The Diamond Setter

by Moshe Sakal

  “To this day I remember those occasions. Mother used to cook a festive meal. When Aunt Gracia — who, you remember, had been given the diamond by the Turkish sultan — was still alive, the ritual was held in her home on Ha’Kovshim Street. She would wear the silk scarf she wore on the day she sang for the sultan. After she died, we’d stay at home, shutter all the windows, and light a candle in the middle of the living room. And there, around that candle, we would all gather to look at Sabakh.

  “A few weeks before the Gulf War, when they were saying rockets were going to fall on Tel Aviv, Shlomo came to the shop and gave me the diamond to keep in the safe. Our father had sent him. And then, just when the war started, a thief broke in and took the blue diamond. But that’s another story. It’ll be excellent material for your book. I’ll tell you someday.”

  4

  In the evening, Plonit Alley was desolate. A man rode past on his bicycle. A couple strolled hand in hand. A tall redheaded woman stopped to examine the window display, and Menashe quickly arranged the necklaces, bracelets, rings, and gemstones in their trays and put everything into the safe. He didn’t want to open the door — not for this woman or for any other customer. He was in a foul mood. He dimmed the lights and stayed in the shadows until the window-shopper looked up in surprise and walked away.

  He was scheduled to meet his lawyer, Amir, an old high school friend, to discuss a letter Menashe had received a week earlier from his landlord:

  Mr. Menashe Salomon

  Plonit Alley

  Tel Aviv

  Dear Mr. Salomon,

  We hereby notify you that on November 10, 2011, renovation works will begin in the building, in preparation for its conversion into a hotel. You are therefore requested to remove your possessions and vacate the premises on or before that date.

  Please note: any articles remaining on the premises on November 10, 2011, will be immediately removed.

  Thank you for your cooperation, and best wishes for the new year.

  Amiram Kadosh

  Menashe folded the letter and put it in his pocket. He left the shop and walked down the alley to King George Street, then up to Allenby Street and on toward the Carmel Market. As he made his way through the stalls, he stepped on vegetable scraps, crushed flowers, and chicken bones covered with cartilage and blood. There was a fishy odor, combined with a stench of blood and various other market smells. He walked all the way to the big parking lot on Ha’Kovshim Street and turned right toward the beach, then headed south on the promenade, following the shoreline to the point where Tel Aviv meets Jaffa, or, as his father used to call it, Arous ’al Bahr — Bride of the Sea.

  From this angle, Menashe could look out at the Jaffa Port and see the Bride of the Sea facing the waves as she had for thousands of years. Jaffa’s minarets pierced the sky, and its courtyards were sheltered by palm trees. The village of Menashiyya had once stood here, but it had been destroyed and gradually replaced with lawns and parking lots. A few of the old buildings still remained as a vestige.

  Menashe kept walking along the shore until he came to the café where his lawyer was waiting. It was the same café where he and I had met on the day he asked me to come and work with him. He sat down opposite Amir and his eyes sought — and found — Andromeda’s Rock with its billowing flag.

  “This is not going to be an easy case,” Amir said. “Did they tell you anything?”

  “Kadosh came by the shop a while ago,” Menashe replied. “Asked how I was, how’s business, the usual chatter. Just before he left, he said casually, ‘You know, we’re starting renovations soon.’ I said, ‘Good, it’s about time. The building needs work.’ And he said, ‘Yes, but it’s going to be a very thorough renovation.’ I said, ‘Wonderful.’ And then he said, ‘You’ll get a letter soon. But you should know there’s going to be a hotel here. A boutique hotel.’ That’s what he said. Then he walked out. Then last week I got this letter.”

  “How long did your father have the shop?”

  “From 1950 until he retired, in ’66.”

  “And since when have you been there?”

  “Since I was seventeen.”

  “More than forty years…”

  “Yes.”

  “How much rent do you pay?”

  “Kadosh is the son of Shayu, my father’s cousin. Father paid Shayu a token sum every month, just to keep up appearances. Twenty years ago Kadosh and I agreed on a moderate fee, and I pay him every month. It’s linked to the dollar exchange rate, so right now it’s at three thousand shekels.”

  “That’s not very much. Do you keep the receipts?”

  “Of course.”

  “Do you have a lease?”

  “No.”

  “Did your father have a lease?”

  “What are you talking about? It was a family matter. Shayu didn’t worry about leases. He loved my father, and Father wasn’t worried. Honestly, he lived a good long life without any worries.”

  “Have you told your mother about this?”

  “Poor Mother, she doesn’t know anything.”

  “Maybe she kept the paperwork?”

  “I asked her once, a few years ago, because Kadosh was hinting that he might sell the building. He dropped the idea, though. Anyway, my mother said she didn’t have anything. Father didn’t keep that kind of paperwork. There’s nothing.”

  “In that case, it’s going to be very difficult to ensure a spot for you in the building after the renovations,” the lawyer explained. “I’m not sure we can even get compensation.”

  “I don’t want compensation,” Menashe said. “I don’t care about that. I want to stay in my shop — boutique hotel or not.”

  “Excuse me for interfering, Menashe, but people do sometimes relocate their businesses. Couldn’t you look at this as an opportunity for change?”

  Menashe did not answer, but his eyes said it all.

  CHAPTER TWO

  FAREED

  1

  HE CROSSED THE BORDER UNDER COVER of the commotion that erupted between demonstrators and Israeli army forces on a beautiful day, perhaps the most beautiful of his life. This was the day when he would see the landscapes and houses he had heard of like distant rumors, in the place his grandparents called Palestine. And it was all thanks to Sabakh, the blue diamond. In his pocket was a box, and in the box — the diamond.

  Fareed carried one small bag. It contained a few pairs of underwear and socks, two shirts, some pita, three peeled cucumbers, a map, a book, and a sweater. He wore shorts, brown shoes, and a baseball cap.

  He had not told anyone he was leaving. Not his parents and not his sister, Noor. He just left his house and walked to the border. To his astonishment, it was remarkably easy. After he crossed the border and found himself in Palestine, Fareed got on a bus with some Israeli activists and a few tourists. He spoke in English, and the journey went smoothly. He listened to music on his earbuds and looked at the scenery. He had no escape plan, no contingency plan. One thing simply led to another: all the people who surged toward the border, the riots that erupted, the gas the soldiers used to disperse the protesters, and the whole tumult that allowed him to cross the border and casually get on a bus headed to central Israel.

  A few hours later, he stepped off the bus on the outskirts of Tel Aviv.

  He found a money changer and bought five hundred dollars’ worth of shekels. He took out his map and asked some passersby a few questions in English. They pointed to his location on the map. It wasn’t far from the sea, but not the sea he was looking for. Not the sea of Yafa.

  Fareed got on another bus and looked out the window as he traveled: streets, cars, three- and four-story houses, marble-coated skyscrapers. Now they seemed to be in the heart of the city. He closed his eyes, suddenly exhausted in a way he had not felt all day. Reminding himself that he really was in Tel Aviv, a sense of terror crushed his chest. What was he doing here?

  He found himself outside a large shopping center with yellow and white trim, which was bis
ected by a road with a footbridge crossing overhead. Orchards and tin shacks used to cover this exact spot. The landowner, an Arab from Yafa named Hinawi, went from shack to shack collecting rent. When the tenants couldn’t afford to pay, he would stop for a cup of coffee and continue on his way. Years later, he was murdered, and in 1948 the Hinawi family left Yafa for Egypt. They were declared “absentees” by the State of Israel and their lands were reassigned to new owners. Fareed had read all this in a book, where he had also learned about the destruction of the slum neighborhood called Nordia, and how Dizengoff Center was built on its ruins.

  He debated going inside and began to wonder whether his parents were worried about him. Had they known he was here, infiltrating the heart of this city, what would they say? But it would never occur to them that he’d crossed the border. He was too delicate, they thought, too cowardly. Fareed put his hand in his pocket and felt the box with Sabakh. The diamond had been through so many tribulations — this short voyage would not be its downfall.

  At the entrance to Dizengoff Center he had to pass a standard security check. “No,” he answered the guard’s question, in English, “I don’t have a weapon.”

  He rode the escalator to the top floor, went into a restroom and locked himself in a stall. He took out the box, unwrapped the cloth, opened the lid, and examined the diamond.

  “It’s your first time in Palestine, Sabakh,” Fareed whispered. He turned the stone from side to side to better plumb its refractions. “What do you have to say about that?” He held it up to his eyes. But the diamond didn’t answer.

  He left the mall, but no one could tell him which bus to take to Yafa, because of the reforms: the national transportation system had implemented efficiency measures, which included replacing the old bus routes with new ones. Ever since the reforms, he was told, no one could get anywhere. The buses were empty, or worse — full of people who thought they were going where they needed to go but soon realized they were not. Instead of reaching the marble-clad apartment buildings of Ramat Aviv, for example, they found themselves deposited in the southern neighborhoods or on the outskirts of Jaffa. Arab passengers wanting to get to their homes in Yafa, conversely, ended up wandering among the detached houses of Ramat Chen, where, more than six decades ago, the orchards of Salameh village had flourished. It was all smoke and mirrors.

  Still, through trial and error, Fareed managed to find the right bus. He said hello to the driver, who did not answer. He paid and the driver handed him his change with one hand and turned the wheel with the other. And they were on their way to Yafa.

  The streets of Tel Aviv passed wearily before Fareed’s eyes. It was afternoon, and he realized he hadn’t told Rami exactly when he was arriving. The bus turned onto a congested street, and Fareed read the Arabic on the sign: YAFA ROAD. The driver cursed and rubbed his eyes. They sat without moving for a long time.

  Finally the bus started inching forward, and Clock Tower Square revealed itself. Fareed had heard so much about the square from his grandparents. During the First World War, they had told him, Yafa was bombed, and swarms of locusts descended upon the city and its fields. In the town center stood the clock tower, surrounded by a square. It had been built at the beginning of the twentieth century to honor Sultan Abdul Hamid II — the same sultan who was so closely bound with the Sabakh diamond. Not far from the square had been Yafa’s markets, among them Souk al-Malbasa, the clothing market, and Souk al-Attarin, the spice market. Fareed wondered how much of all that still existed.

  All the riots they’d told him about, when Arabs and Jews had fought over this territory in the 1940s, had happened here at Clock Tower Square. As soon as he stepped off the bus he saw a police building on his right. Two police officers, a man and a woman, were standing outside next to a patrol car. Fareed kept to the other side of the road and started looking for Yefet Street. He found it fairly quickly and walked up toward the Ajami neighborhood.

  Just that morning, before crossing the border, Fareed had shut himself in his room in Damascus, double-locked the door, and memorized the route from Clock Tower Square to Rami’s apartment. Now all he had to do was follow the route and hope no one stopped him and asked to see his papers, and, of course, that Rami was home.

  To his left was Abulafia Bakery, with a long line of customers waiting at the window. Fareed stood in line and ordered a sambusak filled with hard-boiled egg. He took the warm turnover wrapped in paper and continued on his way. The street twisted and turned, lined on either side with long buildings. Then came shops: groceries, a cell phone store, two restaurants. He wanted to stop everywhere and look, to roam all over Yafa, but he wasn’t brave enough. He finished eating, tossed the paper in a trash can, and picked up his pace.

  According to the map, Rami’s apartment was not far. Fareed turned right on Sha’arei Nikanor Street. There was a shop on the corner selling charcoal and hookahs, and just after that a Jewish-Arab youth club across the street from a day care center. Farther down the road was a house, and then another house that Fareed stood and stared at for several minutes through the gate. It had a pomegranate tree in the garden, and two stone lions worn by time and rain perched on either side of the front steps. He tore himself away and kept walking down the narrow street. Every so often he saw graffiti on the walls: waqaha, one of them read, in Arabic, and then explained in what Fareed assumed was Hebrew: chutzpah. Similar translations were provided for other words: khatar — danger, and huriyya — freedom.

  When he passed the third house on the left, his heart started pounding. But he didn’t dare stop, only gave the house a sideways glance. The road curved downhill, and the old houses gave way to new marble buildings two or three stories high. Then, straight ahead, between two buildings, he saw the sea. The Yafa sea.

  At the end of the street stood a restaurant with tables scattered around the courtyard. A group of people sat drinking beer, smoking, and eating out of dishes piled with maqluba. Fareed turned the corner, and after passing a very old building, he finally recognized Rami’s house from the picture: a two-story building with a grand but crumbling entrance; only the windows attested to the residence’s glorious past. Three steps led up to the front door. A ginger cat lay sprawled across the second step, serenely licking her nipples. Fareed walked in and went up to the second floor. He stopped outside the door and steadied his breath. He knocked twice, and when there was no answer, a third time. The door finally opened.

  “Fareed!” Rami pulled Fareed in and hugged him. “They didn’t stop you at the border? Have you had something to eat? You look tired! How did you get here?”

  “It was a long journey, but I’m fine.” Fareed was happy to speak Arabic after using English all day.

  Rami was tall and thin, wearing a white tank top that exposed much of his smooth chest. One of his eyebrows was pierced, and his cheeks were covered with black stubble. He poured Fareed a glass of water and they sat down in the living room, which had colorful, ornate floor tiles.

  They’d met online. When Fareed had started taking an interest in Yafa, after hearing his grandmother Laila’s stories, he’d studied the neighborhood of Ajami in maps and read online about various businesses in the neighborhood. He was especially intrigued when he came across Shami Bar, whose name alluded to his hometown of al-Sham. He played a few songs from the bar’s Facebook page and read posts left by Arab residents of Yafa. One of them, Ramadan (Rami) Saleh, a nursing student who tended bar at Shami, had an interesting profile, and Fareed wrote to him.

  They corresponded every day for weeks, and got to know each other so well that Fareed imagined that the distance between their near-yet-far cities was shrinking. In time, he felt as though his body was in Damascus but his head, his dreams, his passion — all these were in Yafa. When he came up with the idea of taking a trip to Yafa to explore his roots, he wrote to Rami, who tried desperately to dissuade him.

  “Are you crazy?” Rami wrote. “They’ll shoot you at the border. They have no qualms. You think they don’t hav
e enough Palestinians in Israel? They don’t want another one. And anyway, nothing scares the Israeli army more than an unarmed Arab. If you went at them with a submachine gun, that would be one thing. But to just walk over, and with the way you look — with your curly hair and your pale skin? No way, forget it. Very bad idea. You won’t make it here alive.”

  “I knew that’s what you’d say, Ramadan,” Fareed wrote back, “but I don’t care. The uprising here is starting to spill over toward the border. I read that there’s going to be a pro-Palestinian protest at the border again, like the big one they had on Nakba Day a couple of months ago, and people will try to get across the border. I want to be there. Will you meet me?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, of course I want to meet you! You can stay with me. I just think it’s a really bad idea.”

  A week later, Fareed wrote to Rami about a few technicalities and said nothing further on the matter. He didn’t tell him about Sabakh or about his larger plan. In fact, he himself wasn’t exactly sure how things would turn out. But he waited impatiently for the date, and for the first time in his life he felt he had the courage to do something.

  “So,” Rami said, now that Fareed was here in his apartment, “do you think you’ll stay with me the whole time, or do you have other plans?”

  “I don’t know yet. But I figure I’ll draw less attention in Yafa than I would in Tel Aviv.”

  “That’s for sure. What about your parents? Won’t they be worried?”