The English Teacher

by Yiftach Reicher Atir

  He closed the debrief meeting, sent Rachel to buy some essentials and meet a few people to back up her cover story in Milan, and then he tried to take stock of things. He believed that although he didn’t know all the details, he knew the essentials: Rachel is loyal to the organization, and she won’t do anything to jeopardize her assignments or endanger herself. So he decided not to ask what else was happening besides the friendship with Rashid, and ostensibly he took no interest in the minute details of what and how, even when she brought him the photograph that gave the go-ahead for her next mission.

  Rachel too, he knew, didn’t want to tell him how she felt, or what she thought of him, or about her life behind the mask. When she was out there, Ehud was in the distance. Reporting from the field was hazardous and she needed to be brief and precise, and she knew Ehud wasn’t the only one reading her cables. In Europe it was different. They sat face-to-face, and Ehud asked not only what she had done but also what she was feeling. He asked and waited for her to tell him, and she, like anyone wanting to keep her beloved to herself, decided to conceal broad swaths of information.

  RASHID WAS ALREADY SITTING AT THE table, which was set for three, and she spotted the bodyguard, standing in the corner of the restaurant and watching the guests enter. Rashid stood up and came to meet her, shook her outstretched hand, pulled a chair out for her, and waited until she sat down. Rachel pulled her knees back. He wasn’t a big man, but she wanted to avoid contact between their legs under the table. “Are there three of us?” she asked, and smiled when he explained, “You can tell anyone who asks that your girlfriend is on the way, and I’ll be spared unnecessary explanations.” She put her handbag down on the vacant seat and decided not to ask which number was she in the procession of foreign girls who sat with him in restaurants.

  “Let’s speak English,” he said, as if there were an alternative, and pointed out that he was counting this meal as a lesson. “And which official in your department clears your expenses?” she asked, and waited for him to tell her who he was working for. He grimaced and she repeated the question in a simpler form. “You see? It’s a lesson,” he said, and he wanted to know the name of every utensil on the table, and how to order food. It was all so simple.

  And all this time, while the conversation flowed and moved from place to place, she was thinking too of the things that must be kept hidden, and she was glad that English was a struggle for him and his questions were simple and asked slowly. “Tell me something about yourself,” he said, and she talked about her father, who left a hectic life in London behind and was growing old by himself in a remote corner of Canada, and she knew that she was telling him a truth.

  “He doesn’t care much about me. When I told him I was going traveling in Europe he just said, ‘Oh,’ and when I got the job here I called him and he wasn’t even interested in meeting me before I left. I’m paying him back in the same currency.”

  “With us it’s different,” Rashid said, and in his eyes she saw what she was looking for. “There’s nothing more important than family.”

  She thought about her cover-story family, and how she missed the father she once had.

  Rashid seemed to notice the difference in her tone; he changed the subject and she was pleased by his sensitivity and admitted to herself that she liked him. She liked talking to him, although she had to stay on guard and not let his curiosity and his sympathy penetrate her armor. She too wanted to gather information from him, exactly as other couples do on a first date. She tried to ask him something personal. Rashid said he was paying her for this lesson and so he had the right to choose the topic. She shook off the jab and struggled over whether it was the mission entrusted to her that kept her here at the table, or whether there was also something else. “Tell me what business you’re in and something about your family,” she persisted. “This is what you’ll need to do in any business encounter. Everyone wants to know about the guy sitting in front of him.” “Okay,” he said, “on condition that for every detail I give you about myself, you give me something in return.” Now she was ready and she responded to the challenge, and since she was lying most of the time she wondered if Rashid was telling the truth.

  She enjoyed his company. She wanted the evening to go on, wanted Rashid to keep up the shared pretense that this was just an English lesson. The situation was new and confusing. With Barbara it had been easier. Rachel liked her but her attitude toward Barbara was professional and cool, and although Barbara was curious it was easy to deflect her inquiries and not expose any detail she didn’t want to reveal. Whereas in this restaurant, in the heart of the foreign capital, she wanted to tell him about herself and behave like a young woman with an attentive and attractive man.

  When the coffee arrived she asked to be excused and went to the bathroom. Get a grip, she told herself while touching up her makeup and brushing her hair. Rashid is an information target, a local friend, and a potential enemy. You mustn’t fall into any traps that he sets for you. Remember what Ehud is going to ask you about him, and be ready to report everything to him. But this didn’t help either, and when she walked back to the table she noticed the eyes of the men following her and was glad to see him sitting and waiting for her, his hands folded on the table, as if holding her heart between them. They drank the coffee in silence, and a pleasant frisson passed through her when her knees brushed his.

  Rashid signaled to the waiter to bring the bill, and the bodyguard went out to bring the car around to the main entrance. “Will you let me take you home?” he asked. She tried to resist the influence of the extra glasses of wine she had drunk (“I’m an enlightened Muslim,” he told her, but still refrained from drinking) and to decide if there was any harm in this. Rashid knows her address from work, and if he’s as important as he says he is, he’ll have no problem finding out the rest of her personal details. And besides that, the apartment suits her circumstances, other foreigners live in the district, and only she knows the real purpose that the apartment is serving. The bodyguard will drive them and he’ll drop her at her door, and she’ll say goodbye to him. The wine fogged her head and she felt her knees weaken. It was only an English lesson, she told herself. She had a good time and he paid for the meal, but it was only an English lesson.

  He sat beside her in the back, and Rachel made sure to keep her distance from him. The scent that wafted from him was pleasant and soft. His hands were on his knees, and he leaned back in the seat and waited. They were both silent. The bodyguard didn’t ask where to drive to, and the black Mercedes set out on its way. She tried to summarize the restaurant scenario in her mind. He already knew about her work and about her apartment, and now he knows about her father too and about the Open University in Italy. What else does he know? That her boyfriend jilted her? That she’s not allowed to form emotional relationships here? Impossible. As far as he’s concerned, she’s an English teacher. Not the most beautiful woman in the world, but good-looking enough. Not blessed with a great sense of humor, but with a talent for listening and a curiosity. She hoped he didn’t just see her as easy prey, a casual adventure.

  And what is he to her? What can the man sitting beside her be other than something taboo? It’s forbidden to do anything that could expose her to danger. Mustn’t even dream of it. But she did dream of it. She was dreaming about precisely this when they arrived at her home and she said “Goodbye” and “Thank you” and “See you tomorrow in class,” and stepped down and walked the few paces to the door of the building and went inside before Rashid had the chance to follow her. Through the frosted glass she saw him standing a moment longer before going back to the waiting car and getting in the front seat.

  The creak of the old key in the door. The check she always does to be sure no one has been there. A familiar routine. She’s glad to be in a safe place. To feel confident that now no one is watching her and no one is listening to her. She can be herself, if only for a short time, in the little soundproofed cubi
cle that a local handyman built for her, so her music practice wouldn’t disturb the neighbors. This too was Ehud’s idea. He pressed her to develop hobbies and have this room added to accommodate them, and he vetoed the suggestion it should serve as a photography studio—too great a risk. Rachel chose an electric guitar, took lessons, even though it was boring, discovered to her surprise that she had some aptitude for it, but played very little. She kicked off the flat shoes she had worn in deference to Rashid’s short stature and stretched out on the bed. The newscast in English celebrated the tireless efforts of the President for his people and described the opening ceremony of a new orphanage, paid for by the President’s family and greeted by a surge of popular joy. If I were a foreign citizen, a casual tourist, I’d think everything here was idyllic. No one hosting the representatives of terror organizations, no one planning to go to war against Israel, no one torturing prisoners in secret jails. No poor and no rich, just the ruler and his subjects. And Rashid.

  At eleven she must listen to the transmission from headquarters. An everyday matter. And then it will be her turn to send a radio message, always a different time on a different day. That’s the way the system works. The chances that she’s being bugged are remote, but routine is an enemy that has to be resisted. What will they want now, she asks herself, as she prepares to receive the message and decode it. What do they want to know? She opened the window and watered the plants in the pots. The lights around the Defense Ministry were burning, as usual. Nothing to report. Really? And what about Rashid? Is there anything to report about Rashid?

  The silence that she loved so much now was sad and boring, and she found herself longing for his warm voice, his heavy accent, wanting to hear him stumble as he tried to use the expressions she’s taught him. She thought of the attention he paid her, and realized she wanted to think he was interested in her and not in the English she was teaching him.

  Rachel closed the heavy curtains and went into the little music compartment. The sophisticated radio set, a present from her favorite aunt, was tuned to a rap music station in the USA. She switched it on for a few moments at high volume and then put on headphones and turned the needle to another station. She turned the dial until she found her frequency, and heard an announcer telling tourists in Europe that the weather would be normal for the time of year. This was all she needed to know before sending the coded broadcast. Her guardian angels, intelligence personnel checking she wasn’t under surveillance, staffers at departmental HQ working to guarantee her security, all had reported in turn to the operations room that all was in order and she could go ahead and transmit.

  She took a pad of paper, tore off a sheet, took care to lay it out on a smooth metal plate to avoid leaving traces on the table, and started to compose the summary: “Rashid Kanafani, Muslim. Old and wealthy merchant family. Father is exclusive agent for the import of chemical products for the Defense Ministry, and Rashid is replacing him now. A great deal of low-level technical activity, including lists of materials that need to be compiled in the correct format and written in very clear terms. But there are also other items that I’m following up. He’s been studying at the school for some months, and now he’s having private lessons as well.” She was content with that, although she knew that if they hitched her up to a polygraph, the needle would jump.

  When the time came she spread the communication system out in front of her and quickly keyed in the message. The apparatus concealed in the amplifier that she “bought” on her last visit to France accumulated the material and then transmitted it in a short burst. What do they do with this back there? What would Ehud, who sometimes seemed more aware of her than she was herself, think after reading the decoded statement? Will he hear the beating of her heart, her expectations of tomorrow, her desire to see Rashid again? Will he know this is the first time she has thought of anything not connected with the mission? She packed away the apparatus and was startled when she realized how carelessly she was doing it, neglecting the obligatory checks. Her thoughts had strayed to other places. When she finished tidying up she stripped off her clothes and curled up in the big double bed left by the previous tenants, a couple with a little boy.

  In the middle of the night she woke up. She dreamed someone was hugging her and whispering something in Hebrew, and she thought of Rashid. She pulled the blanket over her head, cupped her breasts in her hands, and thought of his big hands playing with the glass of lemonade. “Muslims don’t drink,” he said, “at least not in public,” and he laughed, exposing his white teeth.

  When she got out of bed, at five-thirty, she was sure she hadn’t slept all night. She pulled open the curtains. The sun hadn’t risen yet but the sky was paling in the east. The lights were still on in the Defense Ministry, and the early morning traffic was the same as always. Trucks full of vegetables from the fields, pickups laden with chickens for the market, a milk truck, early-rising commuters setting out for work.

  She looked around her, taking in the apartment and the furnishings. Is this home? She sighed. I volunteered. I want this mission. I’m doing something only I am capable of doing.

  At eight she arrived at the school, as usual, and was glad when she was told Rashid would not be attending the lesson that day.

  And when he didn’t show up the following week she began to suspect something wasn’t right.

  WHEN HE RETURNED THREE WEEKS LATER, tanned and looking thinner, she smiled at him and felt her stomach constricting as he responded with a cold greeting and turned away.

  Perhaps he suspects me? Perhaps he’s not allowed to fraternize with foreigners? Perhaps he doesn’t like me? Where has he been? Too many questions, she told herself, and she made a point of not addressing him and was pleased when the class ended. She packed her books slowly, dragging out the time, and watched through narrowed eyes as the students left the room one after another. He was still sitting there.

  “Miss Rachel,” he began when they were alone.

  She knew they had only a few seconds, after which his driver would poke his head around the door and signal to him they were running late. “I’m glad to see you back,” she said, and her voice cracked. “You’ve missed quite a few sessions.”

  He too answered as if the two of them were making a language-training film. “That’s right. I’m sorry. I’d like to have some private lessons with you in school so I can catch up.”

  “It isn’t that simple. Talk to the secretary.”

  “About what?”

  “About private lessons. I can’t promise you it will be with me. Barbara’s a very good teacher.”

  And then he smiled at her and she breathed easier. She turned to the board and wiped it carefully, still aware of his scrutiny, which continued until she went out. Before leaving the room she looked in the little mirror she kept in her handbag and checked that the normal color had returned to her face. The office manager handed her the schedule and told her with a smile that Rashid was intent on studying only with her.

  “Where were you?” she dared to ask him a few days later, when they sat face-to-face for the private lesson he had imposed upon her. She saw him hesitate, looking for an answer that would reassure her, while using halting English as an excuse for stalling, and then she got it. Afterward she asked herself again and again why it took her so long to realize she was supposed to be uncovering the clandestine and finding out the purpose of his journey, and she came to the gloomy conclusion she was so besotted with him she wanted to protect him.

  “Did you miss me?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “I went away,” he said. “I went and I came back. You’re not satisfied?”

  He took a bottle of perfume and a simple string of beads from his case, gave them to her, and mentioned the name of an exotic location. Rachel said she was very well satisfied, thanked him, and thought about her next transmission, how to word it so she would be authorized to see him again, and then again.
Back in the apartment she consulted the atlas and identified the place.

  “Rashid Kanafani,” she wrote, “said he spent three weeks in Russia and returned with a suntan. Continuing the relationship with him.” She didn’t hang around and wait for the veto to come through. She didn’t think that was likely. She was carrying out the mission she was sent here for.

  RACHEL SAT ON THE GREEN SOFA that she bought with Barbara and looked around her. The checkered cushions were plumped up against the chair-backs, the coffee table was spotless, and the album of pictures by local artists was placed in the middle beside a small vase of flowers. The door to the bedroom was closed, and she wondered if he would carry her there in his arms or lead her in, or if nothing at all would happen.

  “I don’t want it to be like this anymore,” she said after they made love for hours in his car on the side of the road, on the hill, wherever they felt like stopping. “Nor do I,” he agreed. And now it’s happening, any moment now she’ll hear his car stopping on the open ground outside the house, the sound of the door closing, the sound of the beeper confirming that everything is locked, and the erratic beating of her heart. She wore a dress to make it easier for him to touch her and was barefoot to give him a sense of domesticity.

  Of course she remembered the security rules. Of course she made sure her equipment was in a safe place, the music room was locked, and the books on display testified to no unusual interests. But there’s no way of controlling the pulse and no way of slowing the flow of the blood.