The Hilltop (7 page)

The leader of the demonstration, a thin, spectacled young man with a prominent, square jaw, bellowed slogans into a megaphone: “Cease construction of the fence! End the theft of Palestinian land! Stop the government-supported expansion of the outposts! No more settlers!” He was standing at the forefront of a small group of youths wearing T-shirts emblazoned with the logo of the left-wing Meretz party, a handful of anarchists, a number of silver-haired individuals from the old generation of the Peace Now movement, and the attractive protestor. Across from them were a number of folks Roni recognized, among them Gabi. Roni approached him and rested a hand on his shoulder. “Great action, brother!”

“I'm pleased you're enjoying yourself,” Gabi said, and smiled, and then went on to explain why so few of the outpost's residents had bothered to show up. It's Friday, the women are baking cakes for the Sabbath and are cooking meals for the coming twenty-four hours; the boys and girls are helping in the kitchen or looking after their younger siblings; and the men are returning from errands in Jerusalem.

“Who's that orange one?” Roni asked, gesturing with his eyebrows in the direction of one of the woman settlers, who was wearing an orange head scarf.

“Ah, yes, that's Neta Hirschson, she wouldn't miss this for the world,” Gabi responded.

The woman marched purposefully toward the demonstrators, fixed them with a stare, and began shouting: “You should be ashamed of yourselves! Enemies of Israel! It's all over; your rule has ended! You had your chance and you failed! You had Peres, you had Rabin, you had Oslo. And you're still shooting your mouths off ? What chutzpah! After the things you did to this country, you should be ashamed to show your faces here!”

Someone answered her, “Land thieves! Criminals! You're stealing the budgets of the development towns and the poor! You're wasting the soldiers' time! You're shaming us around the world, the country is sick of you!”

And Neta responded, “Lunatics! No one gives a shit about you! So much self-hatred! Look at you, groveling at the feet of the Arab enemy! You have no God, you have no future! Get out of here, you won't achieve a damn thing!”

And the other one, “You're contemptible. Here you are, living at our expense, on our taxes and our blood, with our children in the army to protect you, and yet you're still complaining? Take a look at yourself, teaching your kids to be bullies and to hate! What happened to ‘All Jews bear responsibility for one another'? What happened to ‘Love thy neighbor as thyself'? Enough with the hatred! Down with the fence!”

And it was on that precise point that Neta refrained from differing with the protestor. She had already heard from Othniel and Hilik that the planned fence would encroach on the settlement's land. Besides, the entire idea of the fence, which created a border and, for all intents and purposes, created a Palestinian state in the Land of Israel, was contemptible to the core.

“Yes, down with the fence,” Neta yelled.

“Stop the barrier from running through here,” the left-wing demonstrator shouted back.

“Stop the barrier from running through here,” the settler cried out. And for one brief moment, the two united, like two ends meeting to form a circle, but the harmony was soon shattered when a soldier approached the demonstrator and was greeted loudly with “What's your name, you piece of shit? Don't you dare touch me!”

Neta watched the protestor walk away, still mumbling “You'll stop at nothing” and “Go back to where you came from” in a lowered voice, perhaps to herself. She then glanced at her watch and quickly headed toward home; she had a booking with a client from Ma'aleh Hermesh A. who needed an urgent pre-Sabbath manicure and pedicure.

Aside from the incident involving Neta and her rival, the demonstration passed quietly. The soldiers who had been deployed from the outpost remained idle. And when it was over, Roni kept track of the attractive demonstrator. He saw her approach the Palestinian who had been eyeing her earlier. Son of a bitch. The two exchanged words. Roni moved closer. The woman handed over some money to the Palestinian and received a large metal container in return. Someone else, also in an End the Occupation shirt, produced some cash in exchange for another container. Roni edged nearer. The braless woman looked at him and he responded in kind.

“You should be ashamed of yourselves,” she blurted out, and walked off. The Palestinian's eyes followed her for a few seconds, and then he turned to Roni and winked.

“What's all this?” Roni asked, gesturing toward the Arab's wares.

“Olive oil, dirt cheap,” the Palestinian said.

“How much is dirt cheap?”

“Eighteen liters, three hundreds of shekels.”

Roni did the math in his head—a little over fifteen shekels a liter, less than four dollars. Cheap indeed. “Two-fifty and it's a deal?”

The Palestinian smiled. “No, three hundreds of shekels. Dirt cheap,” he said.

The two men looked at each other. Roni fixed his stare, hoping the Arab would break. He recalled a business school lecture from his time in New York. The professor had said that all commercial negotiations—whether they be haggling in a marketplace or merger talks between two giant conglomerates—were a duel in which body language played a decisive role. The Arab stared back at him, refusing to back down.

“What's your name?” Roni asked, wrinkling an eyebrow in the direction of the olive farmer.

“Musa Ibrahim,” replied Musa Ibrahim, a well-built man with a white mustache and white hair that started far back on his scalp, in stark contrast to his tanned skin.

“Pleased to meet you. Roni Kupper,” said Roni Kupper, extending a hand. Musa shook it. “So, you say there's a chance I can get you down to two-fifty?” Roni inquired.

“Did I say there was?” Musa smiled.

Roni took out his wallet, which he had found one day in the snow in New York, and opened it. “Well, look at that, bro, I'm spending my very last shekel on your oil,” he said, counting out a total of exactly 292 shekels in notes and coins, shrugging apologetically. Musa snatched angrily at the handful, and Roni hoisted the tin container onto his shoulder and turned around.

T
he Sabbath settled on the hilltop like a shawl on hair, pleasing and soft.

The soldiers went off to rest. The left-wingers were gone. And the distributor Moran's pickup truck was already on its way westward carrying crates of asparagus, mushrooms, cherry tomatoes, and arugula, as well as cartons of yogurt and goat-milk cheese—all bearing the label Gitit Farms, named after the Assis family's firstborn daughter, and Moran's address in the Sharon region of the country.

Gabi, with the help of the slightly built Yakir Assis, gathered up a large piece of canvas that read
STOP THE EXPANSION OF OUTPOSTS UNDER GOVERNMENT PROTECTION
—they'd use it to help fence off Othniel's fields, which were already demarcated by stretches of canvas bearing the slogans
END THE OCCUPATION AND TWO STATES FOR TWO NATIONS
, in response to a long length of canvas glorifying Rabbi Nachman of Breslov that the Arabs of Kharmish used during olive-harvesting time.

The Sabbath settled on the hilltop like a veil on the shoulders of a bride, quiet and airy.

Roni made his way to his brother's home, the eighteen-liter jerry can of olive oil digging deep into his shoulder. The air filled with the smell of meals being prepared. He could hear the rustling of pages of weekend newspapers being turned. A young girl slept soundly in a hammock in one of the yards. The dogs, Condoleezza and Beilin, gnawed on bones. A dusty sedan, laden with bags and children, unloaded a visiting family that had arrived from God knows where to spend the Sabbath on the hilltop.

Final pre-Sabbath preparations were under way in Gabi's home: his cell phone was switched off, the Sabbath hotplate was switched on, light switches were flipped up or down, toilet paper was torn into measured lengths, for the twenty-four hours ahead. The Sabbath dropped down
like a generator that had crashed. The outpost's generator crashed, and came back to life just minutes before the deadline. A siren heralding the Sabbath was barely heard coming from distant urban neighborhoods. The Sabbath came down like a setting sun, to the accompaniment of soft gusts of wind.

“What's that?”

“Olive oil, man. Eighteen liters for two-ninety shekels, a great deal,” Roni responded. “It's on me, my brother, use as much as you need. There's enough here for months.”

“I thought you were broke. And suddenly now you're spending three hundred on oil?”

Roni plucked a cigarette from the sky-blue box. “I had just the right amount,” he said.

Gabi looked at him, astonished. “Are you telling me you spent your last three hundred on olive oil? What are you going to do now?”

Roni bent over to reach into his sock and retrieved a purple banknote. “They weren't my last,” he said. “Look, I have another fifty. And some dollars, too. I'm going to need a little help in the meantime.”

“I don't get you. Do you expect me to fork over money? All I earn, I spend on my home and food. And why buy from the Arabs? We have excellent olive oil here, made by Jewish hands. I have some in the kitchen.”

Roni went into the kitchen. He opened several cupboards before he found the bottle, which still bore its price tag. He did the math in his head again, and his eyes widened. “Dude! It's almost twice the price!”

“And right before Sabbath, no less,” Gabi continued. “You appear out of nowhere, without forewarning, you won't tell me what has happened, and say you'll be staying. I said you were welcome, but now all of a sudden, you're asking for money . . . Didn't you make millions in America? Where did that go?”

Roni smoked in silence and looked out toward the olive groves of Kharmish. His brain kept doing math.

“And I'd rather you didn't smoke inside. Certainly not on the Sabbath.” Gabi went to his bedroom to take his white Sabbath clothes out of the closet.

Roni stubbed out his cigarette and called after him, “There we go, it's out.”

“Why have you come here?”

“Do you want me to leave?”

Gabi returned to the living room, buttoning his shirt. “No, I'm pleased you're here. But what happened?”

The brothers exchanged a long stare. Neither backed down. Roni's face finally broke into a smile. “Nothing, I've already told you,” he said. “I simply need some space, that's all.” But the smile had faded, and the stare went on.

“What kind of trouble have you gotten yourself into, Roni?” Gabi asked, the doubt in his eyes deepening. “Will anyone come looking for you?”

“No, no, what are you worrying about? You've always been one, a worrier. Take it easy.”

Gabi backed down. “I'm not worried. An eye that sees and an ear that hears, and all your deeds are written in a book,” he said. “Are you coming to prayers? At the very least, come help make up a minyan if we are short.”

Roni smiled. “Sure, I'll be there. Go, go, I know where the synagogue is. I'm just going to change my shirt and I'll come. Start without me.”

*  *  *

After the door closed behind Gabi, Roni rose from his seat, went over to the window by the door, pulled back the curtain, and watched his brother walking off down the path. An eye that sees, an ear that hears, what's all that crap? He chuckled. He returned to the living room, heading straight over to the shelf on which his brother had left his cell phone. Roni switched it on. He sat on the sofa, the phone in his hand, and forced his eyes shut. He struggled to remember a number he hadn't used in a long time. Finally, he dialed.

“Hello.”

“Ariel? It's Roni.”

The line went quiet for three or four seconds. “Roni! Really? Where are you? I can't believe it. Holy crap! What's up? Have you popped over for a visit?”

“Yes. No . . . Never mind. I'll explain another time, I'm a little rushed now. All okay with you?

“Never a dull moment with you, is there? Fucking hell.”

“Are you still married? Still at the office? Still looking for business opportunities?” Roni asked, knowing all too well that the answers to all would be yes. Ariel was one of the most stable people he knew. Aside from losing his hair, and perhaps having children, he would never change. And that's why Roni had called him. He was a drab accountant, not one of the Tel Aviv bunch, whom Roni wanted to avoid. Ariel lived in Herzliya.

“Do you know of a business opportunity?” Ariel asked.

Roni smiled to himself. “Three hundred shekels for eighteen liters of olive oil, is that a good deal?”

“I'll check it out. Is it good olive oil?”

“Good isn't the half of it. It's the crème de la crème of olive oils. Straight from the tree and into the bottle.”

“Organic? Organic's the rage now.”

“Of course it is. Originally organic,” Roni said, glancing over at the unlabeled tin container.

“Which press does it come from?”

“Which press? Roni and Musa Limited. Who cares which press?” Roni said.

“Musa? Where are you? Okay, give me two minutes, I'll get back to you. You've caught me on a Friday afternoon, but I know who to call.”

Roni used the time to rummage through his suitcase and find a nice shirt. He then went into the bathroom to roll on deodorant under his arms, apply a spray of cologne, and put the shirt on.

Ariel called back. “That's rock-bottom,” he said. “Good olive oil sells in the stores in Tel Aviv for at least forty a liter, and olive oil boutique stores have begun sprouting up in the city. Have you seen them? It's madness. I have a friend who's a partner in one, the Olive Boutique, on Rothschild Boulevard. Do you know it?”

“I haven't been to Tel Aviv in years, Ariel. That's why I'm calling you.”