The English Teacher (28 page)

A
YOUNG WOMAN IN TRADITI
ONAL GARB
sat at the desk and busied herself with the endless sorting of invisible paperwork. Rachel sat down facing her and waited. The girl looked at her with gloomy eyes. A faint mustache adorned her upper lip, and she fiddled affectedly with the thick wedding ring on her finger. “What can I do for you?” she asked in heavily accented English. “Anything that's interesting,” Rachel said, and asked if there was a list of recommended tours. The girl pulled out a few brochures and Rachel picked out one of the guided tours. A short day, not too tiring, suitable for a tourist like her. “There are some nice churches here,” said the receptionist, and she asked, with the courtesy typical of hotel workers, how long she was staying.

“A week,” said Rachel, and she wasn't sure. “Do you happen to have a phone directory of the city?” The girl looked surprised, and Rachel knew she had made a mistake. She was getting rusty. She
should have given the receptionist a reason to offer her the directory. Occasional tourists don't make such requests. She is not in Europe and even an innocent question can arouse suspicion. She didn't know what the security officer had said to the woman sitting opposite her, or if someone came to the hotel from time to time to ask if there was anything unusual and how the foreigners were behaving.

The clerk pulled out a tattered phone book from a drawer in her desk and asked what she was looking for. This time she had an answer ready, and she wouldn't make the same mistake twice. And why not tell her she's looking for Rashid? Why not let her into this little secret? she's thinking as she and the clerk are going through the phone numbers of English language schools. “I don't want to bother you anymore,” she said to the clerk with a smile, and was secretly grateful to the French tourist couple who stood behind her, waiting patiently for their turn. “Give me the book, and I'll take it over there and return it when I've finished.” The clerk handed her the book, the tourists smiled at her, and she felt she was back in business, she could still cut it.

When she knew no one was paying attention to her, she took a tourist guidebook from her handbag, along with the conversion chart from the Latin to the Arabic alphabet, and turned to the Arabic directory. Her heart was beating faster, and a wave of anxiety threatened to swamp her. Rashid Kanafi, or Kanafani, or Raashid, God only knows how they spell this, and perhaps his name doesn't appear in the book and his number is unlisted. She jotted down some likely looking numbers, disguised with a simple code, and went out into the street. Years of training and experience had taught her not to call from hotel rooms, and not to use the cell phone she bought at the airport in Brussels.

The old, dirty, shabby street was now a thoroughfare paved with artificial stone, and instead of the little shops where corpulent traders swathed in broad sashes used to sit in the doorways, there were now
department stores, all display windows and illuminated signs. Everything had changed, but everything looked familiar. And the smell remained. It was a smell that was hard to define and impossible to ignore. That thing that you could swallow with every step, with every breath. It was born aloft on the thick air. Smoke and dust. A mixture of the two, far from the desert and close to it, everywhere, like the smell of garlic in Korea, like the London fog, like the faint vapor of drains in Tokyo, and the stench of the canals in Amsterdam. Dust and smoke carried the smell of this city, the city that was hers.

She walked slowly down the street, and the flat soles of her shoes slapped the paving stones. She had no clear idea of where she was going, besides the knowledge that she wants to see, wants to smell, wants the city to give her what is missing, the strength she needs to summon. She wants it to lead her to him, as it did before. Because then everything was clear. She's come for the experience, and to save some money, so she can start living a life without her father in it, far from the love she left behind her.

And why did you come here, Rachel?

To work.

And how long will you stay here, Rachel?

That depends.

Depends on what, Rachel?

On what I find here and how much money I can save.

That's all. Simple questions, simple answers. One clear line that has a reason behind it, which has a beginning, a middle, and an end. A life that can and must stand up to daily examination. A life that has a reason, a logic that has no time for the mania of loneliness, or the mania of love.

O
N THE W
AY TO THE MAIN
bazaar she passed by what had been the school. It was gone, replaced by an office building. She remembered the little classrooms, the lessons, and the achievements of her students. She loved teaching, and she was a good teacher despite all the other things she had to do. Rachel tried to remember names, but could remember only his name, and she was searching only for him among the passersby when she entered the square, which was surprisingly clean. The carpet-seller, a short, squat man, looked at her curiously, as if assessing his chances, and she was comfortable with that. So it was and so it will be. He's a man and she's a woman. She went inside his shop. Obviously he wanted a sale, but there was always something else and she could use it. Rachel let these thoughts go, accepted the cup of tea that he offered, sat down in a wicker armchair, and modestly arranged her skirt. She was silent, and he talked incessantly. “What are you looking for, madam? Here, take a look, at this,” and he unrolled a carpet from the end of the pile on the floor and passed a flashlight over it to illuminate the intricate weave. “Not this one, of course,” he said to her as she shook her head, and asked her where she was from. She was ready with her answer. “Can't you tell?” she asked him, and he said she was from London and she didn't deny it, and she knew that although she couldn't remember all the prices in the supermarket or who won a football match last week, she was still adept at dodging much harder questions.

“From England?” he said. “That's good. I love England and Manchester United,” and then launched into a lengthy discourse in limping English about his family and friends in London. “And what does madam have to say about this carpet?” Out of the corner of her eye she noticed two men in long coats coming into the shop. Security men? Relatives of the shopkeeper? Random customers? It makes no difference now, she reminded herself, and sipped the tea. Those days
are gone. The two men disappeared behind a door hidden from her view, and all was quiet in the shop.

A sense of freedom loosened her limbs and she relaxed in the chair.

In her former life she lived in two dimensions, always able to see two pictures of reality. She was like someone who keeps both eyes open but presses on one to watch the situation from another side. No more.

She didn't have to hide her intentions from the rug merchant. She intended to buy the small carpet that he showed her and to talk freely about her apartment, without telling him it just happened to be in Israel. She didn't need to reconsider whether the carpet was appropriate for a teacher's salary and would Ehud approve the expenditure. She sketched the apartment house on a scrap of paper, explained to him where the light came from, and realized she actually loved that house. The thought of giving up this whole idea occurred to her, and she regretted that it was impossible to make all her wishes come true, to make a mosaic of them all.

She left the shop after paying for the rug. The man promised to send it to the hotel and she believed him. Nice to trust somebody, for a change. I'll put it in the entrance hall, she reflected, so I can think of him when I go out and come in. So I'll be reminded of an opportunity I didn't take. The opportunity I have now. Then she considered the possibility that he won't remember her. She'll sit facing him and look into his eyes and see nothing. Rachel sat down on a dirty bench without bothering to gather up her skirt. The traffic swirled around her. People came and went. Strangers, all of them. Women covered by voluminous dresses, young girls daring to expose a bit of bare skin. Men in suits and in traditional garb. Tourists. All of them going about their business. And she has business that makes her sit and wait.

T
HE
CALL OF THE MUEZZIN
AND
a car revving put an end to the stillness of the early dawn. She called him after a sleepless night. Hard to know if this was a call for help, or a protest about something she wanted to discuss. Even Ehud, days later, would be unable to explain what happened. And he knew her better than any of them. The Unit commander's main concern was the possibility of a trap, and he said the situation was unclear and he hoped one day there would be the chance to talk to Rachel and ask her why, after running away and acting in contravention of all the rules and conventions, she picked up her mobile phone and keyed in the dialing code that would reach him. And having reached him, why didn't she say more, why did she want only to hear his voice and tell him her father was dead, again? Then someone in that meeting expressed an opinion and dared to suggest that perhaps she wanted to stretch an imaginary line between what she is today and the past, like a cable thrown into the deep ocean with an anchor on the end of it. Maybe what she wanted, so he said (perhaps he was a poet), was to have that anchor reach the seabed, and hold fast to it.

T
HE MOSQUE
HE USED TO ATTEND
was located on a hill in the outskirts of the city.

“In our tradition anyone can pray anywhere, and that is why this mosque was built some distance away. It works like a filter, meaning we can associate with people like ourselves.”

“I'd like to come with you sometime.”

“Why would you want to do that?” he asked, caressing her.

“I want to see that you also kneel to pray,” she replied, and knew immediately this was a mistake, that she was straying into a minefield; when she had finished asking her questions and Rashid had answered them all, he would ask how things were in her culture, to whom did she pray, and which customs did she uphold. And at that moment, while hugging him and nipping his earlobe and putting her leg over him in a ploy to distract him from the question he wanted to ask, she remembered the festive holiday meals in the bosom of Oren's extended family, the lavishly laden table, and the succulent, aromatic
dishes that one could smell at the door of the house, and Grandpa, who looked like someone out of a story, sitting at the head of the table wearing a white
kittel
and keeping order with a wave of his hand. Rashid caressed her head and didn't feel the salty tear falling on his shoulder. “I'm surprised you haven't bothered to find a church here that would suit you,” he said, before turning to more carnal pursuits. Lovers have gods of their own.

All this happened in another time, an age she can't return to, and has no prospect of reliving. Graying hair can be dyed, makeup can conceal wrinkles, and she also knows how to cover the veins in her thighs. She still wears the same size, but she knows that being thin isn't necessarily a sign of health. She knows Rashid is also bound to have changed. He's grown older; perhaps he's put on weight, perhaps he is ill and doesn't keep up his old habits, like going to the mosque for Friday prayers. She suppresses another thought that occurs to her: In fifteen years she's not heard anything about him, is it possible he is gone?

It was no problem finding out the times of prayers in the mosque. Any tourist can take an interest in the rituals and customs of the local population. That's why tourists come, to see what other people do. The reception clerk was happy to help her. “Prayers, madam, you're interested in prayers? How nice.” She couldn't remember the name of the mosque and didn't want him to know where she was going, so she showed him a map and asked him to point out the most important mosques in the city and repeat the names to her until she found the one she was looking for. The clerk, impressed by his enterprising tourist, stressed the need to dress modestly and offered to take her there himself, Friday being his day off. She politely declined. It was hard dispensing with his services, but she knew how to do that too.

She wasn't happy to find she was still capable of exacting
information and shrugging off unwanted company. Her old talents hadn't been lost, but they moved her further away from the mundane life she aspired to. They didn't allow her to make mistakes, or lose her temper; they denied her the privileges enjoyed by normal people. Normal people ask questions, get angry, laugh if they feel like it, but she needs to think everything out in advance and calculate all her moves, and never losing sight of her objective. Like a partner in an affair, like a criminal. Rachel looked at the reception clerk. She didn't owe him anything. Some tourists like to be taken around from place to place like parcels. Some not. Some tourists bother to explain all their actions. Some not. She couldn't behave like any of them, not even this time. She was no ordinary tourist. She was using a British passport, but her Israeli passport was waiting in a luggage locker at a station in London. She had something to hide, rather a lot, in fact, and the nice man sitting facing her mustn't know where she was going and who she was looking for.

T
HE FILE OF MEN MOVED SLOWLY
toward the entrance to the mosque. Rachel stood in the shadow of a wall and watched them as they approached and made a point of taking an interest in the impressive architecture as well as the assembling worshippers. Any other day she might have complained about the smells wafting from the shoes left behind at the door, even expressed her opinion on the socks she saw, but she was interested in the faces, not in the feet. Old faces, young faces, most of them gloomy. Mustaches and more mustaches. Taciturn men walking into the capacious mosque and exchanging barely a word. Her heart was beating fast. She didn't even have a picture. All that stuff had been buried in the archives, in the deep cellars of
Mossad, places she had no access to, not after she slammed the door behind her and went back to being just a civilian. She had no time now to regret not taking at least one photograph for herself, something to remind her brain of what the heart knew—what did he look like.

How will she pick him out, if he comes here at all, among all the people streaming inside? After all these years will she recognize his short and powerful body, his eyes that enchanted her, his smile? Men and more men passed by her. For a moment she thought every one of them was him, and for a moment she was sure that even if he passes by and looks at her, she won't know it. And in fact she hoped he would see her, hoped that he too was looking for her and expecting that one day she would be waiting for him at the corner of the street, in the doorway of a mosque, or in the café they used to sneak off to.

And suddenly she was sure it was this one, approaching the doorway. He wasn't staring down at the ground like most of the others, and on his face was the tight-lipped smile that she so much loved. The sculpted nose, the expressive eyes, the light steps, as if about to break into a dance at any moment, all of these once belonged to Rashid. He came closer and looked at her with curiosity, and she knew it was only her imagination that saw him, and if she calculated correctly the years that had passed, the days and nights without him, it could just as well be his eldest son she was seeing. She should take a look at the old man walking behind him—now he might be the object of her dreams and her quest.

And at the end of the line she saw him. Her body shook and her legs trembled, and she wanted to take the few paces separating them and tell him she's come back. Rachel leaned against the high wall and clenched her hands against her chest. His hair had thinned and his leanness surprised her. But it was him. The same gait, the same confidence and poise, and the same big hands—as always, clutching his prayer beads and the promise to caress her.

Rachel tightened the scarf on her head and hoped the dark sunglasses would do their job, but there was no need for them. He seemed preoccupied, his face forward in only one direction, and he strode into the mosque as if it were his whole world. Could it be? She always knew he was committed to his religion, and he often talked to her about his beliefs and his determination to live one day according to Sharia law. And she would laugh and ask where she fit into this scheme of things and he had no answer other than a confession accompanied by a kiss—even he, Rashid, wasn't perfect.

She sat on a concrete bench and watched the empty space. No one was left of the crowd that had streamed inside. A bored guard stood at the other end, by the reserved parking spaces, chatting to the chauffeurs who had been left outside with the cars. Shoes had been left at the entrance to the mosque, and she wondered if she could get to the place where Rashid left his and identify them. For a moment she toyed with the idea of taking his shoes and waiting for him, while he's standing there in his socks and looking for a way out of the predicament she's forced on him, until she walks toward him slowly, takes off the dark glasses, and asks if he remembers their vacation on the beach, when someone pinched their flip-flops while they were swimming in the sea, and how he carried her in his arms to the car so she wouldn't have to walk on the blazing sand.

And what can he say to her as he waits for her to hand over the shoes? That he remembers her? That he remembers the drive to the secluded beach, the tent they put up, the campfire in the evening, the two days they spent there, flip-flops or no flip-flops? How he stood and touched her shoulder while she photographed the sunset, and the beach, and the army camp behind it, in the minutest of detail, according to the instructions of the ops officer? Or he'll apologize to his friends, who came to pray with him, and wonder with them who she
is, this crazy woman who's stolen his shoes, and he'll thank her and go on his way. And then and only then, will he look back and hope to see her shadowing him?

She stood up, straightened her skirt, and pulled out the cheap camera she bought at the airport. A few pictures of the mosque, and a close-up of some interesting architectural features, provided the reason for her visit to the holy place. From a distance she saw the guard watching her and pointing to her. She was used to such looks. If they ask her, she'll show them the list the reception clerk gave her and the little tourist guide she got from the car rental service. There are things you don't forget, that are inscribed deep in the soul, and it's hard to uproot them, and hard to plant genuine feelings among them. I loved him, she was thinking as she walked back to the rented car. And I exploited him for those surveillance trips. I used him when I photographed forbidden places. I copied the picture of Strauss from him. But I loved him. I really loved him, although I lied to him and left him without saying goodbye.

She turned on the air-conditioning in the car and alternately looked at her map and the people leaving the mosque. When Rashid reached his car, she saw with a twinge of sorrow that he had fallen on harder times. He no longer has a driver-bodyguard waiting beside a polished Mercedes, but a battered Toyota parked on the open dusty ground. She followed him and remembered the driver who used to stay in the car while he was in her apartment and in her arms. “I've no doubt he's told somebody about you,” he said. “They have to know everything. Nothing happens here without their knowledge.” She asked if there was any chance of them telling his parents. “Why would they do that?” He was genuinely surprised. “It's between us, it's our brotherhood.”

2

R
ASHID SET OUT AND SHE WAS
close behind him. Stalking him was simple enough because she was not trying to be surreptitious. In her heart the little devil was dancing, demanding that Rashid would stop his car and come out to her, and she will lower the window and look at him, and he'll recognize her at once and ask, Rachel? And she'll say, Yes, and that will be the truth. And he'll ask, Have you come back? And she'll say, Yes, and that will be true as well. Then she'll need to lie to him but that will be later, after he's touched her lips with his finger and bent down to kiss her.

Rashid drove slowly and blended into the traffic and she kept a distance of two cars between them and assumed he was going home. Once she knew where his parents lived. She told Ehud and that's how they found out about the private compound where all the dignitaries lived. And she visited the area too, although Ehud warned her of the dangers and vetoed the trip. One Sabbath day she felt she couldn't restrain herself any longer. She missed him and wanted to see him, if only for a moment. The drive to the gate of the compound took only a few minutes. She smiled at the guard, who spoke no English, and gave him a spiel, inserting a few names that he recognized. He didn't want to obstruct someone who knew all these important people, and besides that, she was young and beautiful and she shook his hand and palmed him a ten-dollar note. Rachel drove her Volvo down the narrow street between well-tended gardens, and when she saw Rashid sitting in a deck chair on the lawn and talking to an elegant young woman she was glad his back was turned and could not see her and her tears.

When he came to the intersection he turned right and stopped
opposite an apartment building badly in need of painting. Fifteen years had passed since she left the city, and him, and it occurred to her that someone in the department had leaked information to their security services, warning them that Rashid Kanafani was no longer to be trusted, and should be kept away from centers of activity. All in the interests of protecting her, Rachel; without the means of locating her and without the freedom to leave the country at will. Just like her, he was of no further use to them. She overtook him and when she saw him getting out of the car and walking slowly to the door she went on driving at a crawling speed, stopped for a moment, and gave a display of reading the map and the tourist guide, to explain to any professional followers that she was just a confused tourist, and she'd soon be heading back to her hotel.

What could be simpler, she thought, than to park the car, check her makeup in the rearview mirror while verifying that she wasn't being followed, then climb the five steps to the door, ring the bell, and wait for him to open the door? She estimated how long it would take him to get to the elevator and up to his apartment, and when a light appeared on the sixth floor she knew he was alone; if not, the lights would have already been on. An irresistible urge pulled her to do this. To be ready to pay the price. Danger against chance. This is what they taught her, and she wanted to hear his voice and see him standing before her, and say . . . whether he says one thing or says the opposite, she'll know what the future holds in store for them and what has happened to him in all the years she's wasted without him.