The Diamond Setter

by Moshe Sakal

  “I didn’t think I was jealous until now…”

  “Then don’t be jealous now either, because there’s no reason. This story is about the two of us together, and you know that very well.”

  “Shhh…I think he’s waking up,” I whispered.

  “No, he’s talking in his sleep. Can you understand what he’s saying?”

  “It’s in Arabic — don’t you understand any of it?”

  “No. Let’s record him on the iPhone,” Honi suggested.

  “Have you lost your mind?”

  “No! We’ll tape him and play it back for him when he wakes up.”

  Half an hour later, when Fareed woke up and translated the words he’d said in his sleep, it turned out he was mumbling verses from A Thousand and One Nights:

  “Maruf said to him: Can you take out everything contained in this treasure and bring it to the surface of the earth? Said he: But there is nothing easier! So he said: Take everything out and leave nothing behind! He pointed at the ground, which opened up. The slave of the ring descended, and after a while out came handsome young boys carrying baskets full of gold, which they emptied out. They descended again and returned with more baskets. Again they unloaded gold and precious stones. Not an hour had passed when they said: Nothing is left of the treasure.”

  Honi and I looked at each other, then back at the foreigner.

  “That’s beautiful,” Honi said.

  “It’s amazing that you know all that by heart, Fareed,” I added. “I can barely remember my phone number.”

  Fareed paused. “It’s strange that I didn’t say the last sentence in the book: ‘Here our tale ends. Praise be to Allah, Creator of the World.’” Then he retreated back into his thoughts.

  3

  —Why did you decide to write about the issue of return?

  —I wasn’t even planning to write about it. I was writing a story about jewelry, diamonds, Tel Aviv, Jaffa. All kinds of things.

  —Then where did you come up with the idea of this Arab crossing the border?

  —But that happened in the past, you know. In real life it happened a few months before my story takes place. I didn’t make it up.

  —What do you know about the incident?

  —You’re acting like it’s a state secret. I read about it in the paper! I think it was a teacher from Damascus, he was about thirty. He crossed the border into Israel and went on a roots journey to Jaffa. He walked around, talked with some locals, had lunch at a Bulgarian restaurant, gave an interview to the press, then turned himself in. And they sent him back to Syria.

  —Did you meet him in Jaffa?

  —The Syrian infiltrator? No!

  —Then what’s your connection? What made you want to write about it?

  —I found it interesting, you know? A man suddenly decides to cross one of the most heavily guarded borders in the world, and with one little step it’s like he completely erases it.

  —All of a sudden it just interested you? You spend your life writing about other things, and then this, out of the blue?

  —I don’t know if I’ve always written about other things. At the end of the day I always write about the same themes.

  —What were you trying to achieve in this book?

  —Achieve? Nothing.

  —What are you trying to prove?

  —Look, are you a Mossad interrogator or a literary editor?

  —Maybe I’m both. Or maybe I’m neither, and this is all inside your head — did you ever think about that? Have you ever tried to get into someone else’s mind?

  —I can try to get into your mind. My father did exactly what you’re doing.

  —What makes you think I’m interested in what your father did?

  —In his day, people were more polite around here. Can I leave now?

  —I can’t say for sure yet. You haven’t said anything.

  —I have nothing more to add.

  —Oh, but I thought you had an opinion about everything.

  —Not everything. About you, for example, I don’t yet have a decisive opinion.

  —I couldn’t care less about that.

  —Good.

  —Are you a homosexual?

  —Are you?

  —You know what I’m asking.

  —If I’m gay?

  —No, I want to know where he is.

  —Who, the Syrian teacher? I told you, the papers said they took him back to Syria. It was ages ago.

  —You know very well who I’m talking about. Where is Fareed?

  —I have no idea.

  —How can that be possible? Are you telling me you knew exactly where he went every second in Israel since the minute he crossed the border, you got into his pants, you knew what he was thinking and what he was saying and where he was staying, but now you simply have no idea where he is?

  —Exactly.

  —How do you explain that?

  —Only Allah can explain.

  —You’re still being a wiseass.

  —Actually, I’m not. It’s the truth — I knew everything about him, or almost everything, and now I know nothing.

  —How can that make sense?

  —I don’t know if it makes sense, but it’s the truth. But you know what? When I think about it, there’s something about this whole story that bugs me, and maybe you can enlighten me. It has to do with that Syrian teacher. All the papers wrote about what he did in Israel — where he went, who he talked with, even where he had lunch, but then suddenly they said he was back in Syria. Abracadabra.

  —What are you insinuating?

  —I’m just saying I find it odd. How did he get back there so quickly? And anyway, didn’t they arrest him? All of a sudden your guys thought it would be best to just send him back home and leave it at that? Not even a little bit of enhanced interrogation?

  —What do you think?

  —I don’t think anything. I’m just wondering. Anyway, I have nothing more to say.

  —That is clearly not true. You have to write an ending to your story. What are you going to do, write that you have no idea?

  —You’re right, I really do need to puzzle this out.

  —You know what, maybe I can help you.

  —This should be interesting…

  —For example, you could write about what happened to the Arab after he gave back the diamond.

  —I see you’re very familiar with the story.

  —It’s an interesting story, except that I still don’t understand what he came here for. Just to give back the diamond? After all, he could have FedExed it. A guy doesn’t risk his life for that.

  —FedEx from Damascus to Tel Aviv?

  —Oh, so it’s easier to be an illegal alien?

  —Okay, so why do you think he come to Israel?

  —If you ask me, there was another reason. I imagine it had something to do with his grandparents’ house in Jaffa.

  —I’m listening…

  —Maybe he wanted to set some sort of a precedent.

  —You mean a legal precedent?

  —Maybe. Or a political one.

  —But the whole political story wasn’t of much interest to him, I don’t think. It was more of a personal matter. A roots journey, coming full circle, whatever you want to call it.

  —Then listen to my opinion on the matter.

  —Your opinion as what, a Shabak investigator?

  —As someone who wants to give you some friendly advice. I’ll tell you how I see it: When he sat in his room in Damascus planning the trip, it seemed like a good idea. Guys his age have all kinds of weird ideas, you know. Omnipotent fantasies.

  —I see we’ve been reading psychology textbooks…

  —What’s for sure is that afterward, when he’d already crossed the border, he discovered that things weren’t quite as simple as he thought.

  —Meaning he was disillusioned.

  —Something like that.

  —So what’s he supposed to do now?

  —If you ask
me, he has to leave the country.

  —How exactly? By sea?

  —By land. He has to go and turn himself in. He doesn’t have to worry, they’ll treat him well. No one here has any interest in letting this guy become a symbol. Our people will ask him a couple of questions and send him back home alive and well in a few hours. At most a few days.

  —That’s nice to know. But you can tell your guys it won’t be the end of the story. Even if Fareed goes back to Syria, something has to happen.

  —What has to happen?

  —Something, I don’t know exactly what. It’s hard to predict these things. But what’s certain is that something will happen.

  —Let me understand: Is that a threat?

  —Not at all. It’s an estimate, a gut feeling.

  —I suggest you take care of your Syrian soon. You know what they say: First catch your hare. I’m talking very candidly with you. And I’ll tell you something else. You take good care of him, that Arab. You don’t want him pulling a fast one on you.

  —A fast one?

  —I’ve said my piece. Be alert, control your story. A still tongue makes a wise head, as they say.

  —I appreciate that. So I’m just supposed to tell him everything will be fine?

  —You can promise him that if he cooperates with us and doesn’t act like a wiseass, he has nothing to worry about.

  —But what about the jeweler?

  —What about him?

  —He knows everything, after all. And he’s going to find out that he has relatives in Syria.

  —Cousins.

  —Worse, a half brother. Aren’t you afraid he’ll open his mouth?

  —Menashe Salomon doesn’t worry me. He’s a good Israeli citizen. What’s he going to do, tell everyone that half a century ago his parents lived a double life in Syria? That he was brought up on a lie? That what he thought was the blue diamond was only an imitation, and all the stories he grew up on were a big bluff?

  —So you really think he’s going to keep his mouth shut?

  —Yes. He has too much to lose. Believe me, he’ll be the first to try to convince himself that this whole story never happened.

  —But what is he supposed to do with the diamond?

  —There are two diamonds, remember? One belongs to Achlama, the Persian woman, and the other is Fareed’s.

  —That’s true.

  —Which is the real one?

  —Fareed’s.

  —Interesting. How can you be so sure?

  —Because I know. Adela replaced Sabakh with a different blue diamond, and she secretly gave the real one to Laila in 1948.

  —I see. And what if that’s not how it happened?

  —What do you mean?

  —Well, who told you that’s what really happened? And even if it is, how do we know that crafty diamond didn’t go through another few incarnations on the way? I recommend that you be suspicious, my friend.

  —Okay…I’ll think about it. Anyway, what is Menashe supposed to do with the diamond now, whichever one it is?

  —He has to get rid of it. Sell it. Make a few bucks and buy a new shop instead of the hole in the wall he has now. They’re opening a hotel there anyway. Besides, that diamond’s done enough damage, hasn’t it?

  —Maybe he could donate it to the security services?

  —Bravo, very funny.

  —You could frame it behind bulletproof glass and hang it on your wall. All your colleagues would come and see it, you’d be famous.

  —I’ll keep that in mind.

  —So is that it?

  —That’s it.

  —Can I leave?

  —After you promise me that Fareed will turn himself in, I’ll even call you a taxi.

  —Generous. What do I get out of it?

  —Out of what?

  —If I make sure Fareed shows up here, what do I get in return?

  —That’s obvious, isn’t it?

  —No.

  —You get a story.

  —A story?

  —Yes. And that’s a lot.

  —Let me think about it.

  —Go ahead.

  (…)

  —Okay.

  —Do we have a deal?

  —We have a deal.

  —You have a firm handshake. I like that.

  —So you’ll call me a taxi?

  —I gave my word. Where should I tell him to take you?

  —Jaffa.

  4

  Rowena looked worried when she opened the door. There were black circles beneath her eyes. Honi looked past her to the spot where Adela had sat the last time he visited, next to the window, beside the large ficus tree. But the armchair was empty.

  When he’d visited the shop earlier that week, Menashe was sitting in his usual spot behind his workbench, but his face looked different. He told Honi that his mother had had a stroke. She’d fought for her life all night in the hospital, and in the morning she’d woken up with half her body paralyzed.

  When Adela realized she couldn’t move half of her face, that one leg was shaking and full of life while the other lay there like a log, and that she couldn’t speak or even smile, didn’t have the strength to put food in her mouth, and could hug her son with only one arm — she went wild. The commotion she kicked up brought a team of nurses running. They tied her wrist to the bed railing with a strip of fabric that was the same pale blue as her hospital gown, injected her with a tranquilizer, and set about restoring the machines she’d damaged.

  Menashe sat next to her bed looking stunned, while the old lady watched him with a mixture of reproof and hurt pride for allowing them to tie her up. They both knew there must come a time when children care for their parents as though they were the babies, but even when Menashe was an unruly boy who disobeyed his mother, even when he misbehaved, she had never allowed her husband to grab the boy’s wrists and tie them to a bed. Not her husband and not anyone else.

  No one saw the tears in their eyes. One of the nurses had left to care for a teenage boy hooked up to a ventilator a few beds away. His chest rose and fell with a regular, artificial rhythm. His mother stood quietly next to his bed. The boy’s eyes were wide open but there was no expression on his face. Menashe looked at the boy for a long time and wondered what had happened. An accident, probably. He noticed the boy’s cheeks were meticulously shaved.

  Menashe looked back at his own mother. Adela’s eyes were staring into space, and her healthy hand’s fingers fumbled around with the fabric strip that bound her thin wrist. He sat there for a few minutes longer, then finally got up and said goodbye. She tried to say something, but her lips pulled to one side and a strange gurgle emerged. He leaned over and kissed her forehead. Her furious eyes followed him out into the hallway.

  Two days later, Adela was brought back to her apartment on Dizengoff Street, but she came home inchoate: half a living, breathing body stuck to half a dead one. Her eyes were alive, her skin glistened — especially on her shins, which were delicate and beautiful like a girl’s. Rowena lowered her carefully onto the bed and placed a towel over her midsection so as not to expose her private parts and to cover the plug that blocked the hole in her gut.

  Honi followed Rowena into the bedroom and found Adela lying in bed with her face as smooth as a baby’s and her hair neatly combed. A clear tube connected to an oxygen machine was inserted into each nostril. She opened her eyes when he came in. That was all she could do. When he sat down, she began mumbling unintelligibly. Did she remember who he was? Was her mind lucid? Was she angry to find him, of all people, sitting there, practically a stranger, and a descendant of the hated Shayu? Honi didn’t know, and he was about to make an awkward exit when Adela giggled to herself with half her mouth, and he decided to stay.

  Rowena came in with a cup of water, dipped a cotton swab in the cup, and moistened the old lady’s lips. “Maya called today,” she told Adela in a perfect Israeli accent. “She’s in London. She asked how you were and sent you big kisses.”

&nbs
p; When Rowena said her granddaughter’s name, something seemed to move on the old lady’s face. But when Honi looked at her again he realized the words had made no impression. There was a vacant, almost demented expression on that smooth face that had once been capable of such anger, as well as occasional tranquillity.

  “Has Menashe been here today?” Honi asked Rowena.

  “No, he’ll come this evening. Maybe in an hour. The only visitors were Shlomo with his wife, and yesterday evening Mona and her husband came with the grandchildren. This morning there was no one.”

  Honi looked at Adela and didn’t know what to say. He had come to talk to her about what he’d found in the attic at home the day before. He wanted to see her response. He’d climbed up to look for a pair of speakers he’d stored when he moved in with Ayelet, but while he was standing on the ladder feeling around in the depths of the alcove, trying to reach the speakers, he noticed a stack of stapled papers wrapped in a plastic bag. He took the pages and climbed down.

  They were written in Arabic, in dense, neat handwriting. Honi went to his room and sat down on his bed. He leafed through the yellowing pages and strained his eyes in an attempt to decipher the words on the first page, based on what he remembered from high school Arabic. But he couldn’t understand anything. The letters were too crowded, and some were crossed out with curvy lines. In the evening, he asked Fareed to help. The title was clearly legible: “Love Triangle.” Farther down the page, Fareed deciphered the following words: “Cast of Characters: Laila — born in Yafa, twenty-one; Adela — born in Damascus, twenty-two; Rafael — her husband, born in Damascus, twenty-seven.” Fareed spent a long time reading the text out to Honi, translating into English as he went.

  When he got home, Honi went into his room and locked the door. He lay in bed for a long time, brimming with thoughts. He had never heard that his grandfather Shayu had been a writer. He pondered the story Fareed had translated for him, which was about Rafael and Adela — none other than Menashe the jeweler’s parents. When he came out of his room, the apartment was empty. Ayelet was at the Shack. Next to the kitchen sink was a pile of empty plastic cups she’d washed and dried. Honi climbed up the ladder, shut the wooden door to the storage unit, got dressed, and went out.