The Wanting (10 page)

Dasha Cohen no longer looked like her photographs. Her mouth was slightly parted, revealing teeth that had been allowed to yellow, and here and there, in the cracks and joints and along the creases of her gums, the color of green tea. I bent over her. The scent of her breath pooled around me, thick, soupy, palpable, almost edible, like strong cheese. Her skin was white as chalk, leprous, yet blotchy, the blood having settled on the underside of her arms and neck. She looked like a two-tone Moskvitch, white and purple. They’d covered her in a thin sheet that did nothing to hide the contours of her rag-doll body—not fleshy and round as I knew she must have once been, but twiggy, skeletal, a girl of straw. Her two legs shot straight out from her hips, but her feet were skewed unnaturally, as if broken, which indeed they might have been. I
felt I should have been able to read into them some intention, as though she were speaking through her limbs, drawing herself into a pictograph that, had I but the key, would reveal the meaning of all this, of her pain, her loss, her shattered life. Yet her hair, remarkably, was in perfect order; someone had brushed it. In her photo, it had been short, spiky, punkish, like Anyusha’s. Now it was all soft ringlets upon her thin shoulders. Perhaps this made her mother happier.

But why, why couldn’t they also brush her teeth?

I set my hand upon her forehead. It was neither cool nor hot. I checked my own just to see: we were the same. Then I let my fingers run along her cheek, her jaw, her lip. Her skin should have been smooth and fat, but it was dry and coarse, almost like salt, and the fine, golden hairs on her lip had become wiry, like an old woman’s. I whispered, “Oh! Dasha!”

If I thought she would be moved by my tenderness I was wrong. She remained a stone beneath my hand. I leaned even closer. My lips grazed her earlobe, and the pores of her cheek were like moon pits in the corners of my eyes. She seemed to say to me, “Is this why we came here? All this long way? Is this the salvation we were promised?”

“I’m here to help you,” I whispered.

“Who can help me now?” she seemed to say.

Her torpid breath plumed up my nostrils and reeled down my throat. “I have a daughter, she’s only a little younger than you. You two would get along. You could teach each other.”

But she said, “Look at me. Look at my young body. I’m snapped into pieces like dry crackers.”

The sun cut through the jalousies and laid a swath of gold across Dasha’s broken chest. “If you wake up right now, I’ll take you home with me, I promise!” I said.

Overwhelmed, I took hold of her shoulders. I wanted her to know there was a bond between us that nothing could sever. “You’ve seen him, too, haven’t you?” I cried. “That bastard!”

Just then the door opened.

“What are you doing here?” It was the nurse.

My hands went back into my pockets.

“I’m just visiting,” I said.

“Poor thing,” she sighed.

“I was in the same attack.” I pointed to my wounds.

“Aha,” she said.

“My doctor said I should come see her,” I explained.

“But why?”

“She said it was part of my cure. I really don’t know.”

I felt the nurse’s hand gently come to rest upon my forearm.

“Look!” I said.

“Yes?”

“She opened her eyes.”

“No, love, she didn’t.”

“She did.”

“It’s an illusion. People often think that. But if it really happened the monitor would register it.”

“You didn’t see her open her eyes?”

“I’m sorry, no.”

“It was just for a split second.”

“Sometimes people in a coma do open their eyes, but it’s just a reflex. But in this case, I was looking at her, too. It didn’t happen. You wanted it to, that’s all.”

“There was writing on them.”

“I’m sorry?”

“On her eyes. There was some kind of writing on them. I think she was trying to communicate.”

“Sweetheart, maybe it’s time for you to go home now,” she said.

“Let me show you. Look, I’ll just open her eyes.”

She tightened her grip on my arm. “Don’t touch her!”

“It’s all right,” I assured her, “really.”

She must have pressed a button or screamed or something because the room was suddenly filled with people—men actually—and they swallowed me in choke holds and armlocks and dragged me outside. Vaguely I heard Carmi saying, “I don’t know how the hell he got in. I thought he was still in his car.”

When everything finally calmed down, I said, “You can call the police if you like.”

“Look,
habibi
,” someone said, “it’s okay. We get it. You’re suffering. But get some help, okay? Get help.”

Someone else said, “There are places that specialize in that. In terrorist victims.”

“In Jerusalem. At Herzog.”

“Just go up there. Check yourself in.”

“He doesn’t have to check himself in. He just needs rest.”

“He needs help. Are you seeing a shrink?”

“But that’s who sent me here,” I said.

I looked to Carmi for some sort of support, but instead he more or less shoved me all the way to the Fiat. He waited impatiently until I started the engine and only then felt it safe to go back to his Coca-Cola and magazine. I pulled out of the driveway.

Obviously she hadn’t opened her eyes. Obviously there was no writing on them. Still, I said to myself, what had those letters meant?

I felt my head drop to the steering wheel and let out a cry of pain. I had landed on stitches that were still unhealed. I pulled the car to the side of the highway and sat there for a very long time.

Dear You,

My father is a complete a-hole and I don’t care if he reads this. Totally messed in the head. So I come home and he’s not there and this afternoon is the presentation at school, so of course I waited and waited and it was already five fifteen and I was all dressed and I don’t know, I called Shana, and her mother said we should go over together, I shouldn’t wait, we could walk. So we all walked to school. She said don’t worry, he’ll be there. Tonight was awards night, and I won third for my Green Israel project, which he helped me design, by the way. It was so stupid—I saved a seat for him and
everything, between me and Avi Issachar’s father who kept making funny noises with his nose—and I couldn’t concentrate because I kept looking at the door waiting for him, so I entirely missed them calling my name, and the principal said I guess she’s not here, and Shana’s mom yelled, “Yes, she is!” and had to nudge me. Oh God, I wanted to run out of there as fast as I could, but of course I didn’t, I just went up to the stage—and the guy from the Technion shook my hand and said something I can’t even remember although I bet it was really important, like you have a scholarship when you grow up, or here’s a million shekels or something, your idea is absolutely brilliant! Who knows what he said! I didn’t even notice the plaque in my hands until I sat down—next to an empty seat, of course. Everybody else’s father was there. Most kids had
two
parents there, even the divorced ones. I don’t care if he is a terrorist victim. I hate him.

A
LLAH
, Fashioner of Forms, Indulgent One, I pray, release me!

Was it because I didn’t go inside that stupid bus? Is this the source of Your enmity toward me? If I could do it again, I swear before You I would step on that bus! I would show no mercy! I wouldn’t care one bit about the girl with the beautiful eyes!

I have tried to talk to him, but he doesn’t listen. No matter how much I shout at him:
Guttman, go home! Your daughter is waiting for you! You have a house! You have a job! You have a life!
—he merely sits by the side of the road and mutters to himself. His lips are moving, but whatever language he is speaking—it has no words, as if nothing can come from him but vapor and bad breath. It is true what is written. Jews are the offspring of pigs and monkeys.

Allah has ordained that I tarry with this Guttman, but thoughts still urge me home, as if there were some lesson to learn from the shadows of my life. But there isn’t. There is only what happened.

We were making our way hurriedly through the souk, and I wondered with growing excitement, what will we buy? Candy? Shoes?
T-shirts? Cassettes? It was always hard to keep up with Fadi, because he walked too fast.

“Come on, little cousin,” he said to me, “you’re dragging us down. If you insist on coming along you have to keep up.”

“I’m coming,” I told him.

Partially it was because we weren’t in our little village market but in the souk in Jabal. My eyes were everywhere, and I wanted to stop and look at everything—the brilliant piles of clothing, jewelry, knives; the array of vegetables, meats, fish.

All too soon, we met up with Rafi, Kouri, and Hilal.

Rafi looked me over and said, “Why is
he
here? How old is he anyway?”

“How old are you, cousin?” Fadi asked.

“I’m twelve.”

“He’s ten, maybe nine, maybe even eight,” said Hilal.

“He’s just small for his age,” Fadi assured him.

“How old are you, really?” Hilal asked.

“Twelve,” I said.

But I wasn’t twelve. And everyone knew it.

Rafi spat on the ground. “Plus, he talks too much.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Fadi said. “Let’s just go.”

A cruel smile appeared on Hilal’s lips. “Fadi’s shadow!” he said.

Kouri was the tallest one. He said to Hilal, “We’re already late.”

They finally decided there wasn’t much they could do about me, so off we went, and it was fine with me. Then they began carousing through the stalls, knocking up against one another like wild bears, stealing an apple here or a date there, and falling into hysterical laugher. But as we walked on, their conversation became more subdued and serious, until they were talking in whispers and half sentences, like women in the back of the mosque.

“What are we talking about?” I finally asked Fadi.

“Don’t worry about it,” he answered.

We emerged from the markets and onto al-Nasser Street. From there we turned into Hassan al-Banna, which is only an alley running
between Hussein and al-Kindi, and then everyone poured into the Faisal Café. I followed, pushing myself between Fadi and Rafi.

They each ordered a nargeela.

“I want to smoke one, too,” I demanded.

“You can share mine,” Fadi said, “like brothers.”

But Rafi still wasn’t happy. “He shouldn’t be here, Fadi. It’s not right. And he’s got that big mouth.”

“No, he doesn’t, do you, Amir?”

I pressed my lips together and shook my head.

“See?”

“Fadi,” Kouri said, “he can’t come with us.”

Fadi sighed. But then a smile appeared on his face, and his broad teeth were a kind of sunshine, and his dark eyes two iridescent birds. “Amir!” he declared. “I’ve got a great idea. Come with me, okay?”

Of course I will come with you, I thought. What a stupid question! This Rafi and Kouri and Hilal—I hate them.

We walked along, the two of us, up Hassan al-Banna Street, and I asked him, “Where’re we going?”

“You’ll see.”

We made our way back to al-Nasser. And suddenly there before us—I couldn’t believe my eyes—was Matti’s Ice Cream Palace! This was the world-famous place I had only dreamed about, heard stories about, but never in my wildest dreams … since my mother would never let me go to the refugee camp, and my father always said places like that were a waste of money. But here it was, Matti’s Ice Cream Palace, and Fadi was holding the door open for me.

I stepped over the threshold. The scent of sugar and strawberries, mint and chocolate carried me along the shimmering tile floor.

The waiter pointed to a table, and Fadi motioned me to a chair as if I were some sort of emir. I sat down, and Fadi sat down right next to me, not even across the table. Without a word, he wrapped his arm around me, and I felt through my shirt the weight of his arm and the warmth of his dark skin.

“Happy?” he asked.

My tongue couldn’t find my mouth, so I only nodded.

“Maybe later we’ll go to the arcade in Beit Ibrahim,” he said.

Still no way to speak.

“You don’t want to go?”