The Diamond Setter

by Moshe Sakal

  Ayelet stood behind the counter cutting ginger root into thin slices. She wore a tank top and her skin glistened with sweat. Her long hair, tied back in a ponytail, was damp, and her eyes were red from the heat. An older customer stood waiting for fresh-squeezed orange juice. Ayelet cut the oranges into halves and used a manual citrus press, rather than an electric juicer where the fruit slides down a chute and comes out the other end as juice. “It’s not about the money, it’s about the muscles,” Ayelet explained with a grin when Honi asked why she didn’t get an electric juicer.

  When Honi was six, his father gave him a Passover gift of a battery-operated toy made of yellow and black Lego bricks. It had a conveyor belt, which Honi liked to place nuts on and watch them rattle down the slide.

  Ayelet added an emptied-out half orange to the pile towering up on the counter and wiped the sweat from her forehead with a paper towel. “Ginger?” she asked. The customer nodded. She threw two little pieces of ginger root into the cup, put a lid on, and handed it to the man. After he left, Honi took his spot at the counter and Ayelet gave him a glass of water. “What’s going on? You look a little worked up. Is everything okay with Tom?”

  “Yes.” Honi sat down on a green wooden stool.

  “And with Fareed?”

  “I think so.”

  “What about the radio show?”

  “We’ve almost finished editing. It’ll be on next Friday.”

  “So what’s up? Did you find out something new about the jewelry store?”

  “No. I mean, not exactly.”

  “I talked to Kadosh,” Ayelet said. “He claims he doesn’t owe the people who work there anything. You know how he is — as far as he’s concerned, if there’s no signed lease, there’s nothing.” She gave Honi an interrogative look. “He’s been a little tough on you recently, hasn’t he? I’m glad you told him. But…”

  “But what?”

  “Never mind. So what’s up, Honi? What’s new?”

  “It’s about Grandpa Shayu.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “I found a story he wrote. Did you know he wrote stories?”

  “Now that you mention it, I remember hearing him talking about it once with Grandma. Kadosh was there, too.”

  “What exactly did he say?”

  “He said there was something he’d wanted to write about for years, and he’d finally found the courage to do it. Grandma didn’t take it very seriously, but I remember it was Kadosh who told me, afterward, that he hadn’t seen his father like that for a long time. Anyway, wow, that was ages ago, I was maybe ten. It’s coming back to me now: Grandpa wanted Kadosh to read it, and Kadosh said yeah yeah yeah, but of course he didn’t.”

  “Did you?”

  “Of course not! I was a kid. Anyway, he wrote in Arabic.”

  “And that was it, no one ever talked about the story again?”

  “Why are you asking so many questions, Honi?” Ayelet wiped the counter with a damp yellow cloth. “What’s the story about, anyway. Have you read it?”

  “Fareed translated part of it for me. It’s about a triangle.”

  “A triangle?”

  “Yes. I mean a man and two women.”

  “Grandpa wrote about a love triangle? Awesome!”

  “You have no idea the stuff that goes on there! It takes place in Lebanon, in the ’40s, and there’s a Jewish couple from Damascus and an Arab woman from Jaffa.”

  “Ooh, naughty Grandpa!”

  “Oh, you haven’t heard the half of it. Do you know what this couple from Damascus are called?”

  “What?”

  “The woman is called Adela and the man is called Rafael.”

  “I don’t believe it. He used Menashe’s parents’ names?!”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s getting a little weird, don’t you think? Would it have been so hard for him to make up names? Was it some kind of revenge? That’s not like him.”

  “If you ask me,” Honi said, “it’s not revenge at all.”

  “What, then?”

  “To my mind, it means the story is real.”

  “I don’t understand. Plenty of writers name characters after real people they know, don’t they?”

  “Look, I mean he could have made up different names, but he didn’t. I think he purposely used Adela and Rafael’s names because it’s a real story, and it was important for him to document it. Or maybe he was planning to change the names later but he didn’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t believe it just slipped his mind. Maybe he wanted someone to read it and find out. Or maybe he just didn’t get around to it.”

  “You’re talking like a detective again, Honi.”

  “Listen, lately I keep discovering things I never knew about.”

  “Well, anyway, it’s not our story. They’re distant relatives, it’s a different family.”

  “They’re a family with very, very close ties to ours, let me remind you. And don’t forget something else: Our father is currently laying into Menashe with full force.”

  “He’s not laying into him with full force; he just wants to build his hotel, and the jeweler is sitting there like a thorn in his ass. So he’s kicking him out. That’s what he knows how to do, it’s not out of malice.”

  “So you think it’s acceptable?”

  “What do you want me to say — that’s the way the cookie crumbles? That we have a capitalist pig for a father? You know that just as well as I do. But what can you do? We have to accept Kadosh for who he is. You don’t get to pick your family.”

  Honi didn’t respond.

  “Honi, what’s the matter with you?”

  “Nothing.”

  She gave him a look.

  “What?” he asked awkwardly. “What are you looking at me like that for?”

  “I think you’re a little stuck,” Ayelet said hesitantly. She gazed at her brother and wondered if this was the right time. Privately, she had decided that come what may, she would speak to him candidly at some point. “And if you ask me, you’re suffering quite a bit from this stuckness. It has a lot to do with your place in the world. Where are you really standing today, Honi?”

  “What do you mean where am I standing?”

  “I don’t mean where do you stand physically, honey. It’s not something you can define with latitude and longitude, like in some iPhone app. I mean where is the place you’re really in right now — it doesn’t have to be on any time axis, but it has to be a real point. I want to know: Here stands Honi.”

  “Honestly, Ayelet? I don’t understand what you’re getting at.”

  “Remember what I used to call you when you were little? Honi the Circle Maker. Remember how you used to get mad when I did that?”

  “So?”

  “So I’m starting to think you really are a little bit like Honi the Circle Maker. You’ve drawn this kind of circle around you and that’s that. You’re standing inside it and you won’t budge.”

  Honi smiled. “So you think I’m waiting for my prayers to be answered?”

  “You can laugh, but I’m totally serious. I’m waiting for you to get out of that circle already. Or, you know what, not even get out. I just wish I could look at you and know exactly where you stand.”

  “Again with that…Where do I stand? I don’t know what you want from me, Ayelet.”

  “I don’t know. This whole thing with Fareed…I don’t want to sound like some puritanical preacher, it’s totally fine with me what you’re doing, but I do have to wonder what it means about you and Tom. It really worries me, if you must know.”

  Honi said nothing.

  “You know what, let’s drop all that for now. You were going to tell me about Grandpa’s story.”

  Honi was clearly relieved to change the topic. “Well, I only read the beginning. Fareed has translated almost the whole first chapter for me. But there are more. I have to go over it with him, it’s not easy figuring out that handwriting. Fareed says it�
�s like hieroglyphics, and the Arabic is archaic, too. But I intend to figure this thing out, I’m curious about it.”

  “I have to tell you,” Ayelet took his fingers in her wet, beet-stained hand, “I think you’re better off letting go. Don’t you have enough on your mind without messing around with old stories Grandpa scribbled down? You’re acting like a kid in junior high doing a family tree project. What good will come of digging into the past like this?”

  Honi looked down and blew air through his straw.

  “If you ask me, Honi, you’re just looking for distractions. It’s time to find your story.” She gave him a meaningful look, then kissed his forehead and turned around to wash the dishes in the sink. Honi got up and walked out.

  5

  Menashe sat down next to his mother’s bed. Adela’s dress was hiked up over her knees. She looked at him with her small, seemingly peaceful eyes. Her lips drooped and moved slightly to the left, but she couldn’t make a sound.

  Menashe was about to say something, but he reconsidered and in the end said nothing. He knew she wouldn’t be able to respond and that they would both end up extremely frustrated. He felt guilty, again, about her lying there unable to move, and he remembered the terrified look she’d given him when she woke up in the hospital with her wrist strapped to the bed. He looked down, but her face followed him and he could see it from the corner of his eye. Her fingers were warm, soft, and very thin, and she pressed her son’s hand in an irregular rhythm, sometimes powerfully and sometimes almost imperceptibly, as though she were trying to remind him of something distant that could be awoken by the mere touch of her fingers. Adela’s eyes suddenly welled up with tears. Her lips crumpled to one side, and now she seemed to be laughing.

  Menashe held her face and touched her tears. “Listen, Mother, I have something to tell you.”

  She looked at him with curious, damp eyes, but Menashe was unable to talk. He was too emotional. Long years of guilt prevented him now from telling his mother what had happened. Instead, he took a small box from his pocket and opened it. Adela looked down and examined the contents.

  “It’s the diamond they stole from me, Mom!” he said excitedly. “You remember what happened during the Gulf War? Remember that burglar who didn’t take anything except the diamond? Well, they found it! Here it is.”

  Adela breathed rapidly and blinked nervously. No words came from her mouth, but her eyes said one thing: No!

  “Did you hear what I said, Mom? It’s our diamond, it’s Sabakh. What a pity Dad can’t see it now. He would have been so proud of me for finding it after all this time!” Menashe felt sad again. His mother clearly couldn’t understand what he was telling her. If she could have, she would surely have been happy for him and for the family. Perhaps she was still afraid of the diamond? But no, she didn’t look fearful, in fact, she looked rather indifferent. Menashe shut the box, bitterly disappointed, and put it back in his pocket. He sat there for a few more minutes, then kissed her forehead and left.

  6

  The next day, before opening the shop on Plonit Alley, the jeweler sat down at Phantom on Allenby Street and ordered a cup of coffee. Life at the café went on as usual. The regular customers were all in their places: the stamp collectors, the antique coin dealers, the loafers, the gluttons. The couple that had recently relocated to a new apartment in Ness Tziona was there, too. They told the others about the quality of life in the squeaky-clean neighborhood and the convenient train to Tel Aviv, and admitted that the big city, with its noise and pollution, was less and less appealing since they had grown accustomed to the green park near their new home.

  In the corner of the café sat a dignified man of about seventy-five. Menashe knew him well: It was Zevulun, the Persian gemstone dealer. He wore a three-piece suit that was old but immaculately cleaned and pressed. There was a white handkerchief in his breast pocket, and every so often he used it to wipe his glistening bald head, which was topped with a yarmulke. Zevulun wore one single piece of jewelry: a thick gold band inset with a fine turquoise stone.

  Menashe sipped his coffee slowly and looked at Zevulun. The latter nodded his head in acknowledgment. The jeweler was tempted to show his diamond to the elegant Persian gentleman. Who knew how much money he might get for it? Finally, he got up and went over.

  “How are you, Mr. Zevulun?”

  “Praise God,” answered the gemstone dealer. “And you, Salomon? How’s business?”

  “Day by day.”

  “I heard that Shayu’s son wants to throw you out of the shop.”

  “So he does,” Menashe said. “And what of it? I want lots of things, too. It’s not going to be easy for him, you can be sure of that.”

  “I trust you. If you end up in court with him, you let me know. I’ll go down there and I’ll tell them his father was your father Rafael’s closest friend.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Zevulun, I’ll remember that.” Menashe paused awkwardly.

  “What’s the matter, Salomon?” asked the Persian, worried. “Do you feel well?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have you had your heart checked recently? You have to take care of these things.”

  “I’m fine,” Menashe answered, and wondered for a moment if everything really was in order. He thought about his landlord, Kadosh, who had only recently had a coronary stent put in. “I’m fine,” he repeated, pushing away the thought. “Listen, Mr. Zevulun,” he said as he took out the box, “I want you to make me an offer on this diamond.”

  Zevulun removed a gold-framed magnifying glass from his pocket, took the diamond from the jeweler, and held it up to the glass. “Very nice. They did very nice work on this.”

  “It’s antique. Not like the goods those Georgians on Allenby Street sell.”

  “You don’t have to tell me that.” Zevulun passionately despised the recent immigrants who were giving the jewelry trade a bad name, as he put it. “But why do you want to sell it?”

  “I don’t have a need for it.”

  “Make a nice piece of jewelry with it.”

  “I won’t be able to off-load it on any of my customers,” said the jeweler. “It’s out of fashion.”

  “Then give it to your daughter.”

  “Do you know how many years it’s been since I saw my daughter? She lives in London. She found religion, she lives with a Hassid.”

  “All right, let me think.” Zevulun furrowed his large, glistening brow. After a moment of silence he picked up a pen and scribbled a number on a napkin. Menashe took the pen, crossed out the number, and wrote another one beneath it. Zevulun crossed out Menashe’s number and wrote a third one. The two merchants did this several more times, until they reached a happy medium. Then the dealer took a sheaf of bills out of his pocket, counted them, and handed a bundle to the jeweler, who counted them in turn. Menashe put the blue diamond in the Persian’s hand, stashed the money in his pocket, shook Zevulun’s hand, and walked out of the café. He took a few steps down Allenby Street, and near Gruzenberg Street he stopped walking and let out a great sigh.

  When he reached the shop ten minutes later, he found a young man by the door. “May I help you?” Menashe asked. To be on the safe side, he did not take his keys out yet.

  “I’m looking for Menashe Salomon,” the man said in English.

  “Who are you?”

  “Fareed.”

  “Have we met?”

  “No, but my grandmother knew your father, Rafael, in Lebanon.”

  “My father lived in Syria, not Lebanon.” The jeweler debated his next move.

  “But he used to go on holidays to Aley, didn’t he?” Fareed spoke in Arabic now. “That’s where he met my grandmother, Laila. If we go into the shop, I’ll tell you the story.”

  Menashe stood in his spot for another moment. He felt extremely tired after selling the blue diamond to Zevulun. It was a feeling he had not had since the day the diamond was stolen, and it was difficult for him to comprehend. But just like on that distant day in 1991, w
hen he deposited his story in the thief’s hands, today he also felt an inner force urging him to proceed contrary to all reason. He raised the shutters and walked into the shop with the young Arab man behind him.

  Menashe pressed the code to neutralize the alarm: 1948. “Coffee?” he asked the infiltrator. The Arabic flowed naturally, as though he conversed with every other customer in this language.

  “I’d love some,” Fareed said.

  The jeweler filled his stainless steel finjan with water at the tap and lit the torch he used for welding gold. He held the flame under the finjan, and when the water boiled, he turned off the flame, put a large scoop of Turkish coffee in the water, and brought it to another boil. “So what was it you wanted to tell me?”

  “I’ll get to that,” Fareed said, looking around. “How long have you been in this shop?”

  Menashe looked up and examined the young man and realized he’d made a big mistake letting him in. But the coffee was already bubbling. The jeweler put a little china cup on his workbench and poured in the boiling-hot coffee, added two spoonfuls of sugar, stirred, and handed it to Fareed. “We’ve been here since 1950, but we might be moving soon.”

  “Yes, Tom told me.”

  “Tom? You know Tom?” Menashe was confused.

  “Yes.”

  “Tom doesn’t work mornings. He’ll be here in the afternoon.”

  “I know.”

  “How do you know him?”

  “It’s a long story,” Fareed said. “But that’s not why I’m here.” And without a further word he took a box out of his pocket, put it on the jeweler’s bench, and announced, “Here you go.”

  Menashe frowned. “What’s that?”

  “A gift.”

  “For me? But why?”

  “It’s something your mother gave my grandmother.”

  “Jewelry?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Where are you from?” Menashe was getting suspicious.

  “Damascus.”

  “Is this a joke?” But his heart told him the young man was telling the truth.

  “I’m not joking. Beautiful city, Damascus. Maybe one day you’ll be able to come visit.”