Promised Land

by Robert Whitlow

  “That is really good,” she said when Daud finished.

  “Do you want to listen to another song?”

  “Yes.”

  Three songs later they paused again. This time Hana shared a couple of verses that led them to pray together. Even though they didn’t pray specifically about what had happened the previous day, Hana felt the tentacles of anxiety release their grip on her soul. She checked the time.

  “Avi will be returning soon,” she said.

  Daud stretched. As he moved his powerful arms and stood, Hana was thankful that those arms regularly wrapped themselves around her.

  “I’m glad we had a chance to do this in Jerusalem,” he said.

  * * *

  Avi returned and insisted that Daud and Hana sit together in the rear seat of his car for the short drive to Mrs. Zarkawi’s house.

  “You’re not a taxi driver,” Daud said.

  “You don’t know what I did when I first moved to Israel,” Avi responded.

  “Did you drive a taxi?” Hana asked.

  They turned left off of Avi’s street.

  “No, I worked in a shop in the Armenian quarter of the souk. That’s where I first learned about buying and selling art.”

  During the rest of the time in the car, Avi told them stories about working for a man named Mr. Petrossian whose family had lived in Jerusalem for many generations. The shop mostly sold ornate ceramics and black-and-white photos of the Holy Land taken by early Armenian photographers.

  “He also sold paintings and let me run that part of the business,” Avi said. “I expanded it. When I went out on my own, he let me take a few items at cost to help me get started.”

  “Does his family still own the shop?” Hana asked.

  “No, his son and daughter moved to the US after their father and mother died. I think they live in California.”

  They reached Mrs. Zarkawi’s house.

  “Did you meet Mrs. Zarkawi’s security guards?” Daud asked Hana when they got out of the car.

  “No.”

  “There’s one in that building next to the garage, and I saw another peeking over the edge of the flat roof.”

  Hana could see a man eyeing them through an open door in the building. The same elderly servant opened the door and escorted them to the veranda where they’d met the previous morning. Mrs. Zarkawi was sitting in her chair. There was a modest spread of pastries on the table with silver carafes of tea and coffee. The elderly woman smiled when she saw Hana.

  “Sit down,” she said. “And this must be your husband.”

  Daud bowed when Hana introduced him.

  “We know you have limited time,” Hana said, taking the contract from her bag. “I’ve prepared a simple agreement for you to review and brought my laptop in case I need to make any changes.”

  “We’ll wait until Hakim arrives to do that,” Mrs. Zarkawi responded. “I want you to tell me more about your family in Reineh. I asked a friend about your father, and he was familiar with his business selling those purple recycled water pipes we see all over the country. Why did they decide to use purple? It’s my favorite color.”

  “That was the government’s requirement as a way to differentiate them from the pipes that carry drinking water and waste. My father and his brothers began the business by selling irrigation pipes, which is still a big part of their business.”

  As the conversation continued, Hana was comfortable focusing on her family because she didn’t want to discuss Daud’s background. She told Mrs. Zarkawi about Farah and Fabia and showed her photos of her nephews.

  “They’re sturdy boys,” Mrs. Zarkawi said approvingly and then turned to Daud. “Are you like most men who want their first child to be a boy?”

  Daud glanced at Hana. “I’d like a boy, but a girl would be a blessing too.”

  “All I had was boys,” Mrs. Zarkawi said. “And here’s my third son.”

  Hakim entered. He shook Daud’s hand and took a seat beside his mother. A servant poured a cup of coffee and set it in front of Hakim.

  “Now we can do business,” the elderly woman said. “Hana has prepared a contract for us to read. I hope it’s not too long.”

  Hana was glad Avi had made several copies. She passed one to Mrs. Zarkawi and another to Hakim.

  “Oh, it’s in Arabic,” Mrs. Zarkawi said. “That’s polite.”

  The older woman squinted as she read. Hakim frowned. Mrs. Zarkawi finished first and stared at Hakim.

  “Are you still reading it?” she asked after several moments passed.

  “Just checking some things.”

  “It doesn’t have all those extra words Solicitor Barakat charges me for,” Mrs. Zarkawi said. “It makes sense to me. If I help the man from Russia find the ceramic piece owned by his great-grandfather, I keep the Bar Kokhba coin.”

  “Very well,” Hakim said resignedly. “If this is what you are determined to do.”

  “And even though it’s not in the agreement, I wondered if there were other items in the Ivanov collection you might be willing to help us find,” Hana added.

  She handed Mrs. Zarkawi the list.

  “Do you have a picture of the miniature oil lamp?” Mrs. Zarkawi asked. “They’ve been a particular interest of mine.”

  Hana pulled up the photo of the lamp on her computer. Mrs. Zarkawi peered closely at the screen.

  “Very nice,” she said. “Because they had such a common use, not many lamps that size have extra detail on the reservoir.”

  There was a tiny image of an olive tree etched into the clay. Mrs. Zarkawi showed it to Hakim.

  “Isn’t it beautiful?” she said.

  Her son leaned over. “Yes.”

  “Let’s do our business,” Mrs. Zarkawi said, turning to Hana. “May I borrow a pen? I don’t carry one with me.”

  Mrs. Zarkawi signed the agreement with a flourish. Hana did so on behalf of Vladimir Ivanov.

  “I’m authorized to act on Mr. Ivanov’s behalf,” Hana said, “but I’ll also obtain his signature on the document and forward it to you for your records. What is your email address?”

  “Hakim handles that sort of thing,” Mrs. Zarkawi replied.

  Hakim handed Hana a card with his contact information.

  “Thanks,” she said and turned to Mrs. Zarkawi. “When do you think we might hear from you?”

  “Would now be too soon?” she asked with a twinkle in her eyes.

  Chapter 36

  Daud sat, a quiet observer as Mrs. Zarkawi whispered into Hakim’s ear, and he left the room.

  “Would you like more tea?” Mrs. Zarkawi asked Hana.

  “Yes, please.”

  Hana had barely added milk and sugar when Hakim returned. She noted he had nothing in his hands. Mrs. Zarkawi sipped her coffee and nibbled a pastry. She then asked the servant who was hovering in the background to bring a clean hand towel. When she did, Mrs. Zarkawi carefully spread it out on the table in front of her.

  “Show them,” she said to her son.

  Hakim reached into the side pocket of his sport coat and placed a ceramic piece of two and a half to three inches in length on the towel. The tiny statue had long hair and a band around her forehead. Streaks of pigment could still be seen on the hair. The outline of a robe was visible at the neckline.

  “That’s it,” Hana said, wonder filling her voice. “May I pick it up?”

  “Of course. It belongs to Mr. Ivanov now,” Mrs. Zarkawi replied.

  Hana turned the ceramic piece over in her hand and passed it to Daud. It was smooth to the touch, a testament to the firing process performed by an ancient craftsman. Daud tried to imagine how the complete statue would have looked when first created. He returned it to the towel. Hakim reached into his pocket a second time and placed a Bar Kokhba coin on the towel.

  “Is that the other one we saw yesterday?” Hana asked.

  “Yes,” Mrs. Zarkawi answered. “Even though Daniella Rubin couldn’t link it to the Ivanov collection, I bought it
at the same time as the other coin and believe there is a connection. I want your client to have it.”

  “That is very generous,” Hana said.

  Daud picked up the coin. He could barely make out the marking “Eleazar the Priest” on the front. It also bore an image of the second temple destroyed by the Romans in AD 70.

  “Is this a Year One coin too?” he asked.

  “It is,” Mrs. Zarkawi answered. “Just not in as good condition as the one I’m keeping. I hope it will be meaningful to Mr. Ivanov.”

  “This is all appreciated,” Hana said. “On behalf of our client—”

  “There’s one more thing,” Mrs. Zarkawi interrupted and nodded to Hakim.

  Her son reached into his pocket a third time, took out a five-inch oil lamp, and placed it on the towel beside the other two items. The lamp was in perfect condition with no significant breaks or cracks. Even from where he was sitting, Daud could see the olive tree on the side.

  “And I don’t need an expert to tell me about the lamp,” Mrs. Zarkawi said. “I bought it at the same time as the Bar Kokhba coins.”

  “May I ask who sold them to you?” Daud said.

  “They came from Russia,” she replied. “A dealer in Istanbul who knows I collect lamps found this one. I paid quite a bit for the Bar Kokhba coin in the best condition. The second coin cost less, followed by the lamp. The ceramic head was thrown in cheaply because no one guessed how old it might be. Now we know it’s the most valuable piece by far.”

  “And you’re willing to give the other items to Mr. Ivanov?” Hana asked.

  “As long as I can keep the coin. When you talked yesterday about justice, it touched my heart, and I don’t want to be part of an ongoing wrong against an innocent family. I tried to put myself in your client’s position.”

  Daud reached over and picked up the ceramic head. It was heavier than he would have guessed.

  Mrs. Zarkawi continued. “A big question for your client is what to do with the queen’s head. It will take an expert to determine if it’s similar to the king’s head found at Metula, but I didn’t want Daniella here because she might immediately notify the government and create bureaucratic problems for you.”

  “Understood,” Hana replied.

  When they stood to leave, Hana handed the ceramic head to Daud. “I don’t want to be responsible for guarding this,” she said.

  Daud slipped the small piece into the front pocket of his shirt. Having a three-thousand-year-old treasure in his possession was extraordinary. Mrs. Zarkawi provided a small box for the lamp and a velvet bag for the coin.

  Everyone stood, including Mrs. Zarkawi.

  “It was an honor meeting you,” Hana said.

  “And you,” the older woman said with a smile. “When you return to Jerusalem, you are always welcome in this house.”

  Hana, Daud, and Avi walked down the stone walkway outside the house.

  “Don’t give the Bar Kokhba coin as a tip to a waiter,” Avi said to Hana.

  “It’s not going anywhere,” Hana answered.

  “Which raises another issue,” Avi said as they got in his car. “I don’t share Mrs. Zarkawi’s concern about the government asserting a claim. Since the items came from a private collection and were discovered before 1978, it is completely legal for you to take them out of the country if you obtain a certificate. I have a friend with an export license who can issue one. Nevertheless, in my heart I think the queen needs to be reunited with the king in a museum so people can see them together.”

  “That was in my mind the whole time,” Hana answered.

  “Why don’t we leave the queen’s head with Avi until Jakob and his client sort out what to do with it?” Daud suggested.

  “Brilliant,” Avi replied, glancing in the rearview mirror. “I go from taxi driver to depository of national treasures.”

  “Do you have a safe place to keep it?” Hana asked.

  “Yes, yes,” Avi said.

  “I’ll talk to Jakob about it.”

  “In the meantime, I’ll get the certificate you’ll need for the lamp and the coin.”

  * * *

  Hana sent Jakob a note telling him what had happened at Mrs. Zarkawi’s house. He replied with an email that included multiple exclamation marks, along with a promise to call as soon as he finished a deposition and was able to reach Mr. Ivanov. Daud and Hana packed their bags. Avi deposited the three items in a corner safe in his cluttered office and handed Hana a receipt.

  “In case I keel over from a heart attack,” he said. “I want Rachel to know who these belong to.”

  “Hopefully that won’t happen before tomorrow,” Hana said with a wry smile. Her affection for the art dealer had grown greatly since receiving the print as a wedding gift.

  “I’ll also put the painting in a tube and prepare the paperwork you’ll need for customs,” he continued.

  “I wish you’d let us pay something—” Hana began.

  Avi held up his hand. “Don’t make me show you my mean side. It’s much scarier than Daud’s.”

  Once they’d arrived back at Avi’s residence, Daud left the house and walked across the street. Hana watched from the kitchen window as he talked to the man who had been guarding them. The agent shook Daud’s hand and drove away. Avi was in his office, leaving Hana still alone in the kitchen when Daud returned.

  “He said they’d not picked up any chatter about me through their sources.”

  “Is that good or bad?”

  Daud shrugged. “I’m not sure. To me, it means no one was boasting about a failed ambush. If it had been successful, multiple groups would have rushed to take credit.”

  Hana’s phone vibrated. It was a message from Jakob. He’d taken a break from his deposition to call Vladimir Ivanov.

  Ask Avi to coordinate shipment of all the items. Make sure we satisfy all legal requirements.

  Hana showed the message to Daud. He brought down their luggage from the second-floor bedroom. They told Avi about Jakob’s message.

  The art dealer sighed. “I disagree, but I’ll take care of it.”

  He took his car keys from a hook by the front door. “I’m not going to make a bad joke about driving safely,” he said to Daud. “Have a good time, and I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  The route from Jerusalem to Reineh was familiar to Hana. She’d made the trip many times when she attended law school at Hebrew University. Daud was a smooth, confident driver.

  “Life isn’t like this road,” she said to Daud when they’d left Jerusalem behind. “I know every twist and turn and what’s around the next corner.”

  “How predictable do you want life to be?”

  “Probably more predictable than you’d prefer,” she answered.

  “My thoughts are changing about that,” he replied.

  * * *

  Hana’s mother was at home when they knocked on the door in Reineh and immediately burst into tears even before they shared their good news. They saved that until Hana’s father could rush home from the office and several uncles, aunts, and cousins, including Fabia and Farah, could assemble.

  “We have exciting news,” Hana said, gently patting her abdomen.

  The rest of her words were drowned out by cheers and applause, followed by a cacophony of thanksgiving and praise that exceeded what Daud had experienced at their wedding. An impromptu late-afternoon dinner was thrown together. The women insisted Hana sit down and watch. Daud pulled up a chair to sit beside her.

  “Where’s Anwar?” he asked.

  “At his home in Nazareth. My mother says he’s not been feeling well, and she’s not sure he’ll be able to join us.”

  “Should we go see him?”

  “I don’t know. Part of me says we should pay attention to what he’s already told us before seeking more.”

  “I want more,” Daud replied emphatically.

  Hana patted him on the leg. “I do too, but we’ll have to see.”

  They sat down to a dinner of ta
bbouleh, hummus casserole with ground beef, and lamb-stuffed zucchini with cinnamon-spiced tomato sauce. It was a totally Lebanese spread. The smile on Hana’s face as she was surrounded by the love of her family was Daud’s favorite part of the meal. For dessert they had nammoura, a cake made with yogurt and semolina flour, then soaked in sweet syrup and topped with almonds.

  Before and after dinner, Daud took several short walks outside. He saw nothing suspicious, and as evening came he began to relax. They’d told Hana’s family they were on a quick business trip.

  “How is your work going?” Hana’s father asked him after the plates were cleared from the tables.

  “Increasing,” Daud answered. “I recently helped an American company set up an office in Beirut.”

  That led to more questions from Mr. Abboud about Beirut, a city he knew well but hadn’t visited in several years.

  It was almost midnight when Daud and Hana went upstairs to a guest room in the large, rambling house.

  “Thank you for bringing me here,” Hana said as they climbed the steps. “It has refreshed my soul.”

  Daud was exhausted, and after his previous restless night, he fell asleep quickly until summoned awake by local roosters greeting the dawn.

  Breakfast was a more normal affair, with Hana and Daud no longer treated like celebrities. Hana helped her mother in the kitchen. After kissing Hana on both cheeks and shaking Daud’s hand, her father left early in the morning for work. Daud and Hana sat in the central courtyard of the compound and drank tea.

  “My mother checked this morning on Uncle Anwar,” she said. “He’s sleeping most of the time, and when he’s awake he often doesn’t make much sense.”

  “That’s sad.”

  “Yes, but we all know he wants to be with the Lord. Anyway, there’s no reason not to stop by and see him. One of his great-granddaughters is sitting with him today. She’s a teenager who goes to the same school I attended.”

  Hana and Daud said their good-byes without making definite promises about when they might return.

  “Not being able to tell them when I’d see them again was tough,” Hana said when they were alone in the car.