The Diamond Setter

by Moshe Sakal

  Sami’s best friend, Hassan, was a regular reader of the newspaper Falastin. The editor warned readers against visiting Tel Aviv cafés and reported on an Arab who had visited Tel Aviv: “When he turned to a street corner to do his business, a Jew stood in his way.” The Jew cursed at the Arab and then a dozen more Jews jumped out and beat him. The editor concluded, “We have frequently counseled our youngsters not to visit Tel Aviv, because they spend their money in shops and eateries in order to impress the local women, while they themselves suffer from the financial crisis. The Jews paid for our lands with one hand, but they take back our money with the other — through women, and through food and drink establishments. Now they are also beginning to charge interest on these payments — in the form of beatings.” Another article warned unequivocally, “We advise our youths to learn their lesson, as there is no predicting what awaits them in Tel Aviv tomorrow or the next day. We shall leave it at that.”

  Sami worked hard for another two years, until one day the orchard owner died and his son, who inherited the land, offered Sami a partnership. Sami had no capital of his own, but he was hardworking and responsible, and the offer appealed to him, especially since his family was about to expand.

  When Suad’s doctor informed her she was pregnant, she received the news with strange indifference. The doctor instructed her to rest in bed and not do any housework. Her mother came to care for her. About two months later, Sami took up his friend Hassan’s invitation to accompany him on a trip to Damascus, where he had family.

  They set off early in the morning. Hassan was keenly interested in politics and often sent letters to the editor of Falastin. While the two made their way north, Hassan lectured Sami about the Sykes-Picot Agreement, which roughly a decade earlier, after the Great War, had divided up the areas of control in the Middle East between the British and the French. He spoke angrily of the British, who encouraged the Zionist invaders and hypocritically pretended to be neutral observers. Sami listened calmly and somewhat uninterestedly, and did not interrupt because he knew Hassan was passionate about these issues; he belonged to a group of orchard workers who had been trained to use weapons in preparation for the next bloody battle. Sami, on his part, was not a member of any organization. His friends in the orchard sometimes mocked him for being a “Zionist,” but he dismissed them with a wave of the hand. At first he viewed the political developments impassively, but as things heated up in Yafa and the workers grew furious at the Jewish citrus growers who were robbing their livelihood and their lands, Sami began to fear he might be stretching the rope too thin, and realized he must demonstrate involvement in the political struggle, if only for appearances.

  As they traveled north by train, his thoughts wandered to Suad lying at home in bed. Her mother had not rebuked Sami for abandoning his wife, at least not openly, but when he said goodbye he thought she was glaring reproachfully at him.

  Hassan noticed that Sami’s mind was wandering. His voice softened and he asked how Suad was feeling.

  “She’s fine,” Sami answered tersely.

  “I know it’s not easy for you,” Hassan continued after a pause. “It’s good that you’re going away for a few days. You deserve a change of scenery. You spend too much time with all those women.”

  The farther away he got from the Bride of the Sea, and the closer to the city he had never visited but had heard so much about, the more revived Sami felt. They reached Damascus in the evening, and Hassan, who knew the city well from previous visits, headed straight to his uncle’s home on al-Amin Street. It was the street that divided the Muslim quarter from Harat al-Yahud — the Jewish quarter.

  “Look here,” said Hassan, tapping the wall of a house where the plaster was peeling away. “This is what a fallen city looks like.” They strolled through the alleys of the Muslim quarter, each carrying a suitcase. “If you look closely,” said Hassan, “you can see the remnants of all the glory that was once Damascus.”

  “When, during the Abbasids?”

  “Of course not. It was only a few decades ago that Damascus was still one of the wealthiest cities in the region. Every year thousands of camels passed through on their way to Baghdad, India, and Persia, loaded with spices, coffee, tapestries and rugs, sesame, olive oil, wax, copper, tobacco, jewelry, and on and on. And what happened? The French dug that canal, the Suez, and just like that the processions stopped going through Damascus and all the goods went through the canal. And I’m not even talking about how Damascus used to be the departure point for pilgrims heading to Mecca. When the city lost its economic standing, everything went wrong. What we see here doesn’t even resemble the Damascus our grandparents knew. We can only imagine how it all used to look. You see those Jewish houses?” He pointed at a cluster of homes nearby. “These used to be veritable palaces.”

  Sami nodded. In Yafa they talked a lot about the wealth of Damascus Jews.

  He looked over at the houses on the other side of the street and suddenly longed to visit them. “They really do look incredible. Why don’t we go and see them sometime?”

  Hassan walked on without answering. When they arrived, Hassan’s uncle Ali welcomed them at the doorstep and invited them in to wash their hands and sit in the courtyard for dinner. The air soon filled with the aroma of grilled meat and cooked legumes, and the citrus fragrance mingled with the perfume of apples from the trees in the yard.

  They sat with Hassan’s family and ate a good meal. After dinner they were served coffee and ma’amul cookies stuffed with dates, and Hassan’s uncle invited them to sit on the balcony overlooking the garden. Sami sprawled back on the red cushions. His coffee cup grew cold in his hand. He leaned his head back and gazed up at the star-studded sky.

  “Did you have time to see any of the city on your way from the station?” Ali asked.

  “A little.” Sami turned to him. “Hassan told me about the history of Damascus.”

  “He did?” Uncle Ali smiled. “I didn’t know he was a scholar of history.”

  “I know a lot of things,” Hassan said, sounding slightly insulted.

  “He’s published a few letters to the editor in Falastin, you know,” Sami added proudly.

  Ali reached out and patted his nephew warmly on the back of his neck.

  “Let me ask you something,” Sami said. “You have Jewish friends here in Damascus, don’t you?”

  “There are some Jews I work with at the al-Tawil market. Difficult people, but they always keep their word.”

  Hassan smiled. “I wish we could say that about our Jews.”

  “Did you notice that the Jewish quarter is very quiet this evening? They have a holiday today.”

  “Yes, it’s their festival of trees,” Sami told him, and Ali looked at him questioningly.

  “You’re surprised he knows their holidays?” Hassan asked glumly. “Do you know what they call Sami in the orchard? ‘The Zionist.’”

  “Why is that?” Ali inquired.

  “Because he likes the Jews.”

  “I don’t like them but I don’t hate them,” Sami explained.

  “You like hanging around Tel Aviv, don’t you?” Hassan asked.

  “Sometimes. So what?”

  “So you’re a Zionist,” Hassan decreed. “And you should know that you’re naïve. Trust me, you’ll end up with no oranges and no orchard and no nothing.”

  “You’re exaggerating,” said Sami, examining his friend’s face.

  “And you don’t understand anything.”

  “Since we’re on the subject of Jews,” said their host, “this evening we’re all invited to a celebration at Moussa Kadosh’s home. He’s a textile merchant I know from the market. His oldest son got engaged and today is their ‘lovers’ festival.’”

  “I’m confused — is it the festival of trees or of love?” Hassan wondered.

  “Both.” His uncle laughed.

  “Then let’s go,” Sami said, trying not to sound too eager.

  They went to their rooms to unpack,
change clothes, and wash the journey’s dust off their faces. Then they joined Hassan’s uncle and aunt.

  The four walked along a dirt road in the dark. Ali held a yellow oil lamp, and the light danced on the walls in front of them. They turned off al-Amin Street into the alleyways of the Jewish quarter. Ali stopped outside a door, wiped his feet on the mat, and entered the courtyard. His wife and the two young men from Yafa followed. In the courtyard was a large table decorated with branches and laden with bowls of dried fruit, peanuts and almonds, figs and pomegranates.

  Moussa Kadosh, a dark-skinned man of about fifty with a rust-colored mustache and small eyes, hurried over to welcome them. Hassan’s aunt joined the women sitting inside, and the men sat at the table in the courtyard. Moussa Kadosh offered them drinks, which Hassan’s uncle refused with a faint smile, as per the etiquette. Moussa offered again, and finally Ali acceded to his imploring host, and the three guests were seated and served glasses of arak, dishes of baluza perfumed with rosewater, kadaif, and sliyya — wheat berries soaked in honey.

  Sami looked around at the guests. Many of the men looked like members of one family, with similar features and the same short, solid build. They were discussing America, specifically one of Moussa’s sons who had immigrated there recently and was living with relatives. A few days before his brother’s engagement feast, the son had sent his family an enthusiastic letter in which he told great things about his new country and urged them to join him. He included a photograph of himself in his merchant’s outfit, with an elegant top hat, spreading out a handwoven tapestry before an American customer.

  They were invited into the living room. Ornate rugs covered the floor, and in one corner stood an old wooden buffet with intricately painted dishes. Next to it was a glass cabinet containing silver knives, forks, and spoons, as well as little goblets and antique coins. A dark wooden grandfather clock stood against the wall. Sami unconsciously adapted the pace of his breath to the ticking clock. The women sat on one side of the room. Hassan leaned against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest. He looked unenthusiastic and tried to signal to his uncle that it was time to go home. In the middle of the room sat a woman with her hair swept up into a high bun, wearing jangling gold bracelets. Her face glowed as she welcomed the guests with a smile and invited them to join her and the other women. It was the lady of the house, Hassiba Kadosh.

  The family members carried chairs over and sat with the women, and Moussa Kadosh motioned for Hassan’s uncle and his group to join them. Ali said it was late and his guests were tired after their long journey, but the host would not hear of it: “Come sit with us, I will accept no excuses or refusals.” He examined his wife’s response before adding, “And you should know that very soon a famous singer will come to sing for the young couple.”

  Sami noticed a slight shadow pass over Hassiba Kadosh’s face, but she quickly restored her smile. “You must stay,” she concurred. Something in her voice — an attempt to sound cheerful that disclosed a slight tremor — made Hassan sigh, and his uncle accepted his hosts’ offer.

  They sat down near the women. At that moment the door opened, and two boys burst into the living room, shouting.

  “Shayu!” said Hassiba Kadosh to one of the children. “What are you doing running like that? You’ll fall!” The scolded boy stopped short, and Hassiba spread out her arms and said, “Come here, Shayu, give your mother a kiss!” The boy ran to his mother and hugged her. The other boy stopped behind him and eyed the people in the room curiously. He gave a sidelong glance at a crystal bowl full of little cloth purses. Sami noted that this boy was not a shy one. The mother glanced over her son’s shoulder and said, “Rafael, come and say hello to your aunt Hassiba. My, how you’ve grown!”

  The boy went over to his aunt and stood there hesitantly. She held out her hand and he kissed it, and Hassiba took one of the purses and gave it to him. Rafael peeked inside, then quickly turned a questioning gaze at the door and waited. At that moment two women walked in. One held the other’s hand and led her inside.

  The first woman was roughly thirty. Her beautiful face was made up heavily, her brows completely plucked and drawn in dark blue pencil, and her light brown hair was piled high and held up with hidden pins. She took off her white coat and gave it to Moussa Kadosh. Sami looked at her thin red dress with short sleeves that showed her bare arms. She wore a string of pearls, and her deep neckline revealed damp, glistening skin. The other woman’s face was almost free of makeup and her clothes were long and severe looking, but not without charm. The women’s features — they were undoubtedly sisters — were remarkably similar, but they had very different expressions. In fact, the combination of resemblance and difference was so marked that it aroused a vague discomfort in Sami. He could not take his eyes off them.

  Mrs. Kadosh stood up halfheartedly to welcome the guests and kiss them. The younger woman, who walked in first, sat on a chair, and her sister followed. Rafael went over to the older one, and she held out her fingers in front of her and stroked his cheek. Rafael smiled at his mother, though he knew she could not see him.

  “I am honored to introduce you to Mona and Gracia, my wife’s sisters,” said Moussa Kadosh. Mona looked up at the guests. Her eyes were lost but her smile was genuine, as though she could clearly see them.

  Sami was amazed to learn that the women were Mrs. Kadosh’s sisters. Nothing in the way she treated these two women had indicated familial relations. Quite the contrary. When he kissed Gracia’s hand, her scent reminded him of a perfume he had known long ago, as a child, but at the same time it evoked a certain mystery, something sealed and hidden. Gracia scanned him for a moment, said hello with a courteous smile, and turned to look at Hassan and his uncle. Out of the corner of his eye, Sami noticed Hassiba Kadosh’s frozen expression.

  “Please.” Moussa Kadosh stood and served his sisters-in-law glasses of pomegranate juice. They thanked him, and now Sami saw Gracia’s pearly white teeth and her tongue, and he was seized by a passion to kiss her lips.

  Only when Gracia opened her mouth and began to sing for the young couple, about half an hour later, did Sami realize that he had not listened to a single word anyone had uttered from the moment she had entered the room. He was captivated by the tune, although he understood very few of the Hebrew words she sang:

  Yidad mini dod kedoshi

  Ve’gozel shnati mitoch af’api

  Mi’yom nudo ye’erav shimshi

  Ve’ozel…

  Pained by the sorrowful melody, Sami stared down at his shoes. The scent of Gracia’s fingers still lingered in his nostrils, and he smelled it as though he were already missing it, years later.

  While Sami was lost in thought, Hassan’s uncle leaned over and whispered, “You see that woman? Just the way she sings to us now, she once sang for the Turkish sultan! This Jewish woman was known not just in Damascus, but throughout the Empire. What a voice she had! And how beautiful she was!”

  “More beautiful than she is now?” Sami protested.

  “When she was sixteen she was as lovely as the bud of a jasmine flower and as wild as a desert foal. She comes from a very poor family, but thanks to her talent they want for nothing, as you can see. She married off her sister Mona to the son of one of the wealthiest Jews in our community.”

  “And who is her husband?” Sami asked in a whisper and looked back at the singer, whose eyes were now closed, her right hand suspended up above her.

  “She is not married.” Hassan’s uncle chuckled.

  The melody suddenly plunged and curled in deep tones, as though the ground had dropped away from beneath the sad love song, but the sounds kept hovering above the abyss that opened up at their feet. Before Gracia climbed back up to the high notes, she lingered for an instant and looked at her older sister, Mona, who sat erect and expressionless. Sami listened to the final notes of the song: “I shall fall silent, my lips are sealed.”

  When she finished singing, Gracia bowed deeply amid a flood of applau
se, and the young couple went over and kissed her. When Sami looked away, he felt an inexplicable sense of dread crush his chest. The singer stood beaming at the couple, and they thanked her again profusely. The boy, Rafael, pushed his way between the three adults and looked up proudly at his aunt.

  After the guests and hosts bid them farewell, Sami and his three companions walked home. On the way, Hassan’s uncle told them about a famous diamond that the Turkish sultan had given the Jewish singer years ago. “A blue diamond,” he explained.

  “Did you ever see it?” Sami asked.

  “No, no one has seen it, except perhaps her blind sister.” He laughed. “She keeps it very safe somewhere. They say it brings bad luck, but she doesn’t believe in that.”

  Years later, on Ha’Kovshim Street in Tel Aviv, after a futile attempt to persuade Gracia to sing for him, Sami tried to reconstruct the voice in his imagination. His failure was not due to the many years that had passed, but because of something else, something secret and untouchable.

  4

  After their daughter, Laila, was born, Suad’s condition deteriorated. She didn’t sleep at night, felt too weak to care for the baby, spoke very little, and when she did she cried to Sami and blamed herself, urged him to banish her, said she wasn’t worthy of him, then plunged into a deep silence in a fetal position with her face to the wall.

  Meanwhile, events were unfolding around them: The United States closed its gates to new immigrants. A Druze uprising broke out in Syria and Lebanon. And in October, after the French were driven out of Damascus by the rebels, they bombed the city in retaliation.

  In 1931, Hassiba Kadosh fell off her balcony into the courtyard. Her death aroused a flurry of rumors in the Jewish quarter, and a bitter dispute between the families ensued. But the cousins Rafael and Shayu remained close. In the mid-1930s, shortly before the Arab Revolt began in Palestine, eighteen-year-old Shayu decided to immigrate to the Jewish settlement. Since he did not belong to a Zionist youth movement, his decision came as a surprise to the family. Still, despite the dangers, no one tried to dissuade him.