by Kate Raphael
“A few months,” Jaber answered.
“Why does she live here?”
“She wanted a place to stay, and I have the apartment.”
A tight knot formed in Chloe’s stomach. Was Jaber going to feel he had to kick her out now?
Benny was apparently satisfied that there was nothing more to know about her relationship to the family, and moved on to the business at hand.
“Where is your son Fareed?”
Jaber shrugged. “Lo po.” Not here, he said. Chloe drew in a sharp breath and held it. That was the kind of answer that could send someone flying to the ground. She didn’t know if her presence had anything to do with Benny’s controlled response.
“I need to talk to him,” he said mildly.
“What about?” Jaber asked, his eyes betraying no fear.
“About the murder of a young woman near here.”
“What could my son have to do with that?”
“People say that he knew her.”
“Who says that? Who was she?”
“A foreign woman.”
“My son doesn’t know any foreign women.”
“He knows her,” he said pointing to Chloe.
“She is not a foreign woman. She is one of us.”
Warmth coursed through Chloe’s body at this. But of course, Jaber was just making points with the Israeli policeman. He might feel different in the harsh light of his neighbors’ stares.
“More than one person told us they saw her with him,” Benny told him. “And besides, there is something else.”
“What else?”
“We believe he might have been involved with the terrorist that we arrested a few months ago.”
“He is not involved in anything like that.”
“Someone gave us his name.”
“I ask you to tell me who.”
“You know that I can’t do that.”
“Well, then, why should I believe you? If someone is implicating my son for a terrorist, I have the right to know who it is.”
“It is impossible for me to tell you. But if it is a mistake, I’m sure we can clear it up very quickly. If you want to call Fareed to come home, we will wait out here for him to come. Otherwise, we will need to search the house.”
Jaber said nothing.
“I’m a fair guy,” Benny said suddenly. “Just ask her,” pointing at Chloe. “Didn’t I get them to free her when she didn’t have her passport?”
Now people were sure to think she was a collaborator. Did he do that on purpose? She couldn’t be sure. It seemed to her his pointing at her was unnecessarily expansive, so that anyone watching would be certain not to miss it. Now he turned to the army commander, and made a sweeping gesture toward the house.
“Let’s go,” Benny said.
Fifteen soldiers stormed into the house. Chloe followed them. They were thorough and violent. One soldier pulled the cushions from the sofa, and another sliced them open with a bayonet. They ripped the curtains from the windows, yanking the curtain rods from the walls. They tossed food from the refrigerator, emptied the garbage on the floor, smashed Ahlam’s lovely china plates. They didn’t seem interested in anything. Obviously their orders were to do a certain amount of damage, to show the family the price of noncooperation.
They were searching, or ransacking, in several groups. Chloe wasn’t sure who was best to follow. She heard glass being broken in the back, so she went toward the sound. The mirror in the master bedroom was shattered, and the soldiers were in the process of throwing Ahlam’s lingerie on the floor and stepping on it. At least they weren’t peeing on it, like the ones who had searched the home of a friend of hers in Jenin. Chloe followed behind them and picked the things up, aware that it was a futile gesture. Somewhat to her surprise, they paid no attention to her. But she supposed if they were putting on a show, it helped to have someone to witness it.
They finished in the master bedroom and moved on to the room that Fareed shared with his two brothers. The soccer posters they simply tore off the walls, but the one “martyr poster,” of a young man from the village who had been shot in the back by Israeli soldiers in the first year of the Intifada, they ripped into a hundred tiny pieces. One of them turned to face Chloe after they did that.
“That is what we do to terrorists,” he said.
She wasn’t sure what he meant. Was he talking about the boy in the picture, or making a threat against Fareed? Or possibly, remembering how Top Killer said he was going to “treat her like a terrorist,” the threat was meant for her. Regardless, there was no benefit to answering him. She simply stared back.
Jaber’s kids did not sleep on mats on the floor like most of their neighbors did. They had real twin beds on wooden frames, so the soldiers had plenty to do, cutting into the mattresses, pulling out handfuls of cotton rag stuffing, smashing at the wood frames with the butts of their guns. After they shattered the first one, Chloe couldn’t restrain herself. She went and sat on the second one before they could destroy it.
“Enough!” she screamed in English. “You’ve made your point.”
One of the soldiers aimed the butt of his M-16 at her, as if about to smash her along with the bed frame. But one of the others tapped him on the shoulder, and they turned to the desk instead. The one who had stopped his friend from hitting her yanked open the desk drawers, two at a time, pulling them all the way out until they thudded to the floor. His more violent friend turned them over, strewing the contents on the floor, and then poked at it with his gun. There were the usual mementos of teenage boys’ lives—papers with high marks written at the top in red Arabic numbers, a few marbles, a Rubik’s cube, a pocket Koran. Some crude drawings, including one of an Israeli soldier beating a young boy. The more aggressive soldier picked that one up and handed it to the other, who studied it for a second, wadded it into a ball, and tossed it to the ground.
They were most interested in the photographs, of which there were quite a few. Photos of boys playing soccer, family members at weddings and on the beach. Chloe glimpsed one of Ahlam, looking young and beautiful, in capri pants and a tank top, shading her eyes with one hand. Her other hand was on the shoulder of Fareed, who must have been about twelve at the time, and he in turn held Mohammed and Naeem in front of him. The tiny Alaa was wedged in between the feet of the two younger boys. Chloe hadn’t known that only seven years ago or so, Ahlam had not covered herself in public. She would have to ask her about that.
Something shiny gleamed up from the pile of papers and trinkets. The soldiers noticed it at the same moment Chloe did. One of them picked it up and they both turned it over in their hands, talking quietly between themselves. Chloe could see it was a thick gold bracelet. She didn’t recall ever seeing Fareed wearing it. From where she sat, it didn’t really look like the kind of thing Palestinians wore at all. They tended toward silver or copper, and if they wore gold, it would be thinner, hammered or filigreed, not a simple gold band like this. But she didn’t really know. Maybe it was some kind of heirloom given to Fareed by one of his parents or grandparents on some special occasion.
The quieter soldier, who seemed to be in charge, put the object in his pocket. Chloe started to say something, but stopped herself. She didn’t have any way of knowing what standard practice was, or what the man intended to do with the bracelet. So far, she had gotten to observe this operation much more closely than she would have predicted. No need to draw attention to that fact, and to herself, over something that might not be irregular at all. She would watch and see.
They found nothing more to interest them in the boys’ room. They surprised her by not going through the girls’ room at all. They peeked in, surveyed the beds, with their tumbled covers and menageries of stuffed animals, and left again, even turning off the light as they did.
Chloe followed them back to the living room. Although she had watched them vandalize the room, a survey of the mess stunned her anew. It would take hours, maybe days to restore any order here. She could no
t meet Ahlam’s eyes. She had failed to protect them. No matter what anyone said to or about her, she would know that in their hearts, they were all thinking, “What good is she?”
The two soldiers who had searched Fareed’s room handed the commander the things they had taken. Benny came and joined them, and they talked quietly among themselves. Benny took the gold bracelet and showed it to Jaber.
“Is this your son Fareed’s?”
“I don’t recognize it,” Jaber responded placidly.
“It’s very important that your son come and talk to me at once,” Benny repeated.
“If he does not,” the army commander threw in, “we will come back in two days and arrest all the males in the family over fourteen.” She thought Benny looked uncomfortable with this line of attack, but he didn’t say anything. He wrote his mobile phone number down on the back of a business card and gave it to Jaber. Jaber stared at it for a long moment, as if willing it to tell him what he should do. It was an impossible situation he had just been put in, Chloe thought. If the army had threatened to take only him if Fareed did not turn himself in, he would not have given it another thought, but of course, they knew that.
When the police and army left, some of the men from neighboring houses came over to talk. Jaber ushered them into the living room, and Chloe went to help Ahlam make tea.
“Do you think I should move out?” she asked, her heart pounding.
“Ya haram,” Ahlam said. “Why are you talking like that?”
“But the policeman said—” Chloe said.
“Who wants to listen to him?” Ahlam handed her the tea pot and sent her into the living room to serve it.
Chloe quietly poured ten cups of tea. “Yslamu ideeki,” murmured one man after another. She tried to take comfort from that. They would not bless the hands of someone they thought was a collaborator, would they? She took a cup and sat down in the loveseat, even though she was not completely sure she was welcome. Alaa came and snuggled next to her. Her presence was incredibly comforting to Chloe in that moment, and she soaked in her warm child smell, buried her nose in the frizzy mop which smelled faintly of shampoo.
“Jesh bifattash ala Fareed.” The army is looking for Fareed, the little girl whispered in Chloe’s ear.
“I know,” Chloe said. “Maalesh, kulishi bisir tamaam.” Don’t worry, everything will be okay. Guiltily, she realized she had no reason to think this was true. Fareed might well end up imprisoned for years, no matter whether he did or didn’t have anything to do with any explosives or Nadya’s death. But Alaa knew she had no magic powers. Right now she was a frightened little girl and she needed to be told that her brother would not be kidnapped by the jesh in the middle of the night and taken off to be tortured. If that happened later, which it almost surely would, would Alaa be angry at Chloe and feel she lied?
“Mush tawbaane?” You’re not tired? she said softly to the little girl.
“Khaife min jesh.” I’m afraid of the army.
“I know, habibti, but they will not come back tonight,” Chloe said. Of this, at least, she was sure. The two-day deadline loomed like a mushroom cloud on the family’s horizon, but in that moment, it was a reprieve.
Chapter 18
Friday Rania did not have to work. She slept until eight, woke up slowly, and went to the kitchen to make coffee and eggs cooked in lots of olive oil for breakfast. She and Bassam sat out on the patio drinking their coffee, while Khaled tooled around on his tricycle. The specter of summer’s oppressive heat hovered ever closer, but this morning the air was still a little cool, and the dew carried the scent of jasmine to them from their neighbor’s yard. The wall around the compound was high enough that she could sit outside in a light robe, enjoying the stillness of the Sabbath morning. She asked Bassam about his week. She realized she had barely talked to him since finding Nadya’s body on Monday afternoon.
Before the Intifada, he had worked full-time in the Ministry of Interior, helping new organizations get licensed by the Palestinian Authority. In the financial crisis of the last four years, his job had been cut to less than half-time. He still went to his office in Ramallah three or four days each week, but he was paid for only fifteen hours, and often even that was theoretical. The shortfall had made them both more grateful for her salary from the police, but it had also made things more awkward between them. He never said, “My wife should not make more money than I do,” but he became more upset if she did not come home on time, or was called to work on a holiday.
He was starting to tell her about an interesting new women’s cooperative that had applied for a permit when the phone jangled in the house. She snatched it up on the fourth ring. The voice on the other end made her wish she had ignored it.
“We found a bracelet in the home of a boy in Azzawiya last night,” Benny’s voice said. “It matches the one we found in the abandoned car. I thought you would want to know.”
She felt a heavy tingling in her head, as her blood rushed in. “What were you doing in Azzawiya last night?” she half-shouted.
“We were looking for someone,” he said tersely.
“If you were working on the Nadya case, you should have let me know,” she said hotly.
“Mustafa and Abu Ziyad knew we were going there to search.”
And the captain hadn’t told her. But she had no time to brood on that now, because Benny was still talking.
“Nadya was definitely from Uzbekistan,” he said. “But remember the Ukrainian passport you found, in the name of Alexandra Marininova? It belongs to a woman who lives in Eilat. I’m going to go talk to her, see if she knows how her passport came to be in Nir Gelenter’s house with Nadya Kim’s photo on it. She might be able to lead us to the people who brought Nadya from Uzbekistan. You want to come?”
“Today? Can’t it wait until tomorrow?” Tomorrow was his Sabbath, but he was disrupting hers so why not return the favor?
“No, it’s better to go today. We might need to spend the night,” he added.
She guessed he was only asking because he expected her to decline. She wanted to disappoint him, but she couldn’t see herself leaving Khaled. She had never spent a night away from him in six years.
“Could I bring my son along?” she asked. “He has never seen the sea.”
“Are you kidding?”
She couldn’t possibly explain that Palestinian men would not think anything of a woman they worked with bringing her child to work. She had gone back to work when Khaled was just over a year old, and had often carted him around with her in those early days. He had slept under her desk and the policemen had competed to see who could bring him the best sweets.
If she could take him along to Eilat, it would serve two purposes. It would assuage her guilt over wanting to go, and allay anyone’s disapproval of her going off for a whole day or more with an Israeli man. She couldn’t imagine Bassam, or his mother, being very understanding of her need to travel to the distant seaport.
“Our insurance won’t cover it,” he said. “I’ll call Mustafa, see if he wants to send someone else.”
“When are we going?”
If that surprised him, he didn’t show it. “I’ll pick you up in an hour.”
Bassam definitely wasn’t thrilled.
“You sometimes spend the night in Ramallah for your work,” she reminded him.
“But that’s Ramallah,” he said. “Eilat is in Israel, and it is dangerous. There are men there who do not respect Muslim women. And I do not spend the night with an Israeli woman.”
“I will not be spending the night with Benny!” she exploded. “If we have to sleep in Eilat, I will make sure my room is very far from his.”
“It is not right,” he said, thrusting a spoon into the bowl of labneh.
“It is my job,” she said, tearing into a round of bread with equal force. “I do not tell you how to do your job, and I will not give mine over to one of the men, so they can whisper about how my husband will never allow me to succeed.”
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“They will whisper about you more if you go off for days with this Israeli man,” he growled. They finished their meal in silence, and he stomped off to dress. Khaled watched his father walk away, tears starting to trickle down his chubby cheek. She lifted him out of his high chair and cuddled him close.
“I’m sorry,” she told him. “We didn’t mean to frighten you.”
“Are you going away?” he asked.
“I will be back tonight or tomorrow,” she said. “Your grandmother will spoil you with so many treats, you won’t even miss me.”
“Bring me a present,” he said.
* * *
It grew hotter and hotter as they drove south. Benny turned on the air conditioning in the car, though she would rather have had the breeze. But she was feeling kind toward him, for some reason, probably because he had not been put off by her outburst in the café. She let him ramble on about his trips to Eilat when he was a conscript in the army, how he would go there with his friends to pick up girls and get drunk.
“What did you do in the army?” she asked him.
He looked at her then, taking his eyes off the road for several seconds, and she thought that only then did he remember he was talking to a Palestinian woman.
“I was in Lebanon,” he evaded.
Was he trying to reassure her that he wasn’t in the Palestinian Territories? What difference did he think that made? Nearly all Israeli men his age would have fought in Lebanon. It was the war then, same as what they were doing to her land now. Maybe he was one of those who slaughtered the women and children in the Sabra and Shatila refugee camps. Maybe she should ask him. She chose not to. He was quiet after that, and fiddled with the radio until he found a music station he liked and he sang along in Hebrew.
She had imagined the Red Sea would be like the Dead Sea or the Mediterranean. She was unprepared for the intense blue-green and white-white sand, drawing her eyes to them like a laser. Though the city behind her was as unspeakably ugly as she had heard, while she stared at the water she thought she had never been anywhere more beautiful.