‘His charm must also have persuaded the Bedouin to sell.’

  ‘I don’t know of any Bedouin.’

  ‘The Bedouin who are currently living there.’

  Khaled shrugged, stubbed out his cigarette. ‘I am only interested in land, Mr Sela. I have no interest in those who choose to eke a living from it. In my experience, such concern only serves to confuse the issue.’

  ‘If you don’t mind me saying, I believe you are not being entirely straight with me. We both know it was the Bedouin who sold you this land.’

  Khaled gave another short laugh. ‘I am a broker, Mr Sela. The reason the owners came to me in the first place was so their identity should not be known. My discretion is of the utmost importance. My reputation and livelihood depend upon it. What does it matter to you who the previous owners were?’

  ‘Because PIC
A had an arrangement with the Bedouin to buy some of that land. We even showed them how to register their title through Mewat. And somehow Sverdlov found out about it. Then persuaded them to sell to his Palestine Electric Power Company through you. Is that not what happened?’

  ‘That is a very interesting supposition, Mr Sela. And one I am not willing to accept or deny. But why don’t you speak to Sverdlov himself. I believe he is catching the same train as you back to Haifa.’ Khaled squinted up at the large wall clock. ‘Which is in…’

  A strident, jarring sound ripped through the air, causing Lev to jump, Khaled to stop talking. They both looked at the source of the ringing, a small box on the wall, then to the shiny black candlestick telephone perched on the desk.

  ‘A miracle of modern invention,’ Khaled said quietly. ‘It still surprises me.’ He picked up the earpiece, listened to the operator, then spoke into the phone. ‘Put him through.’

  Khaled nodded as he listened, motioned with the palm of his free hand for Lev to wait. ‘I see. Do what you can to ensure my interests are protected.’

  He slowly replaced the earpiece on its hook, turned to Lev. ‘That was my representative in Palestine. It appears there is serious rioting in Jerusalem.’

  Thirty-three

  LEV MIGHT HAVE OCCASIONALLY felt a tension with his Arab neighbours but he rarely feared them. Perhaps he had just become immune to such feelings of animosity. After all, he had been brought up in a land that despised him. Here was just another. Yet he felt a certain amount of trepidation now as he boarded the train at Al-Hijaz station along with his fellow passengers, many of whom carried daggers in their belts, bandoliers across their chests, rifles strapped to their backs. But his fear was unmerited as it appeared the news of the riots carried by telephone between Jerusalem and Damascus had not yet arrived by other means. For the mood aboard the train was calm, the talk not of uprisings but of pilgrimages, camel markets, the price of cotton. He looked for sight of the stocky figure of Gregory Sverdlov. But he was not to be seen. The man would no doubt be travelling first-class.