by Rose Fox
“An Arab? Perhaps a Bedouin from the Ka’abiah tribe?”
“From the Ka’abiah tribe? I’ve no idea. I’ve never heard that name before.”
“Was it Walid? Walid from the Bedouin tribe?”
“Walid? I don’t know anyone called Walid.”
“What about Adel, from the same tribe. Do you know him?”
“No, I don’t.”
“And, what if I say that Adel made an agreement with you to bring the victim, Jacki Taub, to them?”
“No way! Who’s Adel? It’s Nonsense!” He raised his voice and moved agitatedly to the stand.
“Then perhaps, explain what you were doing in Jacki Taub’s taxi?” The prosecutor questioned him harshly.
The heavens were having no mercy on Abigail, who suddenly felt that the skies were falling on her. She stood up at the defense table, her hair tied back with a ribbon swung from side to side and her pale eyes opened wide.
“Your Honor is requested to intervene and put an end to the prosecutor’s line of questioning. He is incriminating people, who cannot defend themselves and are unknown to the defense in this case,” she almost yelled. The judge seemed surprised at her intensity. She sounded like someone begging for help and not like an advocate raising a legal objection. He signaled her to approach the bench, leaned over towards her and said:
“And who are those people, who were named? I would like to understand why the prosecution is forbidden to mention them?”
“Because it is not acceptable and not permissible“, and then added sharply, “What’s the purpose of mentioning a tribe of Bedouins in the Negev?"
Her voice sounded more like a complaining teenager and not like that of a lawyer, trying to change the direction of the interrogation.
“A Bedouin tribe?” the Judge echoed her remarks. “No mention was made in court today about a Bedouin tribe in the Negev. What is the honorable advocate talking about?!”
Suddenly, he banged his gavel on the table and called for a one hour recess. He asked Abigail to come to his chambers during the recess and also called the prosecutor to present himself in chambers.
In the judge’s chambers, Abigail was unable to restrain herself. It was difficult to follow what she was saying and the Judge tried to understand her.
“First of all, calm down. From what you say, I understand that you, yourself, are a Bedouin from a tribe in the Negev, whose name I still haven’t caught. You react with unprofessional emotion, as if members of your family were mentioned, which apparently isn’t correct.”
When she spoke, the Judge’s mouth hung open as he stared at Abigail in amazement.
“Adel”, she said, “is my older brother and Walid was my intended bridegroom, but things changed.”
The judge studied the advocate.
“I notice that everything in this case is about our families. The accused is the nephew of Justice Ayalon and those involved are the brother and bridegroom of the defense attorney.” He tapped his fingers on the papers in front of him and looked at Abigail, who had grown red in the face.
“I will check things out. Meanwhile, go and calm down.” The judge looked at Abigail with a piercing glance and said quietly:
“Consider, carefully, whether you’re able to continue representing the accused in this case.”
The names of her brother, Adel, and Walid, Naim’s son, continued being heard that day in the matter of the murdered cab driver, Jacki Taub. The case and the interrogation angered her and she had difficulty functioning appropriately. She found herself filtering out important facts, ignoring evidence and even trying to conceal facts because she wanted to defend people close to her.
The accused, Gil Ayalon, who had returned willingly with her from abroad, became silent and uncooperative again. It was difficult to draw him out on how he happened to be in the car and why his binder had landed up on the car seat. Many details were clouded and obscure and she needed all her strength of mind.
It was especially difficult to look directly at Adel, her brother, and hear what he had to say. He spoke to her without any affection, as if she were a stranger.
“Naima, you no longer belong to our tradition and you have nothing left of your mother’s education. You’re not a Bedouin anymore and I no longer trust you, my sister.”
Abigail blushed and felt the blood coursing in her veins.
She didn’t really know Walid. He seemed to know more about her than she knew about him. She assumed that his father, Naim, had told him about the bride he had intended for him, perhaps tried to persuade him to take her as his first or even second wife. When she approached him, she recoiled at his amused glance. Walid spoke to her in Arabic:
“You’re trying to prove to yourself that you’re one of us, a Bedouin daughter of a Bedouin, but you aren’t anymore. You look European and you are not the right person to defend me.”
After more attempts, she sent him another advocate, an Arab, and submitted written notice that she was resigning from the defense in this case.
That evening, it pained her to read the comments in the newspaper reports.
ADVOCATE RESIGNS FROM THE DEFENSE OF THE AYALON TRIAL.
THIS PROVES THAT IT IS IMPOSSIBLE TO CROSS THE BURNING DESERT, FROM A BEDOUIN TENT TO THE COLD CORRIDORS OF THE COURTS OF JUSTICE.
But in spite of her attempts to ignore it, she was unable to detach herself from the case. She paid attention to the press and television reports of proceedings in Justice Stolov’s courtroom, which always reiterated that the accused was Justice Ayalon’s nephew, Gil.
She sat for hours, aware of the crisis she was going through and unable to carry on. Something had happened to her and she wanted to take a two-week break.
Abigail returned to the great tents of the desert.
She looked around, at the boys and girls, now grown up, at the white camel cow, which had birthed a snow-white firstborn and at the giant date palm, planted years before near the black tent of the women.
And she drew great strength from the tents of her childhood.
* * *
Chapter Seven
Walid was still serving time.
He lay on the wooden bunk after discarding the moldy mattress that had covered it. He lay there, staring at his cellmate, Jamal, who was working through his exercise routine.
“No one can be trusted,” Walid said, as if talking to himself. “That shameless rascal, my uncle Sultan, a member of my own family, incriminated me out of revenge. How could he do that?”
He spoke in the direction of the ceiling and peeped at Jamal out of the corner of his eye, but there was no response from Jamal, who continued his exercise routine, grunting with the effort. He crossed his arms behind his head, turning his body to the right and then to the left, but he heard every word his friend was saying. Walid continued speaking.
“The idiot knew I wouldn’t marry his blonde daughter. What did he think? That everyone would prostrate themselves at her feet?”
Jamal stopped his exercise for a moment and panted as he spoke.
“Wait, I’m not involved, but I understood that there was an agreement. You told me that the promise was that your father would take care of her education and that you would marry her.”
“Shut up! It’s none of your business and it wasn’t exactly like that.”
Walid sat up on the wooden bunk and put his legs down on the floor, stood up and began running on the spot, but after thirty seconds, he was puffing and panting hard. Jamal laughed and pointed at him.
“You’re in bad shape. Like an old mare.”
Walid took a swing at Jamal with a clenched fist, but Jamal ducked easily.Walid lost his balance and fell on his face on the floor. Jamal stood over him,
laughing out loud and asked:
“Tell me, who told you that story about your Uncle Sultan informing on you?”
“That policeman, I don’t remember his name.” Walid responded. “He did me a great favor and told me who planted the bag of drugs in my sa
ddlebag. Why should he lie to me?” Then, after hesitating for a moment, he added:
“He heard me begging and trying to find out. I actually do believe it was Sultan.”
“Why?”
“It’s also quite logical. Listen, Sultan is a Bedouin and a Bedouin never forgives, especially not a broken promise. That’s all!” Walid summed up and ended the conversation that was abhorrent to him.
This was their last night together because Jamal was to be released the next day. In the dark hours of that night, the two planned Walid’s revenge on Sultan.
“You will go to the Ka’abiah tribe in the sands of the Negev and throw a grenade at him.”
“Where will I get this grenade? Can it be done?”
“Go to Shimon, the policeman, who’ll give you the name of a man who has an arsenal of weapons. Tell him that I sent you and that he’ll be paid.”
“Okay. Is there a password, some prearranged code?”
“Just tell him my name and that’ll be fine.”
A lamp went out in the corridor and they both jumped. A guard passed silently between the cells and his shadow lengthened as he walked under the extinguished lamp. When the guard’s shadow disappeared, they continued whispering.
“Get there in daylight, so that you check out where Sultan’s tent is. Remember; don’t go to the black tent under any circumstances.”
At daybreak Jamal prepared for his departure. He swung the strap of his bag over his shoulder and waited for the guard.
“I think you understand what has to be done,” Walid said quietly. He sat on his bunk and grinned.
“Don’t forget to salute Sultan and convey my proud and sincere affection when you present him with the gift I have prepared, damn him!”
The two young men sealed their pact by joining forearms and shaking hands ceremoniously and Walid slapped Jamal on the back.
The cell door opened and the armed guard stood beside him. He moved in order allow Jamal to leave and Jamal heard Walid says in Arabic behind him.
“Thank you for saving my white camel. I’m happy it’s alive!”
Jamal waved farewell then walked on ahead of the guard, never once looking back.
Jamal received the hand grenade and fixed it to his left calf with transparent adhesive tape. He was on his way to fulfill his promise to his friend, Walid.
Towards midday, Jamal lay flat on the hot sand, cupping his chin in both hands. He had made his way south, hitching many rides before climbing the dunes for a long and tiring hour. Beside him was a lone clump of broom with small white tubers that hung from its fine branches. Its meager shade was just enough to serve as a place for Jamal to rest.
From here, he gazed at the huge encampment that stretched out before him, still uncertain that he had reached his destination. Very few people could be seen around the tents at this time of day. Two camels, both snowy white, grazed on the sparse grass that grew close by.
Jamal closed his eyes and tried to grab a little shut eye. The tape holding the grenade caused him discomfort and he stretched out his hand to adjust the grenade that was affixed close to his ankle. He lay like that in silence for several minutes until he was startled by the whinnying of a camel. His immediate reaction was to reach down quickly to feel for the grenade at his ankle. Facing him was someone mounted on a white camel. From way up where he was seated, the rider turned to Jamal and asked him in Arabic:
“Peace to the traveler. If your intentions are good, brother, come to the shelter of our tents, eat and drink with us.”
At that same moment crazed galloping was heard and from behind the dune a camel’s head emerged. A young boy, mounted on the camel, screamed on top of his voice and waved his arms wildly. A cloud of sand was sprayed up by the legs of the stampeding camel. The youth waved and his screams were carried by the wind.
“Father, no! Get away! Be careful! Get back!”
Jamal could not have understood the rest of the words that were screamed because the sudden whistling of a shot was heard and the bullet hit the dirt beside him and raised a cloud of dust. The second shot was closer to his body and Jamal reached down to his leg, fearing for the grenade. When the rider saw a Jamal’s hand reaching for his leg, he stopped and aimed carefully.
The next shot was a direct hit. There was a huge explosion, gigantic red flames tinged with blue burst out of Jamal’s clothes. Black smoke rose up above the place where Jamal lay earlier and blackened pieces of scorched cloth soaked with the red of Jamal’s blood were spread out on the sand.
When everything settled down again and silence returned to the desert, lying silent and motionless, between the branches of the bush were Sultan, the great leader of the Bedouin tribe and Ramia, the beautiful white camel cow. Adel was lying on the sand, his blood spreading and painting the sand grains red. He felt no pain at all, was fully conscious and only looked but did not understand what he was seeing. One healthy leg was smeared with his blood and then he understood that his other leg was missing. He knitted his brows, trying to absorb what he saw and the next moment he blacked out and fainted.
Rumors of what had occurred reached Walid and he was very pleased with the results. He had not only taken revenge on Sultan, but the messenger had also been silenced for eternity. Who could ever know now that Jamal had been sent by him?
Sultan's children hurried to the scene and were numbed by what they saw.
That same day the funeral was held.
Naim wept as he stood at Sultan’s grave and eulogized him.
“Allah knows that we were born to live and not to kill. Why do these messengers of Satan exist?!" His voice trembled as he said:
“Sultan, here at your graveside, we swear that we will take revenge and there will be compensation for the spilling of your blood on the sand.”
A grave was dug for Ramia, the white camel, beside Sultan’s. She was the camel that had been born on the day Naim’s wife, Rama, died.
Naim understood that Jamal had come with the grenade, but he would have been prepared to cut off both his hands if he had known that his own son, Walid, had sent the man and was the one to provide the grenade which killed Sultan. Naim also knew that his innocent son was languishing in prison, but it never occurred to him that there was a link between the events.
Naima also had no idea of her role in this chain of vengeance. She knew nothing of the broken agreement, of the apparent avenging of Naim’s honor and that he had not succeeded in marrying her off to Walid, his son.
Chapter Eight
About two months before the terrible explosion in the desert, Abigail discovered that her menstrual cycle was three weeks late.
She thought of every possible reason. She assumed it was because of the tension of Gil Ayalon’s trial and, perhaps because of the extreme fatigue she was experiencing. Along with that, she had suspected it ever since her trip to London. She remembered waking up in the unfamiliar room and finding herself naked under the sheet. Ever since then, she constantly thought about the act of love that had probably taken place, and that they were both unaware of.
She purchased a pregnancy test kit and discovered to her astonishment that the result was as she feared. She immediately consulted a gynecologist, and heard him say:
“You’re four weeks pregnant.”
And she caught her breath in alarm.
Now it was a certainty.
That day she came home depressed. Fearful thoughts swirled in her mind. She thought of her Bedouin father and was frightened at the idea of appearing before him as his pregnant and unmarried daughter. She wanted to die of shame. However, Abigail was sure of her mother's love and support, so she decided to approach her as quickly as she could for advice and visit the tent before her pregnancy became obvious.
It was Wednesday, five days before Abigail’s birthday, that was to fall on the following Monday, so she decided to celebrate the occasion with Rina, with whom she had travelled to London. She toyed with the idea of sharing the news of her pregnancy with her and
called her.
“I feel like celebrating my birthday this year.”
“Really? How should we celebrate and where?”
“I’m open to suggestions and also have news.”
“News? Who’s the lucky guy and when’s the wedding?”
“There’s no wedding, there are no candidates and that’s not the direction. Let’s meet at eight at Café ‘Koya’, at the Anchor Junction in Netanya. I’m relying on you to invite some people to join us to make it a happy occasion because I need that.”
“I’m really curious. Bye.”
Rina arranged for two couples to join them; Shmulik and Ora and Ezra and Sarit. They met outside the café and as they entered, Rina stood close to Abigail and jabbed her with her elbow, saying something. Abigail reacted immediately:
“Hey, watch out with your elbow.”
“Okay, am I to understand that someone’s at risk of being pregnant?” Rina laughed, enjoying her own joke.
“How did you guess?”
Rina stopped, swallowed hard and stood facing Abigail.
“Who’s child is it!?”
“I’m still uncertain even though there is only one possibility,” she replied and hurried her into the café, knowing and feeling Rina's gaze piercing her back.
“Where shall we sit? What about here?” Sarit pointed to two tables that had been joined together.
“Abigail, you’re our birthday girl, where would you like us to sit? Here, at the head of the table, perhaps?” She suggested, gesturing to the waitress who came to them, with a zesty bounce in her step. A pony tail, which was colored differently from the rest of her hair, swung on the waitress's head and looked like a cock’s comb, which added to the jovial atmosphere of the place.
“What would you like?” the waitress asked as she swung her colorful hair from side to side.
“First of all, we’re here to celebrate a birthday,” Sarit announced.