Murder Under the Bridge

by Kate Raphael

  A small group of women students in matching black jilbabs and white headscarves walked slowly toward her. As she passed them she heard them laughing at some slightly off-color joke. If only she had friends to laugh with like that, she might be looking forward to these days on her own as a time to catch up with them. Growing up in the camp, she had never been alone. There had been her sister Maysoon, one year younger—they had been inseparable. And once she had joined the Fatah movement, she had been part of a tight circle of young women, bonded by danger and ideals. If she had grown up here in the north, no doubt she would have found soul mates here too. But she had come to Mas’ha as a young bride, soon to be a mother, and since Khaled she had been so busy with her work and her family, she had had no time to make friends. The world her husband’s family inhabited felt like a tightly closed book to her. She was three times an outsider: she was not from the village, she was a refugee, and she had an unusual career that she loved. Perhaps she could call Maysoon to come for a visit, but then she would have to admit what she had done, and her sister would probably judge her harshly too. Maysoon wanted nothing beyond her husband and four children.

  The savory smells of shawrma mingled with the sugary aromas of the pastry shop, reminding her that she had not eaten since a hastily grabbed breakfast. She peeked into the shawarma shop. Dared she walk in and sit at a table by herself? There were a few men gathered in front, watching a soccer match on television. They probably wouldn’t pay any attention to her if she sat in the back, and she didn’t care what they thought. But sitting there would feel even lonelier than being alone in her house.

  The man whose dirty white apron marked him as the proprietor was looking quizzically at her, machete poised over the revolving spit of meat.

  “Just some hummus,” she said. “And tahini salad and some fried eggplant.”

  He packed the food up for her and she put down two shekels. She shoved a piece of eggplant into her mouth before stepping out into the street. It would tide her over until she got home. At least she had settled the question of what she was going to do for dinner, but not how she would pass the time until morning.

  Her mother-in-law was in the garden when she entered the compound. Rania stifled a sigh. She didn’t know if Bassam had told his family he was going away, or why, but she didn’t want to answer any questions about it.

  “Masa il-kheir.” Evening of joy, she said.

  “Masa il warad.” Evening of flowers, Um Bassam replied. The fragrant blossoms she was cutting must have inspired the variation on the standard response, evening of light. Rania liked the idea of an evening of flowers. She squatted next to the old woman and breathed deeply, savoring the slightly spicy scent.

  “Do you want to eat with us?” her mother-in-law asked.

  Rania wondered who “us” was. Maryam and Amir and their kids, she supposed. Well, she wasn’t going to find out.

  “Thank you,” she said. “But I’m tired. I’ll eat some hummus and then rest.” She gestured with her bag of groceries.

  “Hmmph,” Um Bassam said. “That’s not dinner.”

  “It’s good enough for me,” Rania said. Surely her mother-in-law would agree with that, inadequate food for an inadequate woman.

  “Enough, you’ll eat with us,” the old woman said. She stood easily, her large frame surprisingly limber, and rubbed her hands together briskly to shake off the dirt. She left the shears where they lay in the grass and carried her basket of flowers up the stairs. Rania had no choice but to follow.

  No one else was in the upper flat. A white-gowned cleric was droning away on television, gesticulating as he predicted the fall of Israel and America. Rania wondered if she could get away with saying she needed to wash up, and escape downstairs until the others arrived. She peeked into the kitchen. Um Bassam was arranging her flowers into vases, her lips moving slightly in conversation with herself. Rania watched her silently for a few seconds. The old woman always seemed so content, it had never occurred to Rania that she might be lonely. Khaled was her most constant companion; she picked him up from school every day. Perhaps inviting Rania had not been some hidden way of reproaching her with her the absence of her husband and son, but merely a thought that two women alone could keep one another company.

  “Can I help you?” she asked.

  The old woman handed her the two vases. Rania retreated to the living room and considered where to put them. She had never noticed flowers in her mother-in-law’s apartment. In fact, she never spent enough time there to notice. When she got home from work, she was always anxious to get started cooking. If she came upstairs to let Khaled know she was home, he generally heard her at the door and came running, so she seldom walked in. More often, she just called up the stairs and went straight into her own house. When they ate together, which did not happen often, her mother-in-law normally came downstairs, rather than the other way around. She knew little about her mother-in-law’s life, she realized, and she had never really wondered about it.

  She placed one of the vases on the dining table and the other on the coffee table. Doubtless, Um Bassam would move them with a reproachful look.

  She didn’t. She entered the dining area bearing a bowl piled high with makluube—rice cooked with fried cauliflower and eggplant and threaded with silver noodles. She plunged a large spoon into the mound and set it on the table already set with two plates. Rania followed her to the kitchen. The old woman ladled two bowls of a thin white soup and handed them to Rania to put on the table. She brought out the ubiquitous cucumber and tomato salad and rounds of pita bread, and they were ready to eat.

  Her mother-in-law had been waiting for her, Rania thought. That’s why she had been out in the garden so late. But why had she said “us”? Was it possible that after all these years she didn’t remember that her husband was dead? Did she still set two places at every meal? She couldn’t ask. She would just have to wonder.

  She took a sip of soup. “Delicious.”

  “How is your work?” the old woman asked.

  “Okay,” Rania said warily.

  “What about the girl they found in the fields?” They found, not you found, Rania noted with irritation.

  “The Israelis think a boy from Azzawiya killed her,” she responded. “I am not sure.”

  “The newspaper said she was a prostitute in Elkana,” Um Bassam said. Rania had to laugh. It was so typical of the Palestinian press to get things garbled. It didn’t really matter, but it gave her something to talk about.

  “She was a prostitute in Eilat, before she came to Elkana. In Elkana she took care of a rich man’s children.”

  “They are all rich in Elkana.”

  “True.”

  “Why did my son go away?”

  “He took Khaled to visit Zeina.”

  “You didn’t want to go?”

  “I have to work.”

  “I miss Khaled.”

  “So do I.” Rania smiled. The one thing she had never doubted about her mother-in-law was how much she loved her grandson.

  “Last week, he saw the big rooster pecking one of the little chicks. And he pointed to the rooster and said, ‘That one is the Yahudi.’”

  Um Bassam chuckled at the memory. Rania put her spoon down. “What did you say?”

  “I said he was right.”

  “That’s not good. ‘Jew’ doesn’t mean a bully. It’s like saying ‘terrorist’ means ‘Palestinian.’”

  “It does.”

  They both laughed at that. Certainly no one used the word irhabi, terrorist, to refer to the Israeli settlers who shot at Palestinians in the fields.

  Rania was quiet, fishing in her mind for a safe subject. “Years ago,” her mother-in-law interrupted her thoughts, “we were friends with the Yahud.”

  Rania frowned. “When? Which Jews?”

  “Before the Intifada. The settlers from Elkana used to come to shop at the stores. Some of them even invited us to their houses.”

  “You didn’t go?”
/>   “Of course we did. Why wouldn’t we? Their houses were on our land anyway.”

  “What happened then?”

  “After the Intifada they built the big fence around the settlement. They put guards to keep us out. Some of the same children whose families we visited threw stones at our store windows.”

  “Bassam never mentioned it.”

  “He never wanted us to go. Even when he was little, he hated the Yahud.”

  Rania nodded. Bassam was opposed to “normalization”—building friendly relations with the occupiers. He believed the Palestinians should fight for their freedom. She did too. It was one of the things that had drawn them together in college.

  “He was always stubborn,” Um Bassam continued. “Like Khaled.”

  “It’s good for Palestinian boys to be stubborn,” Rania said. “If they were not, we would be gone by now.”

  “Not only the boys,” Um Bassam said. Rania looked at her in surprise. “It’s good you did not give up your work,” the old woman went on.

  “But… I thought you didn’t want me to go back.”

  “True. I was lonely. I wanted you to be at home, so I would have someone to talk to.”

  Rania had never thought about that. Would she have stayed home to keep her mother-in-law company, if she had known? She shuddered even thinking about it, and then felt ashamed.

  “I’m sorry,” she murmured. The old woman waved her apology away.

  “Maalesh.” Don’t worry about it. “I was also envious of you.”

  “Of me? But you didn’t want to be a policewoman.”

  “No, of course not. But I wanted to be a nurse.”

  “So why couldn’t you? That’s a perfectly okay job for a woman.”

  “My family had no money for girls to go to school. I married into a wealthy family, to help my parents.”

  “But if you had no money, how could you marry into wealth? What about your dowry?”

  “I was very beautiful.” Rania nearly laughed. Then she looked—really looked—at her mother-in-law for the first time. She didn’t exactly see beauty, but she saw what probably accounted for it—strength of character. She had Bassam’s soft doe eyes.

  “So you made sure your daughters could go to school,” Rania said.

  The old woman nodded. “They were so smart. Dunya got the highest grade on her tawjihi, boys or girls.” The tawjihi was the exam that high school graduates had to pass if they wanted to go on to college. They spent an entire year studying for it.

  “What about Bassam?” Rania asked.

  “He only did so-so.”

  “Funny, he never mentioned that either.” She would have to rib him about it—if he ever came back. Suddenly the reality of why she was having this tête-à-tête with Um Bassam came flooding back to her and she was no longer hungry. She gathered up the dishes quickly and piled them into the sink.

  “You are tired,” her mother-in-law said. “Go downstairs and rest. I will finish here.”

  “I don’t mind,” Rania said. Surprised, she realized she meant it. She would rather be here with the old woman than alone in her house.

  “Go and watch television,” Rania said. “I will make some tea.”

  “If you like.”

  Rania put on the kettle and finished the few dishes before it boiled. The leftovers were already in covered pots on the stove. They would be fine there. She added a tablespoon of loose tea to the kettle.

  “Do you want sage or mint?” she called. No answer.

  She went into the living room. Her mother-in-law was snoring in the armchair across from the television, head lolling to one side. So much for an evening of female bonding. It was just as well. She had had a hard day, and she would no doubt have another one tomorrow. Seeing Um Bassam sleep made her own eyes feel heavy. She put away the tea things and wondered if she should write a note. Not necessary, she decided. She tiptoed out, closing the door very softly behind her.

  Chapter 30

  Chloe wouldn’t feel safe until she got out of Tel Aviv. She didn’t think the SHABAK would look hard for her, but she couldn’t be sure. Nir Gelenter probably knew she was staying in Azzawiya. She had better stay away from there for a few days. She caught a sherut to the bus station and another to Jerusalem. While she waited for the van to fill, she called Maya and told her about Avi.

  “Once I get to Jerusalem, I can call a lawyer to get him out,” Chloe offered.

  “Never mind, I’ll take care of it,” came the hoped-for response.

  Chloe told herself not to worry. Avi would be fine. He was an Israeli, with good connections. She resolutely put aside the nagging voice that said she should be wherever he was, taking whatever abuse he was experiencing. Probably he would be out in an hour, while in an hour, she could have been on a plane.

  By early evening she was relaxing on the balcony of the Austrian Hospice, a palace-like hostel in the middle of the Old City, where the nuns let her keep some of her things in a room that wasn’t usually used. She always felt a little guilty when she crossed the checkpoint into Jerusalem, knowing that her friends in the West Bank could not do so except at great risk. It was their holy city, the capital of their hoped-for country, and they couldn’t set foot inside it, while she, to whom it was just another beautiful, historically rich place, could go and come as she pleased. She studiously avoided the Western, Israeli side of the divided city, but she imagined that would be small comfort to someone like Rania, with her keen sense of justice. The fact was that now and then she needed somewhere to get away from the claustrophobia of the village, to fade into a place where she didn’t stand out so clearly. It gave her a chance to remember the person she was back home. She had never needed this escape so much as she did tonight.

  She ordered a Taybeh beer—the only Palestinian brew, produced in a Christian town in the Ramallah area—and sat sipping it, watching the shoppers scurrying this way and that in the market down below. She scrunched up her face at the sight of the brown-shirted groups of young settlers, paramilitary groups with their guns. Had they chosen to wear brown shirts deliberately as an homage to the Nazi youth? She had never gotten up the courage to ask them.

  Her reverie was broken by the sight of a familiar figure, striding through the souq. She first recognized the way the burgundy-tinted hair was tossed back, and then the long legs nearly galloping along the cobblestones. She was about to call out, but she felt too conspicuous screaming “TINA” through the Old City like Marlon Brando, so she grabbed her key and phone, and tore down the stairs.

  Tina had stopped to finger some scarves being sold three for twenty shekels. Chloe sidled past where the other woman was engrossed in her shopping, then turned and started walking purposefully back the way she had come. She avoided looking in Tina’s direction until she nearly collided with her quarry.

  “Chloe!” The other woman’s face lit up.

  “Hey, Tina. I didn’t know you were in Jerusalem.”

  “Yeah, I live here.”

  Oh, right. Staying with the aunt in Beit Sefafa. “So,” said Chloe, “what are you up to?”

  “Oh, I’m just doing a little shopping.”

  Chloe looked up and down and didn’t see any bags. Tina followed her eyes and laughed.

  “I’m a terrible shopper. I never buy anything the first time around, and always end up coming back to the first place I looked.”

  “Are you looking for something in particular, or…?”

  “Well, I need some presents for my aunt and my cousins, and also for my family back home.”

  “Are you going home soon?” Just her luck, to fall for someone who’s leaving in a few days. Whoa, girl, you’re getting ahead of yourself, she told her id, but nonetheless she was relieved when Tina answered, “Oh, no, I just like to do my shopping a little bit at a time.”

  “Would you like some company?”

  “Company would be great, but actually, I’m kind of tired of shopping. I thought you were in a hurry to get someplace, but if not
…”

  Chloe took the plunge. “How about dinner?”

  “Great. Where should we go?”

  Chloe was about to suggest Pappa Andrea’s in the Christian Quarter, with its romantic rooftop view of Al Aqsa Mosque. But then she remembered that she had left her purse with her money in it on the balcony of the Austrian Hospice. If Tina went with her to get it, she would see that Chloe had been sitting drinking a beer, not doing errands in the souq, and her little jig would be up.

  “I have to pick some things up at the place where I’m staying. Why don’t we pick a place, and I’ll meet you there in fifteen minutes or so?”

  “Well, why don’t I come with you? I’m not in a hurry.”

  She should have known Tina would suggest this. She would have to fudge it in another way. She led the way to the Hospice, and Tina oohed and aahed over the elegant courtyard.

  “My stuff’s down here,” Chloe said, leading the way to the basement dorm room she had all to herself in this slow season. Tina perched on one of the cots, as Chloe stripped off her t-shirt and stood in her bra, looking for a clean shirt to wear.

  “Think it’ll stay warm tonight?” she asked Tina, turning to face her. She was gratified to see the jade-colored eyes assessing the bra and its contents. She was glad she’d worn the lacy red one.

  “I’m always cold,” said the musical voice on the other bed.

  Chloe chose a filmy white cotton blouse. It was part of her Jerusalem wardrobe, too sheer to wear in the West Bank. The red bra would show through it, unless she wore a camisole. Should she or shouldn’t she? She found one and held it up, silently asking Tina’s opinion. Tina shook her head slightly.

  “I just have to go to the bathroom, be right back,” Chloe said and then dashed upstairs to retrieve the things she had left on the balcony. But wait, how was she going to hide the journal and purse? Tina was going to know she hadn’t found them in the bathroom. In the end, she just walked boldly into the room. Thankfully, Tina was browsing through the books she’d left on the table, and didn’t look up until she had put the things down.