Yasmine (20 page)

On the way back from the youth village I got stuck in a traffic jam – another sign of the times – and arrived a little late to meet Professor Shadmi at the American Colony. He smelled of pipe tobacco and I thought I might get myself a pipe too – it gives a man a touch of importance. We walked over to the nearby Al-Hurriyeh.

Abu George was waiting at the entrance, and it was only a few minutes’ walk to a fine gallery of antiquities. The owner, Abu Sharif, welcomed us warmly, sat us down in the hospitality corner and exchanged polite chitchat with Abu George. Professor Shadmi carefully examined the artefacts and chose a splendid antique pottery jar and, as agreed, he left the bargaining to Abu George.

“This is our finest piece,” said the owner, looking at it lovingly. Abu George turned his hand in a gesture that asked, How much? Abu Sharif went to his desk, put on his reading glasses and declared, “Two thousand lira.”

“And for me?”

“Whatever you say.”

“Meaning what?”

“One thousand nine-hundred and fifty.”

“Is that a price for a friend?” Abu George took out his
masbaha
and began to roll the beads.

“For Yasmine, one thousand and eight-hundred.”

Abu George’s hand made a small movement indicating displeasure, as if to say, You’re shaming me. Abu Sharif lowered the price by another fifty lira.

“
Mush maakul
, unbelievable, that you’re doing this to me in front of my honourable guests…Do you know who they are?”

For a moment I feared that he would use our identities by way of pressure, and we would appear to be abusing our position for personal gain. But throughout Abu George had spoken to us in French, as if we were visitors from France, and the price went down by another fifty lira.

An Israeli officer came in with his wife and after a few minutes selected some ancient coins. The owner looked into the catalogue and named his price.

The officer asked in English, “Excuse me, but is this the final price?”

Abu Sharif took off his reading glasses, laid his hand on his breast and with a severe expression and in a slightly offended tone replied, “Of course, sir. We do not bargain.”

The officer paid up and they left.

Abu George hummed under his breath and suppressed a smile. “Can you imagine a Jordanian officer paying you like this and leaving?”

“Don’t even remind me. That lot! They drank my coffee, took whatever they fancied, and at best threw me a few coins.”

“
Wallah
, what can I say? You’re throwing us out,” Abu George said bitterly in a low voice, as if to say, Maybe I should have taken them to the rival shop.

Abu Sharif, knowing the next move, went over to his desk,
picked up the latest issue of
Falastin al-Thawra
, and said, “Abu George, have you read the interview with Musa al-Alami?” And without waiting for the reply he began to read aloud: “The Arab armies came in ’48 to defend the Palestinians from the Zionist tyranny, but abandoned them, forced them to emigrate and leave their homeland, put them in political and ideological quarantine, and threw them into ghettoes…I ask you, is this how a leader of ours should be speaking?”

In the meantime tea was brought in, and the two continued to discuss the political situation and the Arab countries, and for a while it looked as if they’d forgotten all about the purchase and turned the gallery into a debating club. The bargaining process became a battle of attrition between the two sides. At one point Abu George became annoyed and stood up as if to go. The gallery owner put on a grim expression.

“
Tayeb
, all right,” he said. “Final price: one thousand and fifty lira.”

“We’ve known each other for twenty years, haven’t we, Abu Sharif? You’re like a cousin to me, and if after all this…And for a few measly lira…I don’t know what to think,” said Abu George, clearing his throat as if words failed him.

It was obvious that Abu Sharif was uncomfortable, and to gain time he offered Abu George a pinch of snuff. He was about to offer some to us, but Abu George stopped him with a glance that said, Can’t you see they are French? What would they do with your snuff?

“There used to be honour among us, a sense of shame, Arab generosity. Where has it all gone?” muttered Abu George as if talking to himself, staring vaguely into space. After a few hearty sneezes he stood up. “
Esma
, listen brother. Wrap up that jar and with it the little pitcher beside it and this plate, and take what’s
owing to you.” He took out a bundle of notes and began to count them, with Abu Sharif’s sharp eyes watching his fingers. Abu George put nine hundred lira on the table.

“The pitcher and the plate alone cost three-hundred and fifty lira, I swear by my children,” Abu Sharif said mournfully.

“
Yallah
, brother, pack it up and let us go,” Abu George pronounced the final verdict.

Outside Professor Shadmi shook Abu George’s hand, thanked him warmly and invited him and Um George, Yasmine and me to his house for a drink.

“What wouldn’t I do for you,” said Abu George, looking pleased.

“Bargaining is a confusing experience. You always come out feeling you’ve been had,” I said.

“Bargaining is an art form with its own laws,” opined Professor Shadmi. “It’s a subtle and oblique power play expressing the natural interests of the two sides, until they reach equilibrium. It also calls for considerable dramatic talent and knowing how far you can pull the rope without breaking it. In short, it’s a whole subject that needs studying, and not everyone has the inborn ability for it, like tightrope walking.”

“Bless your brilliant tongue, Abu Mehammed,” said Abu George. “It’s part of the ancient civilisation of the East that the modern West doesn’t fully understand and despises as untrustworthy and silly pretence. ‘You can’t take them at their word,’ they say, with superficial condescension. Only a few see it as you do…And now, gentlemen, let me invite you to lunch.”

“Many thanks, but Mrs Shadmi will kill me if I break my diet,” the professor winked, hailed a taxi and went off.

Aliza came into my office and put a jug of cold water and a bundle of letters on my desk. A pretty blue envelope addressed in
English caught my eye. Inside was a poem with a note that said, “Dear Nuri, when we met at Al-Hurriyeh after the dinner at my house you read me a poem. Here is another one. Yasmine.”

The Face of the Homeland by Tadeusz Rózewicz:

I folded the note and the poem, tucked them back into the pretty envelope and put it in a drawer. The naughty girl, when we met this morning she said nothing about sending me a letter.

Michelle phoned and asked me to join her on a family picnic by the sea on Saturday. I tried to put her off, saying I had a lot of work to do, but couldn’t resist her urging. “Please come, I need you. Helene and Robert, my sister and brother-in-law, who happens to be my future husband’s business partner, are here, and they’ve joined my sick mother in pressuring me to get married. They won’t give me a moment’s peace unless you’re there.”

We left early in her Peugeot 404, which she had bought tax-free as a privileged new immigrant. After a smooth ride, and sooner than I expected, we arrived at an attractive site between Herzliya and Kibbutz Gaash. Settling under a big beach umbrella facing the calm sea, we enjoyed the salty breeze. Helene and Michelle set a lavish picnic table from which rose tantalising smells of smoked fish, choice salamis and, naturally, strong French mustard.

Robert produced wine from the vineyard he owned with Jean-Claude. He poured a glass for each of us and breathing deeply he said in a solemn tone, “Just sniff! Sniff!”

I did, and smelled an aroma that caressed my nasal passages. We raised our glasses and I was pleasantly surprised by the smooth, lively taste, delicate and not rough on the throat.
Michelle was affectionate, obviously in control of things, and I admit I co-operated with her. I knew I was helping to show her family that her life did not depend on Jean-Claude.

After a number of glasses Robert declared that he was hoping to settle on the West Bank and start a big winery. “Can you help me with this, Nuri?” he asked, and suddenly I wasn’t enjoying the wine quite as much.

“I know nothing about it. What do you need to start a winery?”

“Grapes!” he laughed.

“Why now?”

“The wars are finished, my friend! It is time for wine, for restaurants. You deserve to live like human beings, like the French and the Scandinavians, to occupy your minds with the really big issues, like where to go on holiday, where to have fun.”

“The Messianic age, no less!”

“A normal life,
mon
cher
, that’s all. You people don’t know how to live, and if you’ll forgive me, you could learn something from us,” he said, stroking Helene’s arm.

“It’s useless talking to him about leisure,” said Michelle. “It was hard enough getting him to come out with us today. And he’s never been abroad in his life.”

“Why on the West Bank in particular?” I asked.

“Because there it’s possible to grow high-quality grapes. We found Bordeaux-quality grapes in Bethlehem and Hebron.”

“And if we give the territories back?”

“Why should you? Because of some Leftist Israeli intellectuals who suffer from a double guilt complex – as if we crucified both Jesus and the Palestinians? If I’d known that you read French I’d have brought you some of their articles in
Le Monde
. Why should we give up the land that was conquered
with our blood?” He lit a cigar and flung the match on to the sand.

“Take it easy, Robert. Those intellectuals are not the left, they are advocates for the Palestinians,” said Michelle. She took Helene’s hand and they went for a swim.

A young couple were playing with a bat and ball nearby. The regular thump of the ball against the wooden bats was the backdrop to Robert’s grandiose speeches about “the land of our forefathers”. I felt like telling him he should come over here first, serve in the army and pay taxes, before setting up his winery in Samaria. He talked as if he was one of the old pioneers, eager to take his place, and from his residence in Paris compose another verse for the pioneer song “We shall be the first”.

The woman playing beside us was young and tall, with shapely thighs. She moved lightly over the sand, but her strokes were powerful. God had given this woman so much beauty, grace and charm. Who could say what was best about her – her hair, face, shoulders, breasts, waist, hips, thighs? She was fantastic.

“You see what I see, huh?” Robert winked at me. He was dipping sausages in mustard and chewing happily. “Eat some of these sausages, they are kosher,” he urged me. He poured more wine, following the same ritual as before – sniffing it first and sighing with delight. “Wine has a delicate soul,” he explained. “It needs a loving home, the right temperature and darkness. Light and heat can make it lose its flavour.”

I joined Michelle and Helene in the sea and lay without moving in the salt water, floating like a tarred fishing boat on the Tigris. A rare calm enveloped me. I must bring Yasmine here, I thought.

In the late afternoon, as the Sabbath ended, we returned to Jerusalem. Back in her apartment and after a shower, Michelle embraced me. An invigorating scent like that of a fresh melon wafted around her while in the background was the passionate voice of the French-Armenian singer Charles Aznavour.

Michelle kissed me. “
Ooh la la
! You’re still drunk.”

I was thinking about Aznavour, feeling that I’d just grasped the distinct quality of his singing. It was a blend of overflowing heart with the melancholy of a refugee clinging to a slender branch.

“Yesterday I had a weird day with your Yasmina,” Michelle’s voice came through. “She curdled my brain talking about that Negro, that Franz Fanon of hers…”

“Franz Fanon?…Ah yes, the intellectual guru she talked about when I brought her to the youth village.”

“She says, quoting him, that ‘racism creates psychological structures which prevent the black man from perceiving to what extent he is enslaved by the pseudo-universal white norm, and that the racist culture destroys the mental health of the black person,’ and so on and so forth…”

“What’s it got to do with us?” I asked.

“Don’t you see the analogy? Clearly she is drawing a parallel between the Negroes and the Palestinians. In her eyes we are white racist colonialists. I told you your Yasmina is a tough case…”

“That’s enough, you’re doing my head in.”

Michelle’s face froze.

I stopped myself. Why was I taking it out on her? “I’m sorry…I had a really awful argument with my boss and I’ve no strength left for any more aggro.”

“Something is eating at you the whole time,” she said.

“Ideas, doubts.”

“A revolution needs decisive people, not the Prince of Denmark. Maybe this job isn’t right for you.”

I said nothing.

“Why didn’t you take me to the dinner party at Abu George’s?”

I was stumped for an answer. “Well…I thought it would be a boring formal dinner…”

“You don’t even know how to live,” she declared.

I stood up and spread my arms wide. Michelle apparently interpreted this as an invitation to dance and she came into my embrace. I took hold of her waist and we moved slowly. Her body felt soft and her eyes were dreamy, but I felt dizzy. “I must sit down,” I said.

“You never forget yourself, do you. Your mind is always in control, always working. You want coffee?”

“Water – and coffee,” I said to please her.

“Your Yasmina has a Palestinian friend in Paris, did you know?” she asked, looking at my face. “Fayez is his name. He’s also an admirer of Fanon. She says Fayez has concluded that our occupation has created the Palestinian nation, and that only their peasants and the refugees will liberate the Palestinians from the colonial yoke of Israel. Do you understand?”

“Interesting, with me she’s never discussed these ideas.”

“She’s cleverer than you think,” Michelle declared and sat on my lap. “You haven’t given me one kiss today, and you haven’t even noticed that I have a new hairdo,” she whispered.

“I was waiting for the right moment,” I said, my hand on her back.

“Yes, yes,
mon amour
, stroke my back, it makes me feel so
good, go on…” She unbuttoned my shirt and led me to the bed.

My head felt heavy. I shouldn’t have drunk so much wine. I wanted to sleep, to curl up in my own shell. How will I drive home? Perhaps I should stay. Michelle silenced the music.

“The light,” I pleaded. “Turn it off.”

“I like it in the light,” she insisted, muttering words of love in French. I echoed them in her ears, until my head sank into the pillow and I slept soundly.

When I woke up I dragged myself to the shower, her cave of fragrances. After a while she joined me, a glass of white wine in one hand and a Gitane in the other. I could only envy her free spirit. I dressed quickly, bashful about standing there naked.

“You’re not staying?”

“Sorry, I don’t have a toothbrush or a razor…”

“I got them for you,” she opened a drawer and showed me.

“I need a change of clothes.”

She looked at me sharply. “Why are you leaving me alone?”

I avoided her eyes and went out into the cool autumn night. I started the car and suddenly felt a cry rising inside me: Yasmine! Yasmine! Damn you! Why are you an Arab, a Christian, a Palestinian? Why? Come to me. I want to love you in Arabic and in Hebrew and in all the languages of the world. I want to make babies with you. Yasmine, Yasmine, Yasmine, where are you? I hit the steering wheel repeatedly.

I stopped the car. Take it easy, I told myself.. Don’t gamble with your life. That’s one sure way to lose Yasmine. And tonight, after all that drinking, what you really need is a bucket beside the bed.