The Diamond Setter

by Moshe Sakal

  Menashe looked at his father wide-eyed. He pictured everything: the cave and the diamonds and the vultures and the pieces of flesh and even the vultures’ nests with eggs resting inside. But hard as he tried, he could not understand how his family could have thought to drag a sheep all the way to the apartment on Dizengoff Street and kill it in that little room. He refused to go back to his grandparents’ apartment for a long time, and only after Rafael promised that all they would do there was eat french fries and hummus and have ma’amul cookies for dessert, did he agree to go.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  HONI

  1

  A WEEK BEFORE MENASHE’S MEETING with the lawyer, a soldier walked into his shop. He wasn’t especially tall, he had black hair, round glasses, and a cell phone in his hand. Menashe took off his safety glasses and exclaimed ceremoniously, “Well hello, Honi Ka-dosh! To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?”

  Honi Kadosh stood there and said nothing. He gave me a sideways glance, leaned against the wall, shifted from one foot to the other, and finally took an envelope out of his bag and handed it to the jeweler. Menashe opened the envelope, unfolded the letter, and studied it. His face turned red.

  “It is clear to me,” Menashe said after considering for a moment, “that your father did not send you here by chance. He knew exactly what he was doing. After all, he could have sent a courier. Amiram Kadosh can afford a courier, can’t he? So he wants to throw me out of my shop and open a boutique hotel. And it’s just me standing in your way. That’s the thorn in your side, my measly little 130 square feet?”

  Honi lowered his head and did not answer, but a moment later he looked up with a furious, distant look in his eyes.

  “I know exactly what’s going on with this letter,” Menashe continued. “Your father probably told you, ‘I want you to take this letter to Menashe Salomon, show him who’s boss.’ Your father does not forget and he does not forgive. As long as his father Shayu, of blessed memory, was alive, everything was fine. But then Kadosh decides he wants to settle the score with me, as the family representative. I pay him rent every month, but that’s not good enough for him. Three thousand shekels a month! All he had to do was wait for me to die so he could get his hands on my shop. But no, he’s impatient — he wants to get ahead of nature!”

  Honi looked down again, and Menashe went on:

  “This business I built, all the customers I’ve been gathering with tweezers for forty-five years — none of that interests him. So he writes a nice letter and sends his son. And why does he do that? Because he wants you to learn that you can’t be sentimental in business. I’m willing to bet that’s what he told you: ‘You can’t be sentimental in business.’ Oh, yes, I know Kadosh like the back of my hand. Well then, Hanan, you go tell your father that Menashe Solomon does not give up without a fight, and that I will use any means available to me. And tell him one more thing, tell him that if your grandfather Shayu, my father’s cousin, were alive today, he would be ashamed of his son.”

  Menashe was the third shopkeeper Honi Kadosh had visited that day in the building on Plonit Alley. The first was Gruzovski, an optician who had rented space from Shayu since he came from Poland in the 1950s. When Honi walked in, he found the optician sitting at his table screwing a lens into a brown frame. Honi said hello and Gruzovski glanced at him and went back to his work.

  “Mr. Gruzovski, my father sent me to see you,” Honi said. When there was no response, he added, “He wants to know if you got the letter.”

  The optician put his screwdriver down, picked up the glasses frame and examined it from all sides. Then he gripped it, twisted it this way and that, and bent it a little more until he was satisfied.

  Honi tried again. “So…did you get the letter?” He began to wonder if the optician was deaf.

  When Gruzovski finished his work, he eyed the dark-skinned young man in his shop. He motioned for Honi to come closer. Honi approached and put his face near the optician’s. When the two men’s faces were very close, the optician narrowed his lips, and before Honi realized what was happening, a glob of thick spit flew out of Gruzovski’s mouth. He pulled back in disgust. He was about to walk out but thought better of it. He felt humiliated. What would he tell his father — that the old optician had spat on him and chased him out of the shop? He swallowed his pride and asked again, in a slightly trembling voice, “Did you get the letter or not?”

  When he realized he would not get an answer, he turned to leave. As he reached for the door handle, he finally heard Gruzovski screech, “You tell your father that I will drop down and die before I leave this shop! You tell him that, in exactly those words. Let him come and drag me out — he won’t be able to. I will burn this shop down and die in it before he gets it from me! You tell him that.”

  Honi slammed the door behind him and went to drink some fresh-squeezed orange juice at a nearby kiosk, to calm his nerves. Then he went back to the building and tramped over to Mr. Laniado’s newspaper store.

  Laniado was an old Syrian Jew from Aleppo — a Halabi — who had rented the shop twenty years earlier when he retired from his previous job. “Shop” was a generous description of his domain: Laniado’s nook was a narrow passageway that at one point had connected the street to the building’s courtyard. In this slim cavity, no wider than four feet and no longer than six, the elderly Laniado sat hunched over on a bench with his walking stick on the floor and both hands on the stick just above head height. He sat there all day long, dozing off in between bouts of shouting. What did he shout about? About all the swindlers who parked their cars on the sidewalk right outside his shop and left them there while they ran errands. Any driver who did this lived to regret it the moment he stilled his engine, when the old Halabi jumped out of his alcove and waved his stick at the car, yelling, “Swindler! Swindler!”

  Honi remembered the newspaper seller as a child, and he had seemed like an old man even then. He remembered being afraid of Laniado’s furious attacks and the cane he shook at the “swindlers.” To be on the safe side, Honi did not go into the shop but stood just outside, taking half a step forward and placing one foot in the alcove, which had a permanent musty odor of old newspapers.

  Mr. Laniado sat on the bench as usual, his head drooping slightly forward between his shoulders, his hands perched on the cane’s carved wood handle. Upon sensing the uninvited guest, the Halabi opened his eyes. He quickly shut one of them and kept monitoring Honi with one red eye.

  “How are you, Mr. Laniado?” Honi asked with a wary smile.

  The Halabi shook his head. “Praise God, it could be much worse.”

  “Listen, my father sent me to see you. First of all, he wants to wish you Shana Tovah. And second, he wants to know if you got the letter he sent a few days ago.”

  “Letter?” One thin tooth was visible between Laniado’s lips. “What letter?”

  “This letter.” Honi took a copy from his bag and gave it to the Halabi.

  Laniado took the letter with a trembling hand, held it close to his eyes, and began reading. “This is a very nice letter. Very nice indeed,” he summed up with a grin and handed the paper back to Honi.

  “Did you read what this says, Mr. Laniado?”

  The old man nodded, still grinning, his tooth peeking out between his lips.

  “So you understand that you need to leave the shop very soon?”

  “I understand. I completely understand,” Laniado answered.

  “And you understand that they’re building a hotel here, and there won’t be any shops anymore? Do you understand that, Mr. Laniado?”

  “Yes,” said the Halabi. “Now you understand this: I’m an old man. No one buys papers here anymore. Ever since your grandfather Shayu died, I’ve just been waiting for your father to do something with this building. No shops? Fine. So instead of sitting around here, I’ll sit around at home. That’s that.”

  Honi nodded. He wished the old man a happy new year, backed out of the shop, and slipped away in rel
ief. Now all he had left was the jeweler.

  2

  After work I said goodbye to Menashe and left the shop. I walked up King George Street and turned toward the Great Synagogue. I stopped at Phantom, the café at 108 Allenby Street, and ordered a slice of poppy seed cake. I walked into the back to a secluded area behind shelves of platters piled high with baked goods. There were a few tables there, with copies of the free daily newspaper, and an oval Formica counter with some round barstools. I sat down at the counter and looked at my face in the mirror on the wall. The waitress came over with my cake. I glanced at the pictures from the social justice protests on the front page of the paper: tents pitched on Rothschild Boulevard, people sleeping on the small grassy areas between the paths, others playing guitar or taking part in debates, and scenes from the massive demonstration, with politicians confronted by social activists.

  There were a handful of customers in the café. In one corner, an enormous man sat at a table with his wife. His stamp collection was spread out on the table, and his huge stomach spilled so far out that he could barely lean forward. He reached out and picked up a rectangular stamp, held it up to his glasses and widened his eyes as he examined it. His wife wore slippers, and her pink socks were visible under her pant cuffs. Gray roots showed in her red dyed hair, and she had one hand on a shopping trolley.

  The couple told the two men at the next table that they had recently sold their apartment on Allenby and bought a new five-bedroom with a big balcony in Ness Tziona, which they would be moving into soon. They said there was a train to Tel Aviv not far from their new place, and although they wouldn’t be able to come to Phantom every day anymore, they would try to visit at least twice a week. “For the life of me I can’t understand those kids sleeping in tents on Rothschild,” the woman said. “You’d think someone was forcing them to live in Tel Aviv!”

  The man looked up, observed his wife, and went back to his stamps.

  While I ate my cake, I took out my notebook and started going over my notes. A minute later I caught sight of a familiar face in the doorway: Honi Kadosh. He stood between the cakes and the bourekas, scanning the other customers, and I heard him order a cheese-and-spinach boureka. He recognized me only when he sat down two seats away at the counter. In the fluorescent lights, I could see his corporal ranks and the blue ribbons indicating he was doing his military service at the army radio station, Galei Zahal. There was a glimmering pin on his shirt pocket with the station’s logo.

  Honi put his iPhone on the counter and pressed a button, and all the apps glowed on the screen. Now the device — and not just I — knew of his presence here at Phantom, a pastry shop that had somehow managed to stand still for the past five decades and survive against all odds in modish Tel Aviv.

  “I didn’t know you hung out here,” I said.

  “Cool place, eh?” He seemed slightly embarrassed.

  “Yeah. It always feels like a ’50s movie.”

  “I know, it’s amazing. You’re not drinking?”

  “I’m waiting for my mint tea.”

  “Hot tea, in August?!”

  “I love drinking tea, winter or summer.”

  “Me, I need caffeine, and lots of it.”

  “Tired?”

  “Unbelievably. I’ve barely slept for a week.”

  “How come? Guard duty?”

  “No, I don’t do a lot of guard duty. Once a month, if that.”

  “So, Honi…Is that your real name?”

  “No, it’s a nickname my sister gave me, and it stuck. My real name is Hanan, which just sounds too old.”

  “I guess your sister thought you were like Honi Ha’Meagel, that guy from the legend who drew the circle?”

  “She used to make fun of me when I was little, because I was always afraid there would be a drought. And one day our teacher told us the legend of Honi the Circle Maker, and how there was a terrible drought, and he drew a circle around himself in the dust and swore to God that he wouldn’t move until it rained.”

  “If I remember correctly, it worked, didn’t it?”

  “It worked a little too well — it started raining cats and dogs! So then Honi started praying for the rain to stop. He drove God nuts. It kind of reminds me of King Midas, you know? He wished for everything he touched to turn to gold, and when his wish came true he ended up being the poorest person on earth, of course. A blessing that becomes a curse.”

  Honi sat silently for a while, and I asked, “So what’s up?”

  “I’m working on a special program. I’ve been lying awake at night thinking about it.”

  “I’m surprised you have time to put together a program. Isn’t everything crazy with all the protests?”

  “It’s crazy for the soldiers who do the news. But I’m not in news, I’m in documentary, and things are never crazy in our department. Except on Holocaust Day and Remembrance Day, of course.”

  We both snickered.

  “I produce Up Close and Personal — do you know the show? We’re not that busy right now, so I asked my boss if I could do a special on the social justice protests. Something more in-depth than a two-minute news item.”

  “Wait, whose side are you on here — the protesters’ or the landlords’?”

  “Very funny, Tom.”

  “Well, your father owns a building in a prime location that must be worth millions.”

  “True, but I don’t own any property myself. Kadosh owns the apartment I share with my sister. Our mom died last year, and I bet he’ll marry some girl soon and they’ll make me a little brother, and the new kid will inherit everything. But I don’t care. I’m getting out of here as soon as I’m done with the army.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Maybe Berlin. My mother was Polish, so I have a European passport.”

  “Does your dad know about this plan?”

  “Obviously not.”

  “So what exactly is going to be in your program?”

  “I thought it would be good to do something on the rental market over the past century, you know. Interview landlords and tenants, figure out how they interact, what kind of relationship they have, then wrap up with the tent protests.”

  “Do you take part in the protests?” I wondered.

  “I’m not allowed to. I’m a soldier.”

  “So? You could go in civilian clothes.”

  “Some kind soul would probably snitch on me and they’d kick me off the radio. What about you?”

  “I go every Saturday evening.”

  “No, I mean, what are you writing?”

  “How did you know I’m a writer?”

  “I read an article of yours on a blog once,” Honi said. “Something about a woman poet, I think.”

  “Sylvia Plath. That was when I was reading her obsessively. But I don’t write articles anymore, otherwise I’ll never finish my novel.”

  “You’re writing a novel?! What’s it about?”

  “Let’s just say there’ll be a few things in there that you might recognize. It’s called The Diamond Setter.”

  “As in, the diamond setter who makes jewelry on Plonit Alley…?”

  “More or less. It’s based on real events, but I wouldn’t call it autobiographical.”

  Honi grinned. “Wait, don’t tell me. Your jeweler has an apprentice…”

  “How did you guess?”

  “Gut feeling. So basically, you’re writing about Menashe.”

  “I’m writing about a jewelry shop that’s been around since 1950. One day the jeweler’s landlord turns up and threatens to throw him out so he can build a boutique hotel.”

  “Funny.”

  “I’m not joking.”

  “Is that the whole novel?”

  “Not exactly. There’s a frame story. Or a depth story, really. It’s about a famous blue diamond, and a Syrian who comes to Israel with part of the diamond in his pocket and ends up in Jaffa.”

  “Wait, are you writing about that guy who tried to get in on Nakba
Day?”

  “He didn’t just try, he really did get in.”

  “Where is he now? Back in Syria?” Honi tried to remember the newspaper story.

  “That’s the whole question. I mean, in my book it’s the question. In real life they sent him back to Syria.”

  “He was a teacher, right? A guy in his thirties?”

  “Yes, but in my story he’s different. Younger. And cute.”

  “What’s he doing in Jaffa?”

  “Searching for his roots. His grandparents were born there. And he doesn’t come empty-handed.”

  “Right, he brings the blue diamond, you said that.”

  “Exactly. The diamond is real, by the way. The Ottoman sultan gave it to Gracia, Menashe’s great-aunt. Do you know what she was in Damascus?”

  “Refresh my memory…?”

  “She was what they call a chanteuse.”

  “Chanteuse — what’s that? Like, a singer?”

  “Something like that. More like a kind of Arabic geisha. I thought you were related, aren’t you? I mean, your dad and Menashe?”

  “Distant relatives. There’s been some kind of family rift for decades. I’ve heard stories about the crazy Salomons ever since I can remember.”