by Moshe Sakal
“Yes…”
“I get what Menashe is trying to tell you,” Honi interjected.
“Oh really, Honi?” I smiled. “You get it?”
“Yes. What he’s really saying is this: Why is it, in literature nowadays, that everything has to be cut up and truncated, without one single straight plotline? Why do they always have to interrupt the chapters with laundry lists, bits of recipes, weather forecasts, horse races—”
“Well, look who we have here: Honi Kadosh, renowned literary critic!” I interrupted.
“I know what you’re going to say in your defense,” he went on. “That it’s postmodern, it’s the zeitgeist. I’ve heard all about that in my stories for the radio. You know what Picasso had to say about that?”
“I wasn’t aware that Picasso lived in the postmodern era.”
“Very funny. No, I mean something he said about cubism.”
“What did he say, Hanan? Please enlighten me.”
“He said, ‘Before you make cubism, learn how to draw a horse.’ Or in other words, what does a piano teacher have to do with a jewelry shop?!”
“Kiddos,” Menashe intervened from behind his goggles, still blowing fire on a piece of jewelry, “I won’t have any bickering in my shop. You two play nice.”
Honi and I looked at each other and smiled sheepishly.
“The piano teacher has a lot to do with the jewelry shop,” I answered. “In fact, he’s closely related to the story I’m telling. But you’ll have to be patient. Besides, Menashe, you need to take into account that the story is never exactly where you expect it to be.”
Honi shrugged. The jeweler kept working quietly. After half an hour we said goodbye to Menashe and left the shop together, heading to Rothschild Boulevard.
CHAPTER SIX
ADELA
1
A FEW DAYS LATER, when Honi left his sister at the Shack and walked toward the jewelry shop, he noticed that scaffolding had been erected on the building next door, to support it when the bulldozers knocked down the walls. The street was quiet, for now, and the old building stood there indifferently, not knowing that very soon it would have to splutter and cough and put up a fight against massive forces of destruction. Would that be the fate of the jeweler’s building, too?
At the end of the alley, before he turned onto King George Street, Honi ran straight into his father. Amiram Kadosh seemed happy to see his son. He even hugged Honi and mussed his hair. Honi pulled back a little but finally leaned his cheek in the hollow of his father’s neck for a split second.
“Come on,” Amiram said, pulling away and looking at Honi warmly. “I’ll take you out for dinner.”
They sat facing each other in a fish restaurant on the beach.
“What’s new?” Amiram Kadosh asked.
“Nothing. Everything’s fine.”
“How’s the army?”
“Okay.”
“Hard?”
“No.”
“How much longer do you have?”
“Less than eight months.”
“It’ll fly by. Have you thought about what you want to do afterward?”
“Maybe travel.”
“Where?”
“Haven’t decided.”
“What about university?”
“I’m not in a hurry. I want to rest for a while.”
“Are you tired?”
“No.”
“Then why do you need to rest?”
Honi didn’t answer. He looked down and scratched his chin.
“We’re starting work on the building soon, and someone has to keep an eye on the workers,” Amiram said. “I want you to take it on. You can come in the morning before you go to the radio, or afterward, whatever you prefer. As long as you show your face. The contractor I hired is a professional, but you still have to watch him like a hawk. I want him to know he’s being checked up on. I’ll explain to you exactly what to look out for. We have building plans, I’ll give you the keys to all the new doors in the building.”
“Are you destroying everything?”
“You? You mean, ‘we.’ Yes, we’re destroying everything. But we’re not allowed to touch the exterior walls because it’s a preservation site. First they’ll attach support rods, then they’ll knock down the walls and destroy everything behind the façade, even though Gruzovski keeps threatening to set himself on fire in the shop. He acts like I care. Next time he opens his mouth about a fire, he’ll get a visit from the police. Funny thing is, the crazy old Halabi, Laniado, is the only one who isn’t making trouble. I think he’s happy to get out.”
“What about Menashe?”
“Why do you ask?”
“No reason.”
“What do you think, Honi?”
“About what?”
“Menashe Salomon. You think he’s going to make trouble?”
“I don’t know.”
“He didn’t say anything to you?”
“No.” Honi tried to keep calm. “Why?”
“Because you go there and visit him, you sit there, you drink coffee, you listen to all the crap he and that apprentice come up with.” Amiram Kadosh raised his voice briefly but then pulled himself together. “A poor man’s Thousand and One Nights they’ve got going on there. So I thought maybe he let you in on his plans.”
“No.”
“Glad to hear it. Because you listen to me: You’re a big boy now. A soldier. I can’t tell you where to go or who to talk to. But before you go believing any old thing someone tells you, you remember who Menashe Salomon is, and who his father was, and what happened with his father’s aunt and my grandmother. Did I ever tell you about that?”
“No.”
“Then I’ll tell you now. Gracia, who was the sister of my grandmother, Hassiba, was a prostitute in Damascus. A high-class whore, but a whore. You hear me? A hoooor. True, she had a high-up position in the Jewish community, because of all the rich Arabs she hung around with, who had good connections, and the Jews took advantage of that sometimes when they had to. Those Arabs bought Gracia with their gifts and their gold, and she slowly climbed up the ladder until she got to where she got. But it was a big embarrassment for the community. Even in Turkey they said all the Jewish women in Damascus were whores. Gracia didn’t care, as long as she had money and gold and a big house. But one day things stopped going so well for her. She wasn’t the beautiful young girl who’d turned everyone’s heads anymore. So what did she do? She went and seduced Moussa, my grandfather, who was married to her own sister! And Grandfather, he was only a man, after all, only human. So he went with her, that whore. Whatever she asked for, he gave her. It took a while, but in the end it all came out. You couldn’t keep secrets in that place. And a while after it came out, Grandma fell off the balcony. I mean, that was the official story. There were those who said she jumped off, and some people said there was a kind soul who gave her a push. And then my grandfather’s brothers went at night and stood under Gracia’s window and called for her to come out. Grandfather’s oldest brother even brought a gun and threatened to kill her. There was a whole to-do, and Aunt Mona and her family stood by Gracia’s side and defended her. And not just that: They bad-mouthed my grandfather and said he’d invented the whole thing, that he hadn’t had an affair with Gracia at all, that he was the one who’d killed his wife. Ever since then, the two families have been enemies — except for your grandfather, Shayu, who always stayed friendly with Rafael and gave him a shop in the building for pennies. But I don’t forget, and I don’t forgive Rafael’s family. I heard all the stories and I know exactly what went on there. Now do you understand why I have no sympathy for Menashe Salomon?”
Honi didn’t answer.
“And don’t think that was the end of it,” Kadosh added. “After it was over, the jeweler’s family stayed in touch with Gracia like nothing had happened. It was one thing for Mona, Rafael’s mother, who was blind, because she was completely dependent on her husband. But him, Rafael — he turned o
ut just like Gracia.”
“How so?”
“There was a whole story, don’t ask. If I told Rafael’s family about it, I’d break up the family. But me, I don’t care about that stuff. I just want Menashe out of the building and for the whole thing to be over. Don’t want to hear anything more from Rafael Salomon or his family.”
“Are you planning to give Menashe any kind of compensation?” Honi asked feebly.
“Are you crazy? Compensation? What about rent for all the years his father sat there in our building scratching his balls? He should be thankful I don’t sue him! As far as I’m concerned, we’re even now. I’m not asking him to compensate me for all those years his father sat there, so he shouldn’t expect anything either. And just so you know, I’m doing this only out of respect for Grandpa Shayu, because I know he loved Rafael, despite everything. But enough is enough, you have to draw the line somewhere. Now look, Honi, I have a little assignment for you.”
“For me?”
“Yes. I was thinking of sending Ayelet, but it’s better that you do it. You remember Adela, Menashe’s mother? Well, I want you to go see her and find out if they have any papers showing ownership of the shop, a lease in perpetuity, anything like that.”
“But you said they don’t have a lease.”
“As far as I know, there’s no lease. But I want to dig around a bit, be prepared for any eventuality, in case they take us to court. I don’t want any nasty surprises.”
“Why on earth would she tell me if there is or isn’t a lease?” Honi wondered.
“I don’t know. I have a feeling Menashe’s cooking up a surprise for us. I’m not completely certain there wasn’t some kind of agreement. So you need to go to his mother, ask how she is, have a chat with her, listen to her stories. After all, she remembers you from when you were little. And then you’ll find the right moment to ask her about the shop, like you’re just curious. If she says there’s a lease, ask to see it, and take a picture with your phone for me. Okay?”
When they stood outside the restaurant, Amiram squeezed Honi’s cheek and slapped his back. “Cheer up, Honi! Go find yourself a nice girl, have some fun. What are you doing walking around like you’re in mourning the whole time? You mark my words, these are the best years of your life. And give my regards to Adela.”
2
Adela lived in the north part of Dizengoff Street, in the same apartment Rafael Salomon had bought when he came to Tel Aviv. Since her husband’s death, Adela had become a hermit, refusing to leave home even for family celebrations, much less funerals. Yet some of her youthful vitality remained. Something was still restless in that body, which, after sixty-some years in a land whose language she had never properly learned, still gave off a whiff of another place and another time.
Physically, Adela was a mere shadow of the animated woman she once was. But those who knew her could tell that old age had actually given her a new determination and even a certain irreverence — the prerogative of those who have nothing to gain in life anymore, but also not much to lose. For the past decade, Adela had shared her home with a Filipina caregiver named Rowena, a woman of forty-five with a husband and three sons in Manila. She had worked as a research assistant at the university in her hometown, but when she lost her job and her husband became the sole breadwinner, his earnings could not cover the family’s living expenses.
Rowena’s lovely long hair was always tied back, her black clothes were carefully chosen, and her fingernails glistened with red polish. Her face projected the utmost gravity, but at the same time there was something tender and compassionate about her. On the rare occasions when someone entered her orbit and struck up a conversation with her, she would gaze at him with intense scrutiny. Rowena was a good listener, and her conversants sensed it and were not afraid to trust her. They told her everything, even things they told no one else.
When Honi knocked on the door, Rowena looked through the peephole and asked in Hebrew, “Who is it?” Only after Adela gave her approval to allow the guest in did she open the door.
Adela took one look at Honi and his awkward expression, and the distant memories that surfaced made her heart pound for a moment. But she disclosed nothing. She said hello and asked him to sit down. She got up, went to the kitchen, and returned with a cup of Turkish coffee that Rowena had boiled on the stove top, along with some biscuits that looked just like the ones she used to bake herself.
Honi sipped his coffee and nibbled on a biscuit. He was blinded by the sunlight that shone through holes in the balcony bricks. Adela sat silently watching her guest, shaded by a large ficus tree on the balcony. She had not seen Honi for years, since the shivah after Rafael’s death. He was still a boy then, and now he was a young man.
Honi looked at the stern old woman as he chewed uncomfortably. She was a hard nut to crack. When she stared at him with her glimmering black eyes, he noticed two lines cascading down from her lips, which gave her face a bitter expression.
Finally Honi spoke. “How many years have you lived in Israel?”
“A long time,” the old woman answered.
“Did you meet Rafael in Syria, or was it in Israel?”
Adela seemed surprised. “Syria. Of course Syria!”
“How did you meet him? Was it arranged?”
“No. I’ll tell you. I had an aunt, who had a husband who got sick. He had a fever, forty days he lay there with fever. And he had a little son, Yusuf. And me, I was fourteen, and every day I took Yusuf to school because his father was sick. Rafael was a teacher, he taught Arabic and French at the school. And there was another teacher there, a woman called Allegra. She loved him — Rafael. But he didn’t love her.
“One day I come with Yusuf, and Allegra grabs me and says, ‘Girl!’ I ask her, ‘What do you want?’ She says, ‘No, no, you must not bring the boy. His mother must come!’ I said, ‘His mother can’t come. If she could, she would bring him.’ She says to me, ‘No, no, no. If you come again tomorrow, I’ll hit you!’ I said, ‘Okay, we’ll see if you can hit me.’
“I came the next day with the boy. Allegra says to me, ‘Girl, again! Again!’ I told her, ‘Look, his father is sick and his mother can’t come.’ She says, ‘What do I care about his father?’ I said, ‘If you don’t care, I do, it’s my uncle and aunt.’ Then she starts, she grabs me like this, and she wants to hit me. I told her, ‘Look, if you hit me, no, no, no — big trouble for you. Big trouble!’ I was little, only fourteen. But I told her, ‘Let’s go see the headmaster, you and me.’
“I walk in, I say to him, ‘Mr. Headmaster, listen. My uncle is very sick and his wife can’t leave him alone. Poor little Yusuf. My aunt told me to bring him to school every day.’ I told the headmaster, ‘Look, I have to. If I tell my aunt I can’t do it, she’ll think I don’t want to.’ The headmaster said, ‘You come back tomorrow, and if this woman Allegra does anything to you, I’ll get rid of her.’ He said that right in her face: ‘I’ll kick you out of school if you do anything to her.’ So I left and she didn’t dare show her face outside her classroom.
“So one afternoon I go to pick up Yusuf. Suddenly when I walk in, I see Rafael standing there, holding a newspaper. He used to read everything. And he must have said something to Allegra about me, like, ‘Look at that girl, look how good she is.’ That’s why she said those things — he talked to her about me, and she felt he was looking at me, and I was just a girl. So you know what he did with the newspaper? He said, ‘Girl, what’s your name?’ And I said, ‘You think I’m going to tell you? I won’t tell you my name.’ So he says, ‘Look here in the paper, see what it says? Je t’aime.’ I say to him, ‘Get out of here! What are you doing, you’re starting with me? I’m just a girl, go start with that other one, the teacher.’
“And since then, he got to know me. Every year on Purim we do something nice, like we make a big party, with water guns. So I filled up a gun, I got one and filled it up, just like that, and Rafael looked at me — bang, I squirted him! It was cold, Purim was
very cold where we lived. Snow sometimes. It’s very cold where we lived in Syria. Weather like on the Hermon. You know how the Hermon is? Like that.
“And since then I got to know him. My friends were so jealous — wow! With us everything was free, you come, you go, girls and boys, you have fun, sometimes you leave the girl after a few years, you walk out on her and go with another girl. Every evening we went out. We’d go to the pictures, we’d go to the bars, oh yes, there were great places there. Believe me, Rafael went to all the places, he ate all the food. Me, I wouldn’t taste it, he’d bring me a piece of cake — I’d barely eat one bite. He ate everything, didn’t care about kosher. Every day he went to eat in the souk. Only when we got married, ah…then…He liked to eat in the souk then, too.”
“Where did you get married?”
“Let me tell you. Right before the wedding, his father suddenly died. On a Saturday, and our wedding was on the Sunday. Heart attack.”
“The day before the wedding?”
“Yes! One day they came home, and suddenly a heart attack. So we put it off. A whole month. We got married a month later. We wanted it at the Alliance, because they do weddings there with dancing and a band, so pretty. But we didn’t. We wanted to but we didn’t, we had it at home. Because his father died, and we thought it’s not nice to have a big wedding. So we had it at home.”
“Well, that’s understandable,” Honi commented.
“Rafael’s parents wanted him to study being a doctor, but he didn’t want to. He went to university for a bit, then he told them, ‘I don’t want to be a doctor, I want to be a merchant!’ He left. Where did he work? At the Bourse. Worked at the Bourse, had an Arab partner. This Arab, he was a friend of the prime minister of Syria, the president, I mean. This partner, he said, ‘Look, Rafael, whatever you want, just ask, I’ll arrange everything for you.’ So Rafael said, ‘I want to go to Libnon.’ The friend says, ‘Really? Okay, very nice. Write down what you want to take.’ We had a little boy then already. Rafael wrote things down, and the friend said he’d make us a visa. He got us the visa, got us a moving truck, and a taxi, we took our furniture and everything. They let us do it, only us, because we had papers from him. He arranged everything for us. After a year in Libnon, we came down to Metula in Israel. That evening, it was the first independence holiday for Israel, and we heard shots, you know, and they had sirens. What did it mean? Maybe it was a sign for us? So we changed routes. We’d only gone half an hour, then we walked seven hours on foot. There were twenty people there, Jews who came with us, but you know what, Rafael held on to Shlomo, back then he was still called Salim. And my other hand? I gave it to an Arab who took us. There were two Arabs. I told him, ‘You hold me so I don’t fall.’ The whole time I’m with him: ‘Don’t leave me, I’ll walk with you main dans la main — hand in hand, together.’