by Muriel Spark
The new meeting-place at Acre was more spacious and comfortable than any previous one. New young people came in from time to time.
The building stood in the great muddle of the poor Arab quarter. It was equipped as a laundry, and in the daytime the lower ground floor functioned as a cheap washing establishment where, in one room, an unpunctual and inefficient supply of warm water was available, with wash tubs and soap, at a cheap rate, to the poor women who had to do their washing themselves, and who were slightly advanced beyond the river-washing set.
The club-rooms could not really be called club-rooms, since the traditions and organization of any sort of club-life did not belong to them. These meeting-rooms were in the cellars and on the floor above the laundry. Windows from all sides kept watch on any possible police approach from the sea or from the street. Some of the upper rooms were always hung with washing, hauled high on pulleys, which, at night when the lights were on, could be glimpsed above the half-curtains from the alleys outside.
Two Pakistanis, students from the Hebrew University of Jerusalem, came to open the door for Abdul. They were temporary caretakers, since the laundryman who looked after the house at Acre was away to the north on business.
Abdul had two rooms of his own on the upper floor, but everyone else used them. The rooms had some rush matting on the floors and brightly-covered low divans, with a bare wood table in each, and, in one room, a wireless set. He went there sometimes to sleep, and read, or talk. He went to talk about nothing or everything, and, quite often, about business.
Soon Abdul and his friends would move their premises. It had always been like this, and there could be no question of their applying for a night-club licence to make their meeting-ground legitimate so far as that would have gone; the part of their activities which was illegal could have been protected by a night-club pretence, but the Israeli police surveillance would have been in-tolerable. The law could not altogether prevent, but it could harass, those few young Jews and Jewesses who came to the house at Acre because there was no other place acceptable to the reality of their feelings in the world around them. The group was seldom more than twenty-five in number at any one time.
‘What have you been doing?’ Abdul said in English, as the students knew no Arabic or Hebrew.
One of the Pakistanis, a very small man, replied ‘Considering the lilies.’ This was a well-worn remark in that house, but it was new to the Pakistanis, who did not know its origin and merely liked it.
An Arab girl in khaki shorts and shirt brought in some coffee. She spoke to Abdul in English seeing that the Pakistanis were present: ‘Mendel came back safe. Hassan is returned. Mendel saw your sister.’
Abdul put down his coffee, he hugged and kissed her for all this news.
The taller Pakistani said, ‘Your sister Suzi has been very involved. She sent a message, she is very involved.’
‘Very involved,’ said the girl. ‘Mendel will tell you, he’s coming soon, he’s on his way.’
‘What is she involved about?’
‘The tourist agency. Very interesting.’
‘She must be up to something,’ Abdul said, and went to the window to smell Acre. Night had fallen and he heard the splash of oars.
It was ten at night, in the cellar of the laundry at Acre. Here the Crusader foundations could be seen, quite clearly, rising unevenly up to two feet above the flagged floor, until the Crusader stones met the stones that had been set upon them, probably by the next conquerors — the Turks, perhaps.
The light from the oil lamps was thinly misted from their smoke. About a dozen people, young, not of local origin, were gathered, or were drifting in and out of this room. It would have been impossible to tell from their appearance only which of these young men and women were Jews and which were Arabs. The difference was discernible in their accent of speech, although colloquial Arabic was mostly spoken. The two students from Pakistan and a handsome large-limbed western girl with a mass of long brown hair, who was the daughter of a Church of Scotland clergyman resident at Tel Aviv, were the only non-Semites. The rest were Arabs and Jews, most of whom were maturely sixteen years of age and upward to the reaches of their late twenties or early thirties. Abdul, if anyone had considered it worth finding out, was the eldest. They were dressed in jeans, dresses or shorts, and corporately they had the coffee-bar look of the young, everywhere.
A girl was plucking the strings of a guitar, making soft aimless Arabic music with few notes. Nobody was dancing at the moment. Abdul had fetched a tin of beer from a scarred, lop-sided oil refrigerator which stood in the passage outside, from which anyone who wanted beer took it, depositing the money in the ice-tray. Abdul sat drinking alone, watching the door until Mendel Ephraim appeared.
Mendel Ephraim was one of his closest friends. He was the youngest brother of that Saul Ephraim, the teacher of archaeology at the Hebrew University, who knew Barbara Vaughan and had sometimes acted as her guide in Israel. Ephraim resembled his brother in his taut sinewy look, but he had a slight shoulder-blade stoop; he looked like an intellectual eagle. He was twenty-six. The family had given him up because of his failure as a son, a Jew and an Israeli; they held him in suspicion, but did not know what to suspect him of. He had a job in a tobacconist kiosk at the foot of Mount Zion. Mendel’s failure to respond to the State of Israel was their greatest puzzle and embarrassment. Many of the Ephraim family were unbelievers, and it would not have mattered if he had refused only the religion; but many nonreligious Israelis were accustomed to speak in historical terms of Israel’s destiny; the Old Testament was to them a sacred book because it was the history of the Jews rather than a spiritual record; and it was quite common for those who did not accept any religious or divine element in life, to maintain that the Messianic prophecies had in fact been fulfilled in the establishment of the State of Israel. ‘The country, Israel, is the Messiah.’ they said frequently. Young Mendel Ephraim was as indifferent to this social mystique as he was to religion. He had worked on a border kibbutz and been caught, nearly shot, while attempting to cross into no-man’s land, heaving a spare-part of a tractor, which he. explained was urgently needed by the Arab farmer on the other side. He had been closely interrogated about these communications with the farmer which had led up to the jaunt, but all he would admit was, ‘I could see he was in trouble with his tractor. You could see. Anyone could see.’
The family had given him up. It was known he was friendly with Abdul Ramdez the Arab, and he had to spend a lot of time shaking off the private detectives and secret-service agents who followed him from time to time. He was never certain whether these spies were employed by his family or by the state. He did not care. He shook them off when he travelled out of town. being well acquainted with the terrain of the country-side and its devious hill routes, and having accustomed himself to cave life. He was not entirely alone among his generation in his truculence; there were other Jews like him scattered about.
Abdul, however, seemed to him even more akin in mentality, being far more humorous than most, and more articulate. Besides, he was in a way of business with Abdul. Whether Arab or Jew, it was part of life for Semites who, like themselves, were of long merchant origin to be occupied in some business.
Mendel had got himself a tin of beer. He came and sat down at Abdul’s shadowy table. They kept silence for a few moments. Then Abdul said, in Arabic, ‘You’re back safe.’
‘I’ve got news for you.’
‘Yes, later. You’re back safe, that comes first. Hassan’s safe, too.’
The courteous contours of the old language half-imposed themselves on these preludes to their conversation, sentence by sentence, as if tradition itself were fumbling its way among the aberrant communications of the two men. Mendel said, ‘I have new for you about your sister. The business can wait.’
‘The business can wait, but tell me immediately how much danger there was, this trip. Did you have difficulties?’
‘Only when your sister Suzi recognized me. I
thought she would call out when she saw me at the Holy Sepulchre this morning.’
‘You didn’t go to the city in broad daylight? Mendel, you’re mad. What did you do that for?’
‘Well, I was dressed-up the Arab part.’
‘Somebody might have spoken to you. The voice, Mendel. It’s dangerous. Anyone can tell by the intonation that you’re no Arab.’
Mendel spoke in a harsh whisper. ‘If I had been forced to speak, I would have had laryngitis. Lost my voice. It was exciting, though. I’ll never forget it.’
Abdul said, ‘There is a reason that you found Suzi,’
‘Yes, I’ll tell you the news. Just before dawn I got to the Potter’s Field, and we were wrapping up the sacks in the cave, ready to return. I saw Suzi coming out of a car. She went into that old house just past the church.’
Abdul laughed. ‘Suzi must be up to some game.’
Mendel said, with a sardonic Jewish spread of his hands, ‘Helping her father in the travel business, like a good girl. Like you help him with the insurance.’
Abdul said, ‘Get on with the story. Was it connected with Miss Vaughan? The police are looking for her all over Jordan. There’s a big fuss.’
‘Yes, well I questioned the old monk, but you know, he doesn’t answer, he just gives you a blessing, Father, Son, Holy Ghost. So I keep a look-out. After all, finding her up there in the Potter’s Field, I thought she might be in some trouble. She wouldn’t be the only one in trouble that you find up there. In the middle of the morning she comes out with two tourists. One is a man. The other is veiled and dressed like an old Arab woman, like your servant.’
‘Kyra,’ said Abdul.
‘I look and I think it is Kyra. It looks like Kyra. But no, it is an English tourist woman called Barbara Vaughan who wants to pray at the Christian shrines. I am to find this out later. But when I see Suzi and I see Kyra at the Potter’s Field, I see them drive off with the man, down to the city — so I walk to the city and I find the car at the Holy Sepulchre. By this time it’s eleven in the morning, you know,, so I have to look like a Christian Arab, genuflecting and kneeling wherever they go. I’m just behind them. I end up at the Catholic Mass at the place of the crucifixion of Jesus, or maybe the place of one of the thieves, better still, for my part. There are a lot of people, tourists and some Arab women. I move in and stand next to Suzi, and she sees me, and she looks startled. It is at this point I feel afraid, since an Arab woman looks hard at me as if I’m up to no good with a woman, as if I’m trying to make friends with Suzi at the church service. But Suzi pulled herself together and looked away, and the suspicious woman began to pray, and the service went on. Then, when the Orthodox service began at the next altar, and the chanting began, I was able to whisper to Suzi. Guess what I said?’
‘Shalom,’ said Abdul, putting on the Hebrew inflection.
Mendel said, ‘I said, “I’ve got laryngitis, Suzi, you understand, so I can only whisper. What’s going on with you?”‘ Then she told me about the tourist who’s going all over Jordan with her, disguised as the old servant. Suzi told me this, but understood she had to fit in her talk with the chanting of the Orthodox people standing beside us. So she chanted, they chanted, we all chanted. But they were very close by, these chanters, and she’s a clever woman, your sister Suzi. The tourist is a half-Jew. No wonder she looked like old Kyra clutching the edge of her veil and very weak on her feet. It appears the police might be looking for her and she thought, maybe, I must be the police. It’s a bewildering place, the Holy Sepulchre. Suzi said to tell you she’s all right and she’ll be seeing you soon.’
Abdul said, ‘I’ve been to the Holy Sepulchre. I was there once.’ Mendel said, ‘The tourist is returning to Israel.’
‘How?’
‘Somehow. She’s called Barbara.’
‘I hope Suzi won’t attempt to cross over.’
‘She said she’s all right and she’ll be seeing you soon. Leave her alone. She needs a bit of pleasure. A little bit of danger, a bit of pleasure, what’s the difference?’
‘When did you get back?’ Abdul said.
‘This evening. I walked back up to the Field as if I owned the place, and all the orange groves beyond it as well. Very slowly, striding like an Arab. I’ll show you —’
Mendel got up and walked with a leisurely swing of the arms, like an Arab. Abdul laughed and so did some others who had been dancing on a flagged space on the other side of the room.
Mendel sat down. ‘I lie up in the caves until sunset begins. I look for Hassan and he comes. He’s a bit hungry. So am I. The bones, you know all those bones, are hard to lie on. Anyway we haul off at sunset and get across. No incident. We’ve got five gross of sandals, some dozens I think, leather purses, also a few more things.’
Abdul took from his pocket a rubber stamp, breathed deeply on it and brought it down sharply on the scrubbed wood table before him. It left a clear blue mark: MADE IN ISRAEL Then they both laughed very loud together for a long time, as if they were boys in their teens like many in the room, instead of men of twenty-six and thirty-four.
Mendel went upstairs to sleep on one of Abdul’s divans. Abdul went to start rubber-stamping the soles of smuggled sandals. These goods had been hauled up to the Potter’s Field, day by day, on mules, and dumped at the back of the bone-littered caves that surrounded the field. It was their third successful haul. Abdul had gone on one of these trips and next time it would be his turn again. These goods sold in Israel for a huge profit, and even so, Abdul reflected, they sold cheap in the shops, and it was a public service. After a while Abdul, too, lay down and slept. The noise from the cellar was like a faint rhythmic lullaby, for the doors of the meeting-place had been made nearly sound-proof.
About midnight the men stirred. Abdul rose and heated up some spicy lamb stew on an oil stove. He took some to Mendel. They ate without speaking, sitting side by side on the divan. Then they washed at the tap outside the rooms and descended once more to the party. The outlaws were in full swing.
Abdul said to Mendel, in English, ‘Do you know, I’ve discovered a new rhyme for “Capricorn”.’
Mendel replied, ‘Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!)’
‘Well, you’re crazy,’ Abdul said, ‘but it’s a good life. You may have one of my orange groves when I get them back, you may have two.’
A young Jewess came to join them, playing with her guitar meantime. She was playing a popular jazz tune from Jordan to which accompaniment a slim Arab girl was doing a mimic version of an obscene dance performance that was current in the night. clubs of Amman. The tune was called ‘I Love Hussein’, which was sung with variations by the guitar player. The dancer wore only a filmy scarf wound round her body in a comic fashion that seemed to all, in the excitement and heat of the night, far more funny than it was. Then Mendel danced with a girl while Abdul squatted on the floor beside the guitar player.
Drugs of various kinds, kef, marijuana, and various experimental mixtures were now being passed round. Some of the younger people started howling and dancing convulsively before the excitants had time to take effect. They were stopped by the more practised smokers and drug-eaters, and told to wait till their reactions were involuntary, at which time the significance of their experience would be more completely revealed. Besides, too much noise might invite a police raid. In the deep hours, Mendel and Abdul, narcotically exalted, began to chant their Song of Freedom which never failed to hypnotize the audience by its depth of meaning, although the words of the song varied every time, being a spontaneous composition. But the notes of their chant were familiar, they were those of the mosques, the synagogues, and the churches of the Coptic, Syrian and Greek rites; the same set of notes would break into the air of Acre, presently, at three in the morning, when the muezzin would rise to call from the minaret nearby, and the same arrangement of notes could be heard from the windows of Rabbinical and Moslem schools all over Israel.
The two men chanted, sitting cross-legged with t
heir audience encircling them, in the heat of the party-cellar until one after another became drowsy and either curled to sleep on the spot or stretched and departed into the sharp dark air of early morning. The cellar was aired merely by vents in the upper walls, and by cracks in the ceiling which let in some small whispers of the fresh night from the open windows above. The young Jewess strummed on the guitar, her cheeks bright with the heat and her black curly hair falling over them. Abdul and Mendel, fiery-eyed with a sense of portentous utterance, their voices merging each with the other as one verse ended and the next began, in true style, chanted on to the end and beyond the end, when, with full and satisfied hearts, followed by the few who remained wakeful enough, they fell upstairs to sleep. And even as they climbed, they chanted in colloquial Arabic jargon mixed often with Hebrew:
‘My father goes blah O blah O blah for the love of Allah,’ chanted Abdul.
‘My father goes chime chime chime O mine, hard luck, chime,’ sang Mendel.
‘My mother goes quack all day, she goes quack, clack-clack.’
‘My sister goes tittle-ittle ittle tittle-ill-tee tee goes my sister.’
‘Eichmann went to battle and killed the children of Israel.’
‘Mahommed put all the children of Israel to death also, for the love of Allah. There was blood.’
‘The children of Israel have dispossessed the holy ones of Mohammed. They are refugees. They weep.’
‘It was a long time ago, my friend. Even yesterday was before our time, it’s dead too.’
‘The past has got nothing to do with you my friend, and nothing to do with me. It’s all dead history.’
‘Behold what Deborah did to the children of the Canaanites. She slaughtered them with her army.’
‘Look what the wealthy shepherd did to the kibbutzim in 1946. He shot and killed, the wealthy Sheik and his men. Blah, chime, amen.’
‘Look what the Stem Gang did at Dir Yassan, they massacred the lot. Blood, blood.’