Look for Me (32 page)

I knew at once that he would help me. I went up to him, showed him my permit, and said, “I need to get to Qal’at al-Maraya.” I had no idea whether news of my arrest had reached him. In any case, he nodded and without taking his hands out of his pockets indicated with a movement of his head that I could pass through.

I turned around and began walking down the road toward Qal’at al-Maraya. I had no idea how I would pass the second checkpoint, the one with the violent soldier, but I’d find a way. Nothing could stop me.

A taxi slowed down next to me, and even though I would have preferred to walk, I couldn’t refuse. The drive to the checkpoint
was very short and the driver wanted to charge me half a shekel. It was a ridiculously low amount, even for a short ride. I gave him ten shekels and he was very grateful. As I stepped out he surprised me by saying, “Thank you for what you did. You were very brave.” I wondered by what remarkable system of communication word spread so quickly in the strip.

I joined the long queue of bodies at the checkpoint. Everyone was dusty, miserable and fretful. They clutched documents; they were hot; some of the children were too tired to stand, and their parents held them until the parents were also tired. Many of the people in line were sick. One or two hobbled on crutches, and several sat by the side of the road, pale and feverish. I could have been at some nineteenth-century procession at Lourdes, except that no one here expected a miracle.

Progress was very slow and it took me an hour to reach the barrier. The kid with the earring stared at me in amazement. He couldn’t believe I was back. He called over an officer, a huge man with a blank, narrow face and sunglasses that returned your own reflection when you looked at them. The officer kept gulping water from a canteen he held in his left hand.

He said, “Weren’t you told that we don’t want to see you again?”

“I need to get in. Please. I’m going to see my husband,” I said. “He lives here.”

The officer was confused. “You’re married to a Palestinian?”

“No, he just lives here.”

“Wait.”

He disappeared into a little hut covered with rubbery camouflage. When he came out a few minutes later, he said, “You can’t go in. Especially you. If you don’t leave I have instructions to arrest you.”

“I have a permit.”

“Your permit is void.”

“I want to see my husband.”

“It isn’t up to me.”

“I won’t leave until you let me through.”

“You will leave.”

“No I won’t.” I sat down on the ground.

The officer bent down and lifted me. “You’re quite light,” he said. He slung me over his shoulders, carried me to a closed army van, and came inside with me. The van smelled of rust, sweat, and rancid food; its floor and walls were filthy and the seats were covered with sticky black dirt. The man seemed much too big for the small compartment.
Fe fi fo fum
, I thought.
I smell the blood of an Englishman.
My father used to read me that story.

“Please let me through. Please. I want to see my husband. I haven’t seen him in eleven years.” I stared at his sunglasses, at my own distorted face in the silvery lenses.

“Maybe he doesn’t want to see you.”

“He does. He really does.”

“What the hell is he doing living in a Palestinian city?”

“Hiding.”

“What did you do to him?” he joked.

“It isn’t funny.”

“He must be a bit wrong in the head. What do you need that for? You’re better off without him, believe me. Smoke?”

“No thanks.”

He lit a cigarette and looked at me, or at least I assumed he was looking at me; I couldn’t be sure because of his glasses. He smiled cynically. “So, Dana, Dana. What are we going to do with you, Dana?”

“I’m not leaving.”

“We’ll just have to take you back, then. It may take a while, though.”

“Fine. Then I’ll come back another time and I’ll just sneak in and I’ll get shot and it will be your fault,” I said. “Because nothing is going to stop me. I’ve waited eleven years and if I can’t see my husband I don’t care if I live or die. And it’s going to be your fault, yours personally. You’ll see my picture in the paper and you’ll know I died because of you.”

He was upset when I said that. I couldn’t tell by looking at his face, but I sensed it in his body, in the air between us.

“You can’t sneak in.”

“Yes I can. I’ll just bypass the roadblock, or run through. And some guard will order me to stop and I won’t and he’ll think I’m Palestinian and he’ll shoot me. Or else some militant will think I’m a settler and kill me. Either way, I’ll die.”

He paused, and I could see him trying to decide what to do. Finally he made up his mind. “Okay. okay, I’ll let you through.”

“Thank you.”

“How long are you planning to stay?”

“I don’t know. Not long.”

“I’m trusting you.”

“Do I look like a dangerous person?”

“Looks don’t mean anything. And your husband—well, he’s gone over to the other side. He’s obviously dangerous.”

“My husband is a recluse. He was burned in an accident in the army, he’s disfigured, that’s why he’s hiding.”

“What kind of stupid reason is that?”

“You’re right, it’s stupid.”

“I never heard of such a thing. It’s bullshit. He’s obviously not telling you everything. Be careful, don’t trust him. You’re too trusting, I can see that.”

“Okay.”

“And you … eleven years. Why can’t you face the fact that he’s lost interest in you? You remind me of my girlfriend. Three
years she wouldn’t get the message—I had to get a court order in the end. What is it with you women?”

“I don’t know.”

“You can go. Be careful, Dana. Use your head.”

I desperately needed a few minutes alone. I ducked behind a tree and tried to make myself very small as I slid to the ground, my back against the trunk. A faint, damp smell of sewage water hung in the air, and the current crop on this patch of land was cigarette butts. My body felt brittle, as if my veins had turned into electric wires. I remembered dreams I’d had when my mother died: I would lift a panel on my skin and discover that I was made not of flesh and bone but of robot parts and batteries. I reached into my bag and touched the soft silk of the dressing gown. It now seemed a very odd thing to do, bringing a silk dressing gown to this place—like clutching at a box of candy during a shipwreck. But I didn’t care. Touching the dressing gown comforted me.

I took my phone out of my pocket and called Rafi. This time he answered. “I’m so glad you called. I heard what happened from Ella. Are you all right?”

“Ella called you?”

“I called her, after I got your message.”

“Well, I got through. I got past the checkpoint, I’m on my way to Qal’at al-Maraya.”

“Where are you?”

“I’m sitting on the side of the road at the moment. Hiding behind a tree.”

“Ella said you were arrested. She said some asshole beat you.”

“Yeah, but I’m fine now. The main thing is that I got through.”

“You’re okay?”

“Yes. Rafi?”

“I’m here.”

“I love you.”

“Thank you for calling, Dana.”

“I’ll always love you.”

“I’ll expect that in triplicate, please. By Tuesday at the latest.”

“I felt really bad a few minutes ago, but I’m better now.”

“Be careful, Dana.”

“I’m already a hero here.”

“Just be careful. No one trusts anyone, and that includes you.”

“I think I’m only about twenty minutes from the city. Oh … I’ve been found.” Five teenage boys and two little girls had emerged out of nowhere. They appeared to be brothers and sisters. “I have to go,” I said. “I’ll call you later. I promise.” I rose and smiled at the kids.

“Hi, how are you?” a thin boy wearing black rubber boots asked me in English.

“Fine. How are you?”

“Where from?”

“South Africa.”

“Welcome, welcome. Stay with us in house?”

“I can’t. I’m on my way to see my husband.”

“You want almond?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“I go bring,” the boy said. He gave the other children instructions, and dashed away.

“Brothers and sisters?” I asked.

The smallest girl nodded. She was a bright little thing, and I was not surprised that she already understood English.

The boy returned almost instantly with almonds wrapped in newspaper. “Thank you,” I said. I took out my wallet and gave them five shekels, each. They were delighted, and began debating
among themselves in Arabic; my guess was that they were trying to decide whether to ask for more, seeing as I was both a millionaire and generous.

“I have to go now,” I said. “Be careful,” I added. The boy burst out laughing. He translated what I’d said to the others, and they all laughed.

“Be careful, not die!” the boy echoed. “Be careful!” Then he led his troupe away.

I turned toward the road and an empty transit stopped immediately.

“I have to get to Qal’at al-Maraya.” I showed the driver the address.

“I take you,” he said. He was a lined, leathery man who looked as though he’d spent his entire life resisting the elements, with only partial success.

My heart began beating fast again as we drove. When we entered the city, I began to tremble.

“Qal’at al-Maraya,” the driver announced proudly.

I stared out of the window and tried to calm down. I remembered the first time I saw the city, how surprised I was by its size. High-rises, wide streets, boulevards lined with palm trees, hundreds of new sun-bleached apartment and office buildings, wealthy suburbs that looked like country clubs. The poorer areas were lively and noisy, and seemed shielded by the powerful presence of the sea. At dusk, a soft mauve light enveloped the entire city like a veil.

“It’s changed a little since I was last here,” I told the transit driver.

He sighed and shook his head. “Yes, many change. Look.” He slowed down as we passed a scene of devastation: collapsed buildings, piles of rubble, broken glass everywhere. In big red letters someone had scrawled on the remains of a wall,
Gift from America.
The wall was riddled with holes.

“Here fifteen dead. Four children, one baby.”

There were other signs of distress in the city. Stores were closed and there was graffiti everywhere. Litter had accumulated on the sidewalks and several lampposts were bent out of shape. Skinny cats dashed behind cars; a garbage pail had rolled into the middle of the road and the driver had to stop the car and move the pail to the sidewalk. Very few people were out on the streets.

“You visit friend?”

“Husband.”

“Yes? Good. Family good.”

He drove to the northern end of the city and stopped in front of an unusual house, oval instead of square or rectangular, with three nearly identical sections one on top of the other, a little like a wedding cake.

“This it,” the driver said.

“Thank you.”

“You want I wait?”

“No thanks, I’m staying for a while. Is twenty shekels okay?”

“God protect you,” he said. “You are brave, you help our people.
Ma’ salame.”

I climbed the five stairs leading to the door of the house and knocked. I was barely breathing.

Daniel opened the door and let me in. His eyes had not changed, they were exactly the same. His face was unrecognizable, though. He looked like a wrinkled Martian.

I glanced around me. The room was oblong, with gently curving corners and a spiral wooden staircase at one end. It was filled with sculptures, some life-size and others very small. The large ones were white stone and the small ones were painted clay. They were all of me.

Rage swept through my body like something blind that was looking for a way out. I had never felt such anger before. I
began hitting Daniel with my fists. I didn’t care where my fists landed. He put his arms up to protect himself, but I didn’t stop, and finally he took my wrists in his hands. I pulled away, turned my back to him. I walked over to the nearest table, picked up a brightly painted clay sculpture and smashed it on the floor.

“I liked that one,” Daniel said. His voice was also the same: it was the voice I had fallen in love with, loved still.