Lev waited until the train had left the outskirts of Damascus and was rolling across the empty, bleached landscape of the Hauran plateau before he decided to confront Sverdlov. He then pushed his way through the crowded carriages until he reached first-class where a uniformed guard took some satisfaction in blocking his progress. Lev handed over his business card, asked him to pass it through to Sverdlov. He was told to stand on the metal grid between carriages while the errand was reluctantly carried out. Lev was actually grateful for the pause, it gave him time to compose himself, to put into practice what Sammy had long ago taught him: ‘When you get a chance to meet a person who holds power, make sure you know exactly what you want.’ He hung onto the metal rail, felt the rhythm of the track under his feet, thought about what he needed to say. A minute or so later, he was ushered into the first-class compartment. Sverdlov was seated alone at a table in a far corner, a silver tea-service before him. There was only one other passenger in the carriage – a pilgrim in full robes and head-dress muttering his prayers out of the window as he counted through his beads.
The Russian engineer put down his newspaper, scowled as Lev approached.
‘I must warn you, Mr Sela, that I am not in good humour. My nose runs like the Volga.’ To prove his point, Sverdlov blew loudly into his handkerchief. ‘The dust, the pollen, I don’t know. Perhaps I am just allergic to Damascus. Or to the French. I can order you something to drink. Coffee? Tea? Anything you like.’
‘I would like a glass of water.’
Sverdlov nodded to an attendant who moved off to carry out the request. ‘Now, what does PICA want from me?’
‘Sammy is dead.’
Sverdlov shrugged, appeared to find more interest in the front-page article of the newspaper lying between them. ‘I am sorry to hear that,’ he said, running a fat finger along a column of figures. ‘What happened?’
Lev waited until the attendant finished placing a glass of water on the table. It had ice and a slice of lemon in it. Lev clasped the glass, held his hand there, grateful for the coolness against his palm. ‘He shot himself.’
Sverdlov looked up, the lines of his already furrowed brow deepening even further, squeezing out the moisture that lay on his forehead. ‘What a waste.’ He seemed about to return his attention to his newspaper when he changed his mind and said: ‘As you know, Sammy was an idealist. A noble vocation, yet the world has no time for them, Mr Sela. I should know. For I used to be one myself not that long ago. Back in Russia, I helped support a revolution. And look what happened. We replaced one set of cruel, corrupt, power-seeking weaklings with another.’ Sverdlov stopped, blew his nose. Lev sipped on his water, recalled what Sammy had said about this man, how he was like some kind of Rasputin who tried to mesmerize you with his eyes. But behind his glasses, Sverdlov’s eyes were red and swollen, hopefully devoid of their power.
‘I realized then, Mr Sela, that it is not possible to change the world unless one is prepared to change oneself. So either one must become a saint or admit defeat and become a pragmatist.’ Sverdlov chuckled to himself. ‘Well, I am certainly no saint. So I chose pragmatism. And here I am.’ Sverdlov held out his arms to show that pragmatism travelled first-class. ‘Sadly, Sammy, also a child of mother Russia, chose to remain an idealist. Unfortunately, idealists find it hard to cope with the disappointments they inevitably must face. Some tea?’
‘No, thank you.’
‘Which are you, Mr Sela?’ Sverdlov took off his glasses, glared at him with a fierce stare. ‘A realist? An idealist? Or perhaps even a saint?’
Lev sat looking back at Sverdlov as he pondered the questions. Idealism? Sainthood? Revolutions? Pragmatism? How had he even become involved in such a conversation? What was it that he wanted to talk about with Sverdlov in the first place? The train, which had been slowing down anyway, suddenly came to a halt, shunted forwards then backwards again. Lev grasped his glass. He didn’t want to cause yet another breakage in front of this man. ‘I’m sorry. What did you ask me?’
Sverdlov replaced his spectacles. ‘It was of no importance. Is that what you came to tell me? That Sammy no longer resides in this wretched world?’
‘I wanted to ask you about the land you recently acquired in the Jordan Valley.’
‘It is the Palestine Electric Power Company that has purchased the land. I am merely its legal representative and a small investor. And, of course, chief engineer of a magnificent project that will bring electricity to the northern population of Palestine, both Arab and Jew alike.’
‘How did you know this land was available, Mr Sverdlov? Up until a few weeks ago, it did not even appear on any map and its ownership was unknown.’
‘It seems you know a lot about my business, Mr Sela. I assume therefore that you are aware I purchased this land through the services of the broker, Khaled Al Hamoud. I trust him entirely to deal with all the legal niceties of ownership. But as to how I knew about this land in the first place, your question surprises me.’
‘Why is that?’
‘Because your very own Chaim Kalisher organized the whole transaction. Kalisher is the principle investor in our little venture.’
Lev sat quietly in the standard-class compartment. In the centre aisle, two men had rolled out their mats and were now bowed down in prayer. Sitting opposite, a man with an eye-patch held onto a cage containing a leather-hooded hawk. Next to him, a Syrian businessman in a tarboosh who passed wind at every jiggle and bump of the train. Beside him, a young boy chewing on sunflower seeds, cracking the shells in his teeth, spitting them into his palm, looking over at Lev every time he did so. Lev stared through the dust-covered window slats at the empty landscape. Not a tree or bush in sight. Just miles of white, stony ground. He still couldn’t believe what Sverdlov had told him. Perhaps he was lying. But there was no reason why he should be. Chaim Kalisher was behind everything. He was just like the hawk in the cage opposite. Unhooded, his eyes could see every little detail, every movement of his prey, long before anyone else. Then with talons hooked, he would swoop down on his target, gather it up in his clutches and return to perch quietly on the wrist of the Anonymous Donor.
The bird’s one-eyed owner looked back at Lev, smiled through crooked teeth, laughed a throaty laugh, pointed to his patch.
‘Wife,’ the man said, then shook his finger over the cage. ‘Not bird. Wife with knife.’
Lev nodded in pretended sympathy, returned to his thoughts. What he still did not understand was how Kalisher’s actions had driven Sammy to kill himself. The Bedouin would have been paid off, Kfar Ha’Emek would have access to water and the north of Palestine would have electricity. Kalisher would no doubt eventually make huge profits but surely the man’s greed and his underhand methods were not enough to make Sammy take his own life?
It was with such a question in mind that Lev watched the mass of pilgrims depart the train at Daraa station for their onward travel to Mecca. There was not a woman or child among them, just these predominantly older men, for it took many years to amass the wealth needed to afford this once-in-a-lifetime spiritual journey. To have such belief, such sense of purpose, both communal and private, how reassuring that must feel, Lev thought. For the Jews, their place of pilgrimage was the Western Wall, a site forever in dispute and no doubt the cause of the current riots. He stood up, leaned out of the window, let the air dry his face, watched the crowded platform disappear into the horizon as his own train churned westwards for Palestine and the cool breezes of the coast.
As with the outward journey, the engine slowed right down as it struggled with the slopes of the Golan. Once again, some of the male passengers jumped off on a flower-picking expedition and this time Lev decided to join them. He did so with a great whoop, landing safely on the soft, grassy earth, then grasping quickly at clumps of anemones, poppies, cyclamen and mustard before swinging back onto the rear of the train. As he walked back through the carriages, he could feel his whole body vibrant from the effort and the excitement. For the first
time on this trip he was smiling.
‘For wife?’ his one-eyed companion asked.
Lev, still breathless, looked down at the hastily assembled bouquet. He didn’t know how to answer. ‘For a young woman,’ he said eventually.
‘I hope beautiful young woman,’ the man said. ‘Not wife with knife.’
They both laughed at that. It was the last time there would be any levity on the train, for at the Samach hand-over point Lev noticed it wasn’t just the Palestinian Railways crew and a group of weary tourists awaiting the arrival of the train. There was a small unit of British infantrymen as well.
The soldiers came on board quickly, spreading throughout the train until there was one positioned at either end of each carriage. An officer followed, bringing with him news of ‘certain disruption in the region’. Passengers were to be confined to their carriages but within that restriction many still moved to sit beside those they no doubt considered allies should the ‘certain disruption’ extend to the train itself. The one-eyed man and his caged hawk went off to a far-away bench. As did the Syrian businessman and his sunflower seed-eating son. Lev sat alone. As soon as the train pulled away from the Sea of Galilee, he went to find a railway guard. The soldier at the end of his carriage barred his passage.
‘I need to get off at the next stop,’ Lev told him.
‘That’s not going to happen,’ said the soldier, a surly, red-haired youth with a sun-blistered face. Then, with a nod to the flowers: ‘These for me?’
Lev ignored the comment. ‘Let me speak to the guard.’
‘You’ll have to wait till he comes around.’
‘It’ll be too late. I’m getting off at al-Dalhamiyya.’
‘al-Dalhamiyya? A nothing place in the middle of nowhere.’
‘I have business there.’
‘With your pretty little posy? I bet it’s a dusky maiden you’re after. Only Arabs live round al-Dalhamiyya.’
‘Not just Arabs. There’s a Jewish settlement nearby.’
‘I’m sorry to break your Jewess’ heart. But this train isn’t taking special requests. It’s going all the way to Haifa.’
‘Please, let me speak to the guard.’
‘Orders are orders. This train is non-stop. The Jezreel Valley Express. Sit back down. Enjoy the ride.’
It was late by the time Lev arrived back in Haifa but the light was still on in Madame Blum’s bedroom. He tried not to make a noise as he moved around in the dark hallway but she called out: ‘Is that you, Mickey?’
‘It’s Lev.’
She didn’t reply. He tapped at her door, she told him to come in. She was sat up in bed, reading. And smoking. This was a new habit she had taken up since Sammy had died. Smoking his cheroots. She had found boxes of them. Her hair was tied up into a headscarf. She wore no make-up. Her eyes were rheumy and red. There was ash all down the front of her nightgown.
‘I thought you were in Damascus,’ she said without looking up at him.
‘It was only for one night. I brought you some flowers.’
‘That’s very thoughtful.’
‘I’ll bring a vase.’
‘No, no. Just leave them on the dresser.’ She patted the bed beside her. ‘Come. Sit.’
He did as he was told. She took his hand in hers. It was cold and greasy with cream.
‘What am I going to do, Lev? I can’t sleep.’
‘I thought the doctor gave you powders.’
‘Powders that can put elephants to sleep. But not me. How can a person sleep with all these terrible events happening?’ She took a puff of the cheroot, blew out the smoke, then started to cough terribly. He went to bring her a glass of water but she waved him to stop. She banged her chest with her fist and the coughing stopped. ‘First the earthquake. Then poor Sammy. And now these riots.’
‘The riots are in Jerusalem.’
She gripped his hand tighter. ‘No, no, no, Lev. The riots are spreading. That’s what Ida told me. Her husband Max works in the mayor’s office.’
‘You shouldn’t believe everything Ida tells you.’
‘They have telephones there. They receive news from all over. Soon the riots will be in Haifa. Soon they will be murdering us in our beds. No wonder I can’t sleep.’
‘I keep telling you. Haifa is safe. There are no problems here with the Arabs.’
‘What do you know, Lev? What do you know? Ask Mickey. He knows these things. Where is Mickey?’
‘He must be out somewhere.’
‘He is always out somewhere.’ And then she started to sob. Her head fell forward, her back went into huge spasms, tears were dripping off her cheeks. He had never seen anyone cry in such a violent way before. He drew in closer to her, put an arm around her shoulder, felt the bones underneath the cotton fabric. She rested her head against him, stayed like that until the sobbing stopped. She then pulled away, wiped her cheeks.
‘I miss him so much.’
‘Why did you never tell me about the two of you?’
‘We wanted to. We talked about it a lot. But we decided it was better that you didn’t know.’
‘But why?’
‘We both loved you like a son. I still do. And then if Sammy and I stopped seeing each other, who would have you?’
Lev got up from the side of the bed, walked over to the window. He noticed the glow of a fire somewhere off on the beach. The local boys sometimes did that, sat up around the flames, drinking arak, playing music on strings and drums. It reminded him of when he and Celia had sat together on the same stretch of sand.
Thirty-four
LETTER 15
Kfar Ha’Emek, Jordan Valley, Palestine
My dear Charlotte
I am frightened. The night is echoing with gunfire. The shots go off like firecrackers. One or two at a time. Then a pause. Then it starts again. Every time I hear one, I jump in my chair, my pen jerks on the page. You will know my fear from the quivering flow of my handwriting. But I need to keep on writing. It distracts me from my terror, it helps to calm me. I will try to send this on tomorrow’s train if it chooses to stop. I tried to flag it down today, we had boxes of oranges to send to Haifa. But it just went flying past as if my red flag didn’t exist. I saw British soldiers on board. Perhaps they feared I had a band of armed Jews waiting behind me ready to pounce.
It has been like this for more than twenty-four hours now. We hear rumours of riots in Jerusalem. Killings and rapes in Sefad and Hebron, massacres everywhere. We have no telephone or telegraph here but riders have passed by from Tiberias with the news. They tell us to take up arms, to guard our perimeters. But we only have an ancient gun and a few machetes. The men are carrying out all the sentry duty. The few women that remain are trying to keep our settlement going as best we can. I don’t even know who we are defending ourselves against. Emir Abdullah in Trans-Jordan? The Arabs in Palestine? The Bedouins in the valley? Or just bandits after the few possessions we have?
The little news we have received tells us of fighting in Jerusalem over the right to pray at the Western Wall, that holiest of sites for both Moslems and Jews. But that is just the taper that lights the powder of all the fears and bitterness that exists between our two peoples. I wanted to feel that by coming here I could make a positive contribution to this land, that we could live in peace with our neighbours, benefit from each other’s knowledge, culture and labour. Now all I see is hatred on both sides. I can’t take it anymore, Charlotte. I want to leave. I want to return to Scotland, to tread on a land again without fear.
It has gone quiet now. Even in the silence my nerves are all shattered. Amshel the Storyteller will come by soon. He sleeps in a cot in my tent to keep me company during the night. I am surprised he still remains with us. After all, he is not an official member of our community. He also teases me, saying it is ridiculous a capitalist such as he should be defending us poor socialists. However, I am glad of his company. It is better we stay close like this during such terrible times. I fear for my life but where
is there to escape to? It seems the whole of Palestine is in upheaval.
A child is crying. I must go. I have to take tea and biscuits out to the men. I will try to write more later.
All my love
Celia
Thirty-five
LEV WOKE TO A CHURNING, urgent wave of shouting from somewhere in the neighbourhood. He had fallen asleep where he sat in an armchair in Madame Blum’s bedroom, the intensity of the light pouring through the window showing him it was probably already mid-morning. Madame Blum still slept, sitting upright against the pillows, snoring slightly, the doctor’s draught having done its trick. On the bedside table, his bouquet of withered flowers plucked from the hills of the Golan. Still drenched in sleep, he pushed himself out of the chair, stretched and straightened, walked through the house and out of the front door into the courtyard, trying to locate the source of the noise that had woken him. He went out into the street, looked down towards the alleyways that led through the old town to the harbour and the sea. About two hundred yards along the slight incline, he saw a mob of men and boys hemmed into the lanes, their raised arms holding clubs and sticks and knives and swords. Two riders on horseback were either trying to lead the crowd or hold them back from coming up the hill, it was difficult to know. He could now make out what was being chanted: ‘Kill the Jews. Kill the Jews.’ A vocal blast of hatred that fully awakened him from his somnolent state.
Close by, someone whistled. He looked up. Flat on the roof of a neighbouring house, a man with a rifle waving for him to get back inside. It was Ida’s husband, Max Kaplan, the smug little clerk from the mayor’s office. Max Kaplan with a gun, how could this be? Max whistled again. And then he felt someone beside him, pushing him indoors. Mickey. His head wrapped in a bandana, his face smeared with oil. He held a rifle in each hand.
The Land Agent Page 20