by Rose Fox
After the meal, Barak was pensive. He pursed his lips and fantasized how this might be the dining table in their shared home, his and Abigail’s. They would enjoy eating delicacies and living a family life and, without realizing it, he stared at her. She screwed up her eyes, trying to fathom the meaning of his gaze and blushed when she thought she understood.
In the evening, when they were alone and prepared for bed, Abigail removed her blue contact lenses and placed them in a container with transparent liquid. Aisha glanced at what she was doing but said nothing, and Abigail wondered how it was that Aisha never expressed any interest in Abigail’s past.
On the following day, Aisha informed her that they were to travel to Beer Sheba. She spoke in Persian, and Abigail answered her in Arabic, because she still found it difficult to hold a fluent conversation in Persian, even though she was familiar with and had learned that language.
“Why to Beer Sheba of all places?”
“You’re going to travel there as Rania and leave as a Muslim woman. Trust me.” Aisha said in Persian and added:
“Till we get there, I agree to listen to you speaking Arabic. But, from the moment we leave the store – your appearance will be that of a genuine Iranian woman, and you will speak only Persian to me.”
That day, Abigail bought two galabiyas; one was of rough black material with a black lace collar and the other made of a shiny gray suede fabric.
From that day on they ate only Persian cuisine.
“Rania, you are an unmarried woman.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means that you will never initiate a conversation with a male stranger, especially not in public.”
“Ah, and if he approaches me?”
“Firstly, you must lower your eyes modestly; Secondly, you must never find yourself alone with a man. Period. Is that clear?”
“Perfectly,” Abigail replied.
For days, she found that she was speaking only Persian, and she found she was even able to think in that language.
“I think I am already dreaming Persian,” Abigail announced to Aisha, who smiled.
“Yes, you’re almost cooking like a Persian and you also look like one in your galabiya.”
Abigail laughed with satisfaction.
“We’ve done a marvelous job. No one will mistake you for anything else, and I must add that you are a fast learner.”
A day earlier Aisha heard that she would end her assignment with Abigail the following day. She hesitated to tell her that it was their last day together and decided not to say anything but, in the evening, she would talk to her again about the village of the disabled.
Aisha began speaking as they undressed and prepared for bed.
“At the entrance to the village there is an enormous waterfall from above but it is possible to enter beneath it without getting wet.”
“Interesting,” Abigail remarked without interest or curiosity.
She had almost fallen asleep when she heard Aisha speaking quietly.
“The people of that village will be my gift to you and I believe it is a very precious one.”
“Ah, thank you very much.”
When Abigail rose the next day, Aisha’s bed was empty. She opened her closet and also found it empty, understanding now that what Aisha had said the night before, were her parting words to her.
She heard Barak and San talking in the living room.
“Oh, I would very much like to keep in touch with Aisha,” she said as she came to them.
“That won’t work out because Aisha was with you as part of her assignment.”
“Okay, but it is also possible to remain friends after an assignment.”
Barak and San were silent, and Abigail continued speaking.
“It bothers me that you sent her off in such a manner. Why did she disappear all at once like this?”
“Look, it’s good to connect with people and befriend them but it’s also important to know how to part,” Barak explained and Abigail burst out furiously in Persian:
“That’s easy for you to say.”
She laughed when she saw his brows furrow into a frown and knew that he didn’t understand what she had said. So she continued chatting away in Persian until his expression of confusion turned into one of delight.
“Have you finished? Now, would you be kind enough to translate what you just said in Persian for us.”
“I said that one day I will become attached to an attractive Persian fellow and I will make him fall head over heels in love with me. And after I’ve had some fun with him, I’ll just disappear. After all, that’s what the job demands, right? That’s what I said.”
Barak looked away, and San replied:
“You’re quite right.” He resisted laughing when he saw how shocked Barak was at just the thought of this woman falling in love or starting a relationship with another man. San knew that Abigail’s remarks were causing Barak pain, so he changed the subject.
“Today you’re going to your new home. We have already moved all your belongings, and it was very easy, because your new apartment matches your previous one. I would say that it mirrors it accurately.” He added immediately, “And, Abigail, you won’t forget to continue keeping your eyes open.”
“For what, precisely?”
“For everything.”
“And what’s being planned for me?”
“The idea is that you are on standby. Your time for action will come.”
Abigail turned and went back to the room in which she had lived with Aisha for the past month. The atmosphere of Iran was everywhere. She still wore the garb of a Muslim woman and when she took off the black dress and looked in the mirror, to her delight she rediscovered Abigail, the person she knew.
For a moment, she mused whether to remain in her black clothes so that her neighbors in the building she had left would not notice her. But, on further thought, she decided there was no need since there was no harm in changing apartments.
She dressed in the clothes she had arrived with, jeans and a blue tricot t-shirt that matched the hue of her contact lenses and went back into the living room to take leave of them.
Abigail went outside onto the bustling street and noticed the small car that had replaced her previous one. Then, she decided to leave it where it was, in its tough to find a parking spot and she hailed a passing cab.
“Dov Hoz street in Tel-Aviv, please,” she directed the driver.
When they reached Natan Hahacham Street, which was parallel to the street where she lived, she asked the cab driver to stop. She took care not to go as far as her home on Gordon Street, reminding herself not to observe fixed habits.
It was midday, and she knew she had no food at home, so she decided to go to the mall at Dizengoff Center, about a fifteen-minute walk away.
She was met with bustling crowds as she turned to the mall, and throngs of people were milling around when she saw her old friend, Shiri. She waved to her excitedly, ran towards her and called out her name on top of her voice. When she got closer to her, she noticed Shiri’s look of surprise then grasped that she wasn’t Abigail anymore, that her appearance had changed, and she stopped, all at once.
“Do we know one another?” Shiri inquired.
“Oh, sorry, I was confused. I was sure that…”
“No, you weren’t confused. I am Shiri.”
“Ah, but it wasn’t you I had in mind. There must be someone else, who looks a lot like you."
“Wait, your voice reminds me of someone,” the young woman exclaimed.
“Do you know Abigail?”
“Who? No, I don’t know her and I apologize.”
She quickly turned away.
She pushed her way through the crowds and turned her back on her beloved Shiri, the friend, who had been with her from the age of six at boarding school. She ran out of the mall, short of breath, and a minute later continued on her way.
Then, it occurred to her that this had been an excellent lesson
and also proved that she looked entirely different because even her best friend could not recognize her.
Further down the road, she noticed a store window with art supplies, right beside a small intimate café. She chose a corner table and within a minute or two a waiter brought her a menu.
“Yes, two eggs, sunny side up, green salad and whole-wheat bread,” she ordered as she pointed to a line on the set menu.
“It includes the coffee,” he said with a smile.
“No, this time, I’d prefer a glass of lemonade,” she responded, ignoring his lascivious stare.
When she finished her meal, she left and went to look at the display window of the art supplies store. Bowls of beads were arranged according to shade and size and there were painting sets and frames. The painting was what aroused her curiosity, and she entered and wandered around inside. Abigail mused with the idea of painting the members of her family, who had remained in the desert and for whom she longed so much.
“May I help you, Ma’am?” a young man standing behind the counter, inquired. “Have you ever painted anything?”
“Yes, on canvas.”
“Very nice, but I think it’s better to prepare a sketch first. May I suggest a sketch pad and charcoal pencils?”
“I’d like to go ahead without sketching. I prefer painting freely, without a sketch.”
“As you wish, Ma’am.”
Abigail purchased some canvasses, tubes of oil paint and brushes of varying sizes and hurried home enthusiastically. She shut the door with a gentle kick and became absorbed in the work, forgetting everything else in the world.
First she stretched the canvas over a square wooden frame and secured it with tiny nails. Then, she stared at the blank canvas, contemplated it and decided to paint a portrait of her mother, Leila. She got to work right away, dipped a fine brush into one of the colors and began tracing the exterior lines of the figure. Then she drew the outline of a little girl and burst into tears. In the minutes that followed these characters took shape and by evening they looked out at her from the canvas on which she drew them. Although she had not finished drawing them yet, she spoke to them, sniffled and dabbed away her tears.
Abigail went to bed when she could no longer see straight and awakened very early in the morning, fresh and eager to get back to work. She completed the first picture that day and added another almost every day. She spread the pictures out in the living room, laying them out in order of their importance to her. But, she also kept changing their place because she could not decide which of the subjects was dearer to her.
In the first picture, which was the largest, Abigail sketched her mother, Leila, caring for her granddaughter and Abigail’s child, Arlene. Abigail filled in the background with the enormous date-palm that cast its shadow on the massive women’s tent and on the white camel cow, which shared Abigail’s birthday. In the other picture, she drew portraits of her sisters. She laughed at the thought that suddenly entered her head – what would happen if she were to send them the painting, a hint that she was alive?
When she had finished the portraits of everyone, she decided to paint a pictorial record of her being held hostage. She considered her story a miserable one, soaked in pain and sorrow, so she added dark hues to her selection of tubes. It took her much longer to paint the paintings that described her imprisonment and she was hardly able to finish them.
She placed the pictures of her capture and imprisonment in a corner of the room, one behind the other and tried to keep them apart from the portraits of her family.
*
Double Agent
Rulam, a member of the “Majles”, the Iranian parliament, could hardly force his way through the furious mob to reach the tall building. He made his way through the throngs of people, entered the stairway of the Parliament building and climbed up to the first floor. Out of breath, when he got there, he smoothed his short beard and peered into the conference room. Five bearded men sat around a large table.
“My friends, it’s awful. The barbarians are out of control down below, in the streets, and I foresee serious problems.” He panted.
“If we don’t arrest them, I fear it may develop into a revolt. I am grateful to Allah for his infinite mercy by whose merit we managed to get here without being recognized.”
“What are they shouting and who are they demonstrating against?” Mustapha inquired with concern.
“From what I was able to understand, they are crying about fraud in the “Majles” elections.”
“Really? Oh, that’s awful. So, why are we waiting? We have to disperse them. Where are they concentrated?”
“I heard that thousands are demonstrating at Hamadia and Abadan,” Rulam added.
“That’s right, but there, our Revolutionary Guards were turned on them.”
“I think we should deploy the Basij Militia. They will stop those screaming hordes and bring them back to their senses.”
“Certainly, I agree with you,” Fereydoun added. “In my personal experience it’s always been important to get one’s hands on the leaders. The crowd is just made up of stupid sheep, who follow the rabble-rousers like fools.”
“Are we planning to take action instead of just being careful?”
“Of course.”
These six leaders sat and passed the time talking and waiting for their man in the field, who should have arrived already.
“What’s happened to our agent and what’s keeping him?” Rulam inquired. “It’s likely that…”
Someone peeked in through the door and immediately entered. When he saw the six men in front of him, he stopped and raised his eyebrows in surprise. Mustapha got to his feet, touched the chair close to him and invited the man to sit down.
“A’halan and Mar’haba to you all.” (Peace and blessings) he greeted them as he entered and sat down.
“A’halan w’Sa’halan (Greetings and welcome),” They responded in unison.
It was Mas’habi. He had arranged this meeting two days earlier, with Mustapha and didn’t know that he would be meeting with six people when he arrived.
He had a recording device bound to his body with broad bands of dark-colored medical tape that was similar in shade to the dark hue of his skin. As he entered the room, he pressed a small button with his elbow and from that moment on, he recorded every word and sound being made in the room.
“Forgive my tardiness,” he apologized, “I was forced to go a very long way round to get here. You know there are enormous crowds in the streets, and it took a long time.”
“That’s alright, friend, the main thing is that you are here.”
Mustapha clapped his hands. A scrawny man, bearing a tray full of bottled drinks and glasses entered through a side door. Robed in a long dress, his head bound with a snow-white turban, he placed a bottle of Coca-Cola and an empty glass in front of each of the men at the table. He opened each bottle and poured all the glasses, filling them with the dark colored drink with its frothy white head.
They watched him silently. As he finished, he picked up the tray and walked backward out of the room. When the door closed after him, Fereydoun turned to Mas’habi.
“What words of wisdom, do you have for us, ya Muallem (our teacher)?”
Fereydoun was the Director of Intelligence and was familiar with everything that happened in his department. He was the kind of administrator who took steps to ensure that everything that transpired would also reach him. He had heard about this agent from Rulam, and when they told him about the arranged meeting with Mustapha, Fereydoun decided to attend it, too. This time, he invited the heads of departments to consult with them and formulate an opinion of the man because he had been nursing doubts and suspicions in his regard for a long time, now.
They heard a sharp whine in the room, and Mas’habi looked at everyone right away because he understood that it was feedback from another recording device in the same place. He hoped that they had not noticed it but he didn’t observe the quick glance that pass
ed between Omar and Fereydoun. The wink from Fereydoun was his response to acknowledge that they understood the matter and the meeting continued without further interruption.
Mustapha introduced him to the group.
“Gentlemen, this is our man, who has just returned from Palestine,” he announced. “He passes in and out of the ‘Mossad’ with the familiarity of someone who is completely at home there. He brings us information about them and we are here today to hear what he has to tell us. Please, my friend, speak and enlighten us.”
Mas’habi’s heart pounded wildly. He stretched his lips into a forced smile and apologized that this time he had nothing new to report.
“I regret I have brought nothing today. I took part in only one meeting. We were four people; I mean three, including me. They introduced me to an agent but, besides her – there’s nothing. Ahh….Almost nothing. No, nothing today,” he stuttered.
“Tell us what they said and we’ll decide if it’s nothing,” Fereydoun said roughly.
“Fine. Firstly, did you know that Aisha is working for the Israeli organization?”
“Who is Aisha?”
“Ah, Ali’s Aisha, you mean the one from the mountains,” Mustapha recalled. "They executed the woman’s husband, Ali, and both her sons a year or so ago. Afterward, she disappeared from sight.”
“What do you say?! What is she doing there, in Palestine?”
“She has a job. She instructs and trains agents, who come to spy on Iran, and turns them into Iranians,”
“Well, that’s good, let them turn Zionists into Iranians and convert all the Jews to Islam. What’s wrong with that?”
“It’s not that. She’s training them and preparing them to be spies.”
“Aisha?!" He turned back to Mas’habi. “Did you see her with your own two eyes?
“Yes.” He enjoyed noticing the interest he had aroused. “I saw her coming to our meeting with some woman.”
“With whom? Give us some details about the spy she is teaching, and I can tell you now that we will make sure she is buried under the sand before she even sets foot on our soil.”