The Jerusalem Diamond (39 page)

They went to the ancient Jewish Quarter. When it had been captured by the Arabs during the War of Independence, the synagogues and stone houses were destroyed. Now they had been recreated with loving attention to detail, and for Harry it was like walking into another time and place, so much nicer than the high-rise sickness afflicting parts of New Jerusalem.

He was quiet for a long time.

“Suppose we got one of these beautiful stone buildings,” he said finally, talking to himself as much as to her.

“As a home? One would need a good-sized family or a much smaller house.”

“No, not as a home.”

He stood in the middle of the street and studied the structures in the restored Quarter. “It would have to be a superb building. Either
an antique that has survived everything, or a very good reproduction, like these. Inside, everything simple and very Middle Eastern. Accents of luxury, only enough to relieve the starkness. Not even a sign on the door, so the world will have to learn it must find its own way to Alfred Hopeman & Son, Jerusalem … . I don't know. It might be special enough.”

She helped him through the crushing disappointment that Mehdi's yellow stone wasn't the Inquisition Diamond. They rehashed her triumph at Ein Gedi, made love, ate too many dates, and planned the finest jewelry establishment in the world. But Monday morning she turned cranky.

“I'm going to get my period,” she said that afternoon. “I think I shall go to my own apartment, Harry.”

He grabbed at it as the reason for her mood. “No, stay with me,” he said, smoothing her hair back, kissing her head. “I'll wait on you, make you feel better. Let's drive to Tiberias and stay until tomorrow night. We'll eat fish, it'll be great. You can wade in the Galilee.”

She looked at him, amused. “I can swim.”

“Then it will be even greater.”

“Do you know what I especially like about this relationship?”

“What?”

“It is so restful,” she said.

There were modern resorts on Lake Kinneret but they stayed at one of the older luxury hotels. It was dark when they arrived, and from the window of their room he could see, by the light of electric lamps on the seawall, that there had been a hatch of some kind of insect. All along the shoreline, the waters of Galilee were pocked by rising fish.

That night her breasts were sore and she had cramps, and he was programmed for abstinence by the fact that Della always lost interest before menstruating.

“I want to,” she said, and surprised him with her striving. Later he fell asleep with his hand on her belly, the window open and the almost-damp breeze of the evaporating inland sea blowing into their room. In the morning the window revealed stone quays, long gray fingers dabbling in the lake; and a fat fishing boat that puffed by like an illustration escaped from a child's book.

She was cheerful in the sun. They swam from one of the quays, which the desk clerk told them had been built by the Romans. It was a good day, not too hot, with a blue, white-streaked sky.

They saw only a few other guests, most of whom seemed to be Israelis. A potbellied old man swam a placid breaststroke, and Tamar identified him as a famous general. In the afternoon a couple appeared with two magnificent Borzoi wolfhounds. The dogs' mistress was small and thin, with toy breasts and a hard little ass, and they agreed her calf muscles meant she was a dancer. “They're rich,” Tamar said. “You have to spend a lot of time with rich people.”

“It's not a punishment. They're interesting.”

“Poor people are more interesting.” She smiled. “That's why Israel is such an interesting country.”

At dinner that night, he and Tamar were seated with the General, the owners of the Borzois, and a couple who had a travel agency and, hoist by their own petard, had spent the day touring; they told Harry more than he wanted to know about the tomb of the martyred Rabbi Meir.

They all ate bass-shaped fish with troutlike flesh, St. Peter's fish from the Galilee. The General imparted the information that they were mouthbreeders.

“How wise,” muttered Tamar, whose cramps were worse.

The travel agents looked at home in the expensive Tiberias hotel, while the wolfhound owners would have looked at home in Monaco. The woman was a Russian refugee, a former member of the Leningrad Kirov Ballet Company. She had immigrated expecting fearful struggle and culture shock and instead had found wealth, a man who manufactured television sets. The talk turned to her husband's product. Every Sunday night, all Israel rushed home to watch
All in the Family
, with Hebrew subtitles.

“How can you possibly understand it?” Harry asked, amused.

“We understand it very well, it's about the fears of a likable bigot who worries because his daughter is married to what he calls a Polack. All over Israel likable bigots are worried. Some Ashkenazis, just for an example, worry because their daughters are married to Jews from Morocco.” The industrialist studied Tamar's dark skin. “Though Moroccans are wonderful people,” he told her.

“As are Yemenites,” she said calmly.

The man raised his wineglass.

“In the end, our great-great-grandchildren will be a Jewish amalgam,” the Russian woman said.

“No, they won't be like the rest of the Jews,” Harry said.

Around the table, people looked at him.

“You think we shall end up closely resembling Moslems?” the travel-agency owner asked too politely. “Or Christians, perhaps?”

He shook his head. “You're already Israelis, a lot different from other Jews.” He finished his fish.

The General looked interested. “Tell us how we are different,” he said.

“You're winners. To exist, you've got to continue to win. The rest of us are from a long line of losers. Our visceral emotions come down from people who had to hold their breath when the authorities banged on the door. That's the kind of people who develop a love for social justice.”

The people around the table were quiet. “We come from the same people, we have the same visceral feelings. You think that because we survive, we've forgotten what it is like not to be able to control your own destiny?”

“I don't think that at all. I do think it's a danger that must be guarded against.”

“If you're so concerned with Israel's personality,” the industrialist said, carefully jovial, “why aren't you living here?”

“I'm thinking of doing just that,” Harry said levelly. The murmur of approval was like applause.

“Tell me, Mr. Hopeman. You have children?” the General asked.

“A son.”

“Would you sacrifice him? So you might continue to be a sensitive human being?”

“I don't believe in sacrifice. If the story of Abraham and Isaac is true, Abraham was insane, not religious.”

The General nodded. “We don't have to immolate our children to retain our humanity. We'll stay ready. We'll lose as few sons as possible. But Jews all over the world will continue to know there's an Israel to which they can come if necessary.”

“How old is your son?” the wife of the travel agent asked.

“Almost thirteen.”

“We have teenagers. If you settle near Haifa, contact us. We'll recommend good schools.”

“That's kind.” He felt compelled to go on. “He'll stay in America. If I come here, it will be my decision. He'll have to decide for himself, later.”

“Doesn't Israel offer enough so you can make the decision for him?” the television manufacturer asked mildly.

“I'm what used to be called a liberal,” Harry said. “I've protested. I've marched with signs. I've criticized the United States a lot. But in America's darkest moments, it never stopped being the best, most exciting, most promising country in the world for anybody, including a thirteen-year-old boy.”

A paleness had crept into Tamar's mouth and soon she made her excuses and fled. When he followed, he found her on the bed in the fetal position.

“Shall I get a doctor?”

“Don't be silly, I've already started to flow. It's always this way for me.”

“Would you like me to stay here tonight?” he asked, uncomfortably aware that he had to be in Eilat the following day.

“No. Please take me to Jerusalem.”

On the return drive she rode with her head back on the seat.

Once he glanced at her to find her studying him. “I'm sorry you didn't find the Inquisition Diamond, Harry.”

He squeezed her hand.

“Does it still exist, do you think?”

“I don't know.”

She asked him to take her to her apartment.

“We have a lot to talk about.”

“So long as it isn't tonight.”

“I'll call as soon as I get back,” he promised. At her door he kissed her lightly. “
Shalom-shalom
. Feel better, Tamar.”

“
Shalom
, my sweet Harry,” she said.

25

THE SJ DUESENBERG

He had left a request with the desk for a six
A.M.
call. The telephone seemed to wake him far too soon and he lay in bed stunned and then spent too long in the shower, but the grittiness left his eyelids and alertness returned. It would be a five-hour trip and he decided not to drive. After breakfast he went outside and hailed the first taxi that came along.

“Eilat.”

The driver goggled. “Can I call my wife?”

“Two minutes.”

He was back in less, beaming. Harry was already sprawled in the back. “Extra money if you don't talk or play the radio. I want to sleep.”

The driver turned the ignition key. “
Ai-la-lu-lu
, baby,” he said.

At eight minutes before two, standing in the bus station in Eilat, he saw Mehdi's man.

“Tresca. Over here.”

The Albanian beamed like an old friend. “Good afternoon, sair.” Harry followed him out, eager for the Duesenberg, and was led to a
Chrysler like his own second car, but a different color. One year newer, he thought.

“Anything happen to the other car?”

“No, sair. We do not use it when I must park in a town. We care for it very well.”

“Mmmm.”

Tresca drove him back in the direction the taxi had come. They traveled for more than an hour and then turned off the highway, but this time there was no need to change car plates. They kept going deeper into Israeli Sinai, bouncing along the rutted road, finally coming to a small and weatherbeaten villa that blended into the chewed-up hills. The Duesenberg was parked in the shade of the house, on the northern side.

“My friend,” Mehdi said at the door.

“How did you find this place?” Harry asked him, shaking hands.

“I didn't find it,” Mehdi said. “Bardyl found it. Bardyl finds all my places.”

“There's nothing out here.”

“Absolutely nothing,” Mehdi agreed. “A small copper works, nine kilometers to the south.”

Bardyl appeared, serving minted lemonade, and greeted him shyly. Harry drank three glasses while Mehdi made Arab-host talk and asked him details about the uncomfortable trip.

“You're going to sell that yellow stone to somebody else, aren't you?”

Mehdi studied him. “Are you prepared to pay my price, my friend?”

“No. It's too high.”

“Surely not too high for a diamond with the history of this one.”

“I don't know the history of this one. I'm certain your stone isn't the Inquisition Diamond.”

The shock on Mehdi's face was genuine, Harry was certain.

“That is beneath one such as you, Mr. Hopeman.”

“The truth is never beneath one,” Harry said.

“It
is
the Kaaba Stone!”

“No.”

“What is your proof?”

“The Kaaba is flawed. It has a serious blemish. Your diamond doesn't.

“How do you know this, about the blemish?”

“I can't tell you.”

Mehdi snorted.

“It involves an important archeological project now in progress. I can't tell you more without breaking a confidence.”

Mehdi shook his head. “I am sorry, my friend. If you presented some evidence … But the people to whom I shall sell the diamond know that it is the Kaaba. And I know it.”

“You will be selling it under false pretenses.”

“That is only your opinion,” Mehdi said stiffly. “Your doubts bother me, of course. But they are not critical to my sale of the stone. Fortunately, I shall not be selling it to you.”

“You have never intended to sell it to me,” Harry said. “Something else made you ask me here.”

“Yes.”

“The rest of the stones Farouk turned over to you?”

“I would like you to tell me when to dispose of them. I want you to set up a timetable for me to follow, and I'm willing to pay well for your advice.”

“Yet when I try to give it to you for nothing about the Kaaba, you will not take it.”