Leah Neeman A Total Mess

Do I remember the conversation with Muku on that day? It's hard to unpick it from the rest. There were so many conversations that day it now seems like one long hallucination, like one endless red fog of humiliation. Mind you, we did have a world-cla.s.s excuse. I suppose more embarra.s.sing things have happened in the history of weddings. But never tell an embarra.s.sed man it could have been more embarra.s.sing. And with Muku, who's been married for years and already has three children and an apartment in Rehavia and a job in the Supreme Court, there was a different dimension to the humiliation. I felt that he'd been waiting for me to join the real, bourgeois world and, on the very brink of it, I had failed again. Thirty-two years old, and I couldn't manage to get married. That was the unspoken accusation behind our talk, and one of the worst memories of that day in general. After the phone calls I went to the place where the wedding was supposed to happen, to wait for the guests I hadn't got through to. Duchi refused to come with me.

I sat on our bench. How many hours had Muku and Danny Lam and I spent in this park, playing marbles, tag, football, cards, puffs? Coming of age in a park. They did it before us and they're already doing it after us. Danny Lam was killed the same day I almost died. I always felt it was a game of chance, either him or me, that I won in the end. Or lost, depending on how you look at life. I wondered how his parents were doing, and his sister, pretty Rachel Lam. His girlfriend Orit, who flew to New York a month after he died, in the middle of her national service, never to be heard of again.

An unfamiliar beeping in my pocket: Giora Guetta's PalmPilot. Its blue internal light illuminated my hands in the dark.

A diary reminder, entered by Giora: S.end of shift S.end of shift.

So I got up from the bench and drove to the hotel.

Why did I do it? I'd already fulfilled my mission. I'd delivered the message that Guetta had asked me to, or almost. Anyone would have done that. Anyone would have gone to the funeral. And OK, I stayed with the bereaved girl a couple of hours and listened to her when she needed to get a few things off her chest in a cafe. Up to that point it all sounds pretty reasonable. So why did I do it? You know why I did it. But it wasn't planned. It wasn't predatory predatory. It just happened. And that moment in my childhood park in Rehavia when the PalmPilot beeped and I got up and drove to the hotel was the moment it happened. At the same time, it couldn't have been more natural. The Palm beeped. I got up from the bench, I got into the car, I drove, and I arrived at the entrance to the hotel just as she was coming out.

They were surprised to see her in the kitchenso she told me, because I asked her to tell me everything in detailbut she said she'd rather work. The head chef, Alon, had taken her aside and asked her whether she was sure. It was going to be a busy night. She wept briefly in his arms and said she was sure. For the first hour she worked in silence, and her silence infected Alon and the other three chefs working with her, Issam, Osama and Alex, and the waiters coming in and out with the orders, and the head waiter Yatzpan (real name Mahmoud, but he looked just like a fatter version of Yatzpan, the comedian), who came on to her on a daily basis, and the drinks guy, Natzer, though he never said anything anyway. The orders, fed into the restaurant tills by the waiters, flowed relentlessly from the two printers in the kitchen, and Alon read the print-outs and divided the salads, the roasts, the fish and the desserts between the chefs and took the orders coming in from room service, and Shuli, in her round-b.u.t.toned tunic and tall toque, concentrated on her work and thought about nothing whatsoever.

Garrulous Issamcurly haired, balding, ever smilingbegan talking to Osama in Arabic, which was usually Shuli's cue to call over and ask what they were muttering about so secretly, or have a go at Osama for his maddeningly squeaky voice'like listening to a whistle'. But tonight she just cut the bagel, stuck it in the toaster, laid out the salmon, took the sheet of lasagna, red sauce on top, Parmesan, ten minutes in the top oven, checked the heat with a knife, pizza bases from the tall stack, tomato sauce, handful of mozzarella, handful of Parmesan, onion and green pepper, seven minutes on high and on to the wooden trays ready to go...she sank into the sensations and the smells. The slippery mozzarella, the translucent flesh of the fish, the dough's comforting elasticity; the salmon's fresh scent, the basil's sharpness, the onion coaxing the tears out of you. 'Alex: fruit salad and apple pie! Issam: ravioli, fries! Shuli: Artichoke Carpaccio!' Artichoke slices on a plate, olive oil and lemon from the big jugs filled by Alon, crushed peppercorns, salty Bulgarian cheese, dried plum tomatoes and rocket to decorate, and down on the aluminium surface for Alon, who was doing the announcing today. 'Artichoke, who asked for it?' She pointed to the bowl of rocket. 'More rocket!' She knows the menu by heart, has done for six months, and here comes another order from Alon and she's on it automatically, hand here, fingers there, grabbing, spreading, crumbling, kneading, chopping, deep-frying...

Despite the wine she'd drunk and the grief that weighed her hands down, she managed for a couple of hours. Then Alon told her to take a coffee and sit in the lobby for a few minutes: her silence was worrying him. She took a bottle of beer instead. As soon as she took her first swig she started crying uncontrollably. Deep sobs that hurt her ribs and shook her whole body. She felt hands on her shoulder and turned to see Marwan, a beautiful nineteen-year-old kid from Beit-Hanina with the eyes of a cartoon deer. Shuli was a quarter in love with Marwan but apart from a few meaningful glances (and her fantasies at home) there was nothing between them. Now his kindness made her feel nauseous and her weeping intensified. She shouted at him to get off her, and the alarmed Marwan recoiled and returned to work. Guests watched the sobbing cook. Alon was called from the kitchen. Did she want to go home? With her face in her hands, she said she didn't. What did she want to do, then? She said she didn't know. Did she want coffee? She responded with a long swig of the Heineken and another flurry of tears. And then she got up, washed her face in the bathroom and returned to work, back into her automatic mode. Her feet hurt, she hadn't slept much the previous night, her back bothered her, but she went on. One of her friends among the waitresses told her to go home. The plates piled up. Alon roared for Yusuf to bring coasters. Giora is dead Giora is dead Giora is dead, she thought in a loop. Giora, Marwan, Croc, Giora, Marwan, Croc. The Arabs were quietly humming an Arab song. 'Alex, bring lettuce!' Alex was flashing his silver tooth...

'Croc?' I said. 'You were thinking of me?'

We were driving from King David Street down towards the German Colony.

'Yeah,' she said. 'I thought of the Croc. Among other things.'

I didn't say a word. We took a left at the train station towards Arnona and Armon Han.a.z.iv, and headed on past the Ramat Rachel Kibbutz. She took us to a spot where we could sit and look over the Judaean desert, and when I said wasn't it dangerous she just laughed.

'What was the message he wanted you to give me?'

A second pa.s.sed before I realised what she was talking about.

'I don't know,' I said. 'He didn't get to say it. He was thinking. But I'm pretty sure he wanted to let you know that he loved you. Something like that.'

She looked at me.

'His look had that kind of meaning. It wasn't a "tell her to feed the cats" kind of look,' I said, staring at the gearstick. 'And I can understand him.'

'He didn't have any cats. He couldn't stand them.'

'I can understand him on that one too.'

She smiled. So I wiped her smile with a kiss. Her lips were soft as feathers, as deep and salty as the sea.

18

'We're human beings, not angels,' Bilahl said brusquely. Surprisingly, he wasn't angry with Naji. He had been in the room when the bulb blew too. 'Anyone can change his mind. It's natural. He said he didn't feel ready. Maybe in the future...'

'You think he's an informer?'

'Relax. He gave me the name of someone to stand in for him. Mahmoud Salam al-Mahmuzi: dedicated to the Holy Cause. Twenty-three years old and from Al-Amari. This camp needs a hero.'

'He's coming here?'

'Later. First we need to take a look at him at the operations apartment. See if he's got the right stuff. Thenyour lesson, a video, a haircut, and, G.o.d willing, we could be on our way by noon tomorrow.'

'...yes, Mama. Yes, Mama. Yes. Tomorrow. Mama, I can't talk in here...yes. Not now...'

One tube for p.i.s.s. Another for air.

'No, I'm at work, Mama. It's not dangerous, he's not...no, that's crazy, he's fine. He can't do anything at all... Stoi! Ostav'te menya v pokoe! Stoi! Ostav'te menya v pokoe! Leave me alone! Leave me alone!'

Oh, play me a song, Svet. Give me a ma.s.sage, Svet...

'G.o.d, what a pain she is! So: how are we doing? My mother's worried you're going to do something to me ha h...oh, have we done a poo?'

Oh, Svet, just please, please, shut up. And here comes your phone again, and I can't do anything at all...

We pa.s.sed Ali's cafe, where silver-haired men were playing backgammon or cards and drinking gla.s.ses of tea. Some younger, bored-looking guys. Bilahl nodded to them. As for mein Al-Amari, all my friends are on TV. Rita Khouri off The Weakest Link The Weakest Link on Lebanese TV, George Khourdahi off on Lebanese TV, George Khourdahi off Who Wants to Be a Millionaire? Who Wants to Be a Millionaire? on MBC, on MBC, Noah's Ark Noah's Ark's Tommy Musari on Channel 2, Ihab Abu-Nasif, who hosts The Mission The Mission on Al-Manarand beautiful Shirin Abu-Akla from the news on Al-Jazeera. Occasionally I might get a phone call from Rami, or from Natzer in Jerusalem, but Natzer just made me think how dead and gone my childhood was, and I'd let him go to voicemail...I grew up with him and t.i.ti and limping Rami in Murair: marbles, donkeys, football, and later, messing about with girls, a little bit of school, football. A plastic bullet shattered Rami's knee when he was eight, during the first intifada. t.i.ti works at the Majdal Bani Fadel checkpoint: he's got an old Peugeot van he sells cold drinks from. Every morning he fills a box with crushed ice and a few dozen cans from his Uncle Faez's store, and drives a quarter of an hour down to the checkpoint. But Natzer left the village. He works in the King David in Jerusalem, and lives in Beit-Hanina. I don't know exactly what he's doing, but the money's good. Pretty girls and so on. He once shaved his beard off because of a Jewish girl. Even when we were kids he'd make friends with the soldiers. Natzer likes the things that life on the other side has to offer him. He kept himself well away from Bilahl's wars and when he calls I let him go to voicemail. on Al-Manarand beautiful Shirin Abu-Akla from the news on Al-Jazeera. Occasionally I might get a phone call from Rami, or from Natzer in Jerusalem, but Natzer just made me think how dead and gone my childhood was, and I'd let him go to voicemail...I grew up with him and t.i.ti and limping Rami in Murair: marbles, donkeys, football, and later, messing about with girls, a little bit of school, football. A plastic bullet shattered Rami's knee when he was eight, during the first intifada. t.i.ti works at the Majdal Bani Fadel checkpoint: he's got an old Peugeot van he sells cold drinks from. Every morning he fills a box with crushed ice and a few dozen cans from his Uncle Faez's store, and drives a quarter of an hour down to the checkpoint. But Natzer left the village. He works in the King David in Jerusalem, and lives in Beit-Hanina. I don't know exactly what he's doing, but the money's good. Pretty girls and so on. He once shaved his beard off because of a Jewish girl. Even when we were kids he'd make friends with the soldiers. Natzer likes the things that life on the other side has to offer him. He kept himself well away from Bilahl's wars and when he calls I let him go to voicemail.

'Mama, I told you, I can't talk at work! I'm not shouting. I am not shouting. OK. OK, I'll come with you tomorrow morning. How dare...listen, someone's coming now, I can't talk...'

A crescent moon spilled a little silver over the yellow-lit camp, over the one-storey shacks, the jungle of antennae on the tin roofs, the narrow dirt alleys and the few asphalt roads, the scattering of battered old cars and tired tractors and the dome of the mosque. From time to time we pa.s.sed people on their way home. Children were playing football in the yellow street light and I watched Bilahl, who was once a pretty good footballer, follow them instinctively with his gaze.

Mahmuzi had grown up in Al-Amari. After high school he'd worked in Israel in agriculture and construction, until all his routes upwards were blocked. He came back and started studying at the Hebron Polytechnic but quit. In the past four years he had become completely dedicated to his prayer. He'd talked to Islamic Jihad members in Ramallah, but was told they weren't recruiting. He had just happened to talk to Naji that morning.

One sister. A traditional family, but the parents separated when he was seven or eight. They were angry kids, used to throw blocks at the mosque windows. He was still living with his mother, and still angry. His father had remarried and lived in Nablus. His sister was studying law in Amman.

'What depresses you?' I asked.

'I'm not depressed by anything,' he said.

'Did you bid farewell to your loved ones?'

'I didn't bid farewell to anyone.'

I explained about the belt, as I had with Naji. He had good hands and a cool head. Afterwards Bilahl talked to him quietly and at length. As we were leaving, Mahmuzi knelt down in the corner on the prayer mat Bilahl had given him and bowed his back. When he straightened up his eyes were closed and a rapid, low mumble was issuing from his mouth along with clouds of his breath, visible in the cold air.

Bilahl told him not to leave the apartment and not to speak to anyone.

'Tell me what am I going to do with this mother? She's driving me nuts!'

At last! Oh, Svet. I need your fingers...

'What are you thinking about? You're sweating again. There's a storm outside and here you are sweating. This'll make you feel better. Yes?'

Yes...

There are eleven gates to heaven and rivers of many colours flow through itwhite rivers of milk, golden rivers of honey, and crimson rivers of wines which never intoxicate. There are orchards of date palms and apple trees whose trunks and branches are made of gold. Jojoba and frankincense grow freely, and vines and flowers. Breath in heaven smells of ambergris. Light never fails. And there will be seventy-two beautiful virgins, dressed in white...

All of us die and it doesn't really matter how many years you've lived before death comes, ten or a hundred: you'll either be with G.o.d or you won't.

Bilahl didn't tell Mahmuzi but when we returned from the operations apartment to our own, I asked him where the next attack was going to be.

Jerusalem.

19

After four days of rain and fog it dawned so crisp and clear you could feel the air tickling the back of your larynx when you breathed it in. The sky was a very pale blueas cold and clear as the eye of a Siamese cat.

Shuli lived in the German Colony, in a flat in one of the tall buildings at the end of Hazfira Street, where the tennis courts are. A nice neighbourhood: trees and little parks, the buildings clad in creepers, birds buzzing about. When I dropped her off that night I asked her whether she fancied a game, and she'd laughed and said, 'One day.'

'How about tomorrow morning? Are you working tomorrow?'

'I've got a night shift,' she said, touching my unshaven cheek with her palm and opening her door. It was her father's flat: Davidi Vaknin had been delighted to have Shuli back home after her divorce. Not only to help her through it but also because his daughter and her ex-husband had drifted away from religion in their four years of marriage and he nursed hopes of coaxing her back to G.o.d. And also because he was lonely. Shuli's mother had succ.u.mbed to a long disease a few months after the wedding, her sister was off backpacking round India.

'Night shiftwhich means I'm not working in the morning.'

So that morning I parked the Polo near her house and we walked along Hazfira Street towards Emek Refaim Street. I held her hand for a while, but she didn't seem comfortable with it. Her hands were cold, she claimed. She needed to put her gloves on.

'Don't worry,' she rea.s.sured me. 'You'll see. Tonight.'

'I'm not worried,' I said, and she lowered her eyes and smiled a smile that was half embarra.s.sment and half a promise. I did know that she had just lost her boyfriend, that everything had just been thrown upside down, and everything like that, but it seemed to me somehow that she was the sort of person who would always be like this: heightened, impulsive, very alive. A wave of warmth broke from my heart and flooded upwards to my throat, and for a few seconds I actually seemed to be unable to breathe. I could feel my heart beating faster, desperately trying to get some oxygen into my blood.

We went to the post office. In order to get her chef's certificate she needed a year's experience in a recognised restaurant, references from qualified chefs (Alon had been happy to oblige) and to pa.s.s exams in theory and practice at the Tadmor Hotel in Herzliya. She sent off the forms she had to send off. In a bakery she bought a loaf of bread for her dad; in a stationer's she bought a notebook for herself. She had decided to write to Giora every day. I asked whether she was planning on telling him everything.

'I never hid a thing from him in the four months we were together.'

'And what about him?'

'Well, who knows? Every night when we went to bed we'd tell each other everything that had happened to us that day. I'd say, "Tell me something else", and I'd keep saying, "Something else" until he'd told me the lot. And then I'd tell him everything back.' She fell silent for a moment. 'Did you hear from the guy who met Giora in Tel Aviv?'

'Binyamin? The guy from the PalmPilot? We said we were going to go and find him in Tel Aviv.'

'Yeah, we said that, didn't we? But maybe tomorrow?'

I wasn't in any hurry. Tonight I was going to see. 'OK,' I said.

'Now I need an Ice Europa,' she decided. There wasn't any debate. She said it, we did it.

The place was pretty full. The security guard searched us with his metal wand on the off-chance we were packing any landmines, his big steel lollipop emitting its somehow disappointed little cheeps. Shuli ordered a croissant and an Ice Europa. I went for an egg sandwich and a cappuccino. I overruled her attempts to pay ('I owe you,' she said) and steered us towards a round table for two not far from the entrance and sat down facing the street. She sat opposite and stared at me until I said, 'What?'

'Why did you choose this table?'

'I don't know. It was free.'

She looked around and her gaze took in the other free tables.