Читать книгу Haifa Fragments - khulud khamis - Страница 11

3

When she woke up, daylight was slithering away from the souk, making space for the lazy hue of the evening. Ziyad was gone. She reached to feel the spot where he had been sitting; it was still warm.

She quickly ran down the stairs to catch Abu Nidal’s last finjan of kahwa, still wearing her gallabiyya, having to hold it up so she wouldn’t stumble. She heard some children laughing from one of the balkons.

“Look, look, like what old men wear in film Misri! Walla!”

An involuntary laugh escaped her; she stopped, looked up and did some dabka steps for the kids. They jumped up and down, delighted with their reward. Majnouny all the way.

Back in her apartment, she settled on the diwan with her sketchbook. Need something exquisite here for the Yahudiyya, the Jewish woman. She went through her most recent sketches, the ones inspired by traditional Palestinian dresses. No, she’d probably want something abstract and modern. Not anything that would remind her of a history she’d rather delete.

She had practically stumbled upon Giveret Amalia a couple of weeks before in Hadar, when she was on her way to meet Ziyad. She was texting him and bumped into the elderly lady. The lady looked at her in scorn and mumbled something under her breath. Maisoon apologized and was about to walk off when the lady caught her arm a bit too forcefully.

“Wait,” she said, her face softening just a fraction. “Where did you get that necklace?”

Maisoon’s hand went up to her neck, she felt the cool stone on her fingers. “I made it, I’m a jewellery designer.”

The lady studied Maisoon’s dark face, connecting it to her accent. She thought for a moment, then took out a card from her shoulder bag. “Here, call me at this number tomorrow morning at 9.30.” She turned around and walked away, leaving Maisoon standing there with the card in her hand, people swishing around her. Amalia’s Jewellery.

On the phone the following day, Amalia skipped small-talk and asked Maisoon to bring some sample pieces of her work to her boutique. She didn’t go into any details about business; once they’d arranged a time she hung up. Maisoon was thankful that she’d been smart enough to schedule their meeting for the following Friday, which gave her just enough time to put together a sample that was representative of her work without compromising her style.

She leafed through the sketchbook but couldn’t focus. The images were moving around on the pages. The rings looked like snails and the bracelets took the form of knotted olive tree trunks. She moved to her worktable, pushing everything into a heap on the side—Ziyad was always complaining about the chaos, how can you work in such disorder?—and spread the velvet roll on the surface. She scanned the earrings and necklaces. Light blue and red beads. Translucent grey and purple stones. The yellow light that licked the jewellery made her squint.

She was still moving the pieces around in no particular order when her mobile rang—it was Shahd. Since the two nights they’d shared—one on this side of the world and the second on the other—they were on the phone at least once a day.

“Salam from the mukhayyam, habibti!” Shahd’s voice came through fresh and spicy. “Mansour is taking some men through on Tuesday night and asked if I wanted to breathe for a couple of days. Is your diwan still on offer? I’d have to spend the night.”

“Let me think about it,” Maisoon teased, “hmmm … yup, I think it should be available. But not for free.” She looked at the roll of jewellery, “You’ll have to pay for your stay by helping me figure out the pieces for the Yahudiyya.”

The following morning, Maisoon was woken by the clanking of crates being stacked on top of one another, in preparation for the big Eid. She took her kahwa to the narrow balkon and sat on a wicker chair, savouring the smell of the souk in the morning as much as she despised it in the evening. Wafts of fresh fruit—guava, saber, teen—swirled around her, carried by the gentle naseem. In these moments, she understood why people stayed on in the Wad, refusing to move on. It was the comfort in knowing that Um Muhammad would be there the next day with her fresh vegetables, that Abu Nidal would always have kahwa on the little coffee table ready for anybody who cared to sit with him and talk, that Um Tawfiq’s laundry would be fluttering in the naseem on her balkon. Nothing would be changing any time soon. No new stones would be put in place of the old.

She finished her kahwa and went inside to choose the right outfit for today’s meeting. She didn’t want to look too Arab but neither did she want to look like she was trying to shed her identity. She felt a burden descending on her as she recalled the awkward moments of non-recognition, “What’s the accent?” then the confusion, “I’m from here, born in Haifa,” and finally, the silence of embarrassment, “I’m an Arab.” Sometimes the reaction would be an embarrassed smile, or “Oh, you don’t look like an Arab,” or that all too common, “I have a very good Arab friend, Ahmad, maybe you know him? He’s got a heart of gold, and I’m not just saying it, oh and he’s the best car mechanic,” or some such version of it.

She settled on a pair of blue jeans and a plain white t-shirt. Sandals and a blue scarf tied on her bag in case she got cold in the air-conditioned boutique. No. Not the blue scarf. Not in this place where every colour was weighed down with history and meaning. Her favourite ones were forbidden to her: the black-and-white kafiyyah her father had given her. Long ago it lost its meaning; politicized when the West turned it into a symbol of terrorism, and then again depoliticized when it started being mass-manufactured by brand labels in all colours of the rainbow. In winter, she would put her kafiyyah on, wrapping it around her shoulders, and stand in front of the mirror. Then, with a thread of sadness take it off and hang it back, leaving part of her identity at home. This time it was the colour of the wrong flag, so she picked a pale green scarf instead.

She checked the roll of jewellery, the pieces Shahd had helped her choose, modelling every necklace, bracelet and ring. Shahd liked the more abstract ones, unlike Maisoon, who was more drawn to those inspired from stolen glances at old tiles, a flutter of Um Muhammad’s hand stitched scarf, the design of an ancient carpet in her father’s library. She paused at the lack of history mocking her from the black roll. Looking at her watch, she knew she was risking being late. She quickly replaced the abstract jewellery with pieces which held a secret story. There wasn’t a particular category these pieces could be defined by. But she was content that she wasn’t betraying herself, whatever the consequences.

On the bus, she sits towards the back next to a woman in her early fifties, with a bulging bag-on-wheels. Maisoon imagines her a professor of Russian literature in her native land, coming here with false dreams, ending up cleaning people’s homes so that her children can attend university. Two soldiers, kids really, stand by the back doors; their weapons casually slung over their shoulders. Three teenagers in the back are listening to George Wassouf’s ‘Kalam Ennas’ on an iPod. A blonde woman in her forties sits in front of the teenagers with a sour expression on her face.

The clear, bell-like voice of Fairouz replaces the scratchy one of George Wassouf, singing ‘Habbaytak fi Essayf’. The boys are quarrelling about a game of basketball, their voices rising, bouncing back from the roof, the blonde woman’s expression now tightly packed disgust. The Russian woman shifts in her seat, mumbling something to the window. Maisoon sings softly along with Fairouz, her eyes transfixed on the slow, unconscious movements of the right hand of one of the soldiers as he caresses his machine gun, stroking its dull, metallic curves. These movements are repeated by the second soldier. Together, the two hands are performing a sacred dance, bowing to the power embodied in those pieces slung so indifferently across their shoulders.

The blonde woman turns sharply around and in a shrill voice demands that the boys turn the music off. The boys snicker and turn the music down a notch.

But that doesn’t satisfy her, “Don’t you understand Hebrew? This is public transport and I shouldn’t have to listen to this on my way to work!”

Maisoon shifts in her chair to speak up, but someone else beats her to it. Surprised, she hears the strong voice of the Russian woman, struggling with her heavily accented Hebrew, red cherries rising to her face.

“Why can’t you just let them be? They’re not disturbing anybody. Can’t you enjoy the beautiful music? I’m sure if it were Jewish boys listening to music in Hebrew you’d be sitting there quietly. It’s because they’re Arab, right?”

The red cherries now jump to the cheeks of the blonde woman, “Who asked for your opinion? And who asked you to come here in the first place? Go back to your Russia.”

Maisoon watches the Russian woman weigh her options before opting for a thin smile. The boys are now sitting in silence, looking straight ahead as if the conversation didn’t concern them. The music is turned down another notch, but still playing. Maisoon is glad they haven’t turned it off. The blonde woman is sitting with tightly drawn lips, upset that nobody came to her rescue. When the Russian woman makes to get up, Maisoon touches her hand and whispers thanks, “Toda.”

A smile flutters over the woman’s face and she shrugs her shoulders.

A few stops later, Maisoon stands and makes her way to the back door. People are pressed around her. She keeps her eyes on the weapons, making sure there is some distance between herself and them.

Ten minutes later she walks down a sleepy side street of Carmel Center and stops outside the number on the card. She takes a deep breath before entering the spacious boutique. The high ceilings, spotless walls and glass shelving tell Maisoon she won’t find anything cheap within. Amalia, her silver hair elegantly framing her thin face, is busy with two women showing them a variety of necklaces with gemstones.

“Shalom, Giveret Amalia,” Maisoon tries not to disturb them; from the bits of conversations reaching her she could tell these were regular customers.

“Shalom. I’ll be with you in a moment. You can start arranging your pieces on that table over there.”

Maisoon begins placing the jewellery on the table. Suddenly, they all look wrong. I shouldn’t have changed them. Should have trusted Shahd’s choice. Looking around her, she sees exquisite pieces. She’ll never take any of mine. She is tempted to shove everything back into her backpack and disappear. She takes a deep breath and begins to group the jewellery, earrings, followed by bracelets, necklaces and finally rings. Unsatisfied, she rearranges them again. The two women are now leaving, without having bought anything.

“They can’t make up their mind. It’s a wedding present.” Amalia now stands on the other side of the table, studying the jewellery, “Are you finished?” she smiles at no one in particular.

“Yes,” Maisoon is watching Amalia but she has no idea whether she likes the pieces or not.

After a long silence, the older woman lets out a thin slice of air through her nostrils, “I think I need some time to look at them more closely. They’re not what I expected.”

Maisoon holds her breath.

“I can’t make up my mind. Why don’t you give me, say, an hour?”

At a nearby café, Maisoon called Ziyad, who didn’t seem to understand that it was possible for her to lose this opportunity. He tried to soothe her by telling her that she was a great designer and that the old lady was just trying to intimidate her.

“I have to go. Talk to you later.” He was useless in calming her down, just like the lukewarm cappuccino she was sipping.

Back at the boutique, Amalia was on the phone, “Yes, darling, you’ll have that cheesecake waiting for you on Shabbat. Now I have to go. Kisses.” As she replaced the receiver with an elegant move Maisoon noticed the translucent moonstone on her ring finger.

“I just wanted to know how it feels,” Amalia said. She took it off and put it back near the set of moonstone earrings.

They stood side by side looking down at the jewellery, Maisoon waiting.

“They’re very unusual,” the older woman finally said, “I’d go as far as saying eccentric. I don’t like taking chances—I only go for solid, certain sale.”

“I understand, Giveret Amalia.”

“Really, now. Would you stop calling me Giveret? Please, just Amalia.”

Maisoon bent down to open her backpack.

“Wait, Misun.” It was the first time she had said Maisoon’s name; with no clients around, the name was unthreatening.

“It’s Maisoon,” her hand stopped halfway into her backpack.

“I’ll make a deal with you. You choose eight pieces—two of each. You can have that small shelf in the corner. That plant needs some fresh air anyway and I’ve been meaning to take it home for a while. You can arrange them by yourself.” Her voice was business-like, a tinge of pity in it. “If I sell anything, you get 70 percent. Oh, and you decide on the price. The lowest prices here are 350 shekels.”

If she weren’t so formal, Maisoon would have hugged her. She settled for a weak smile and a “thank you very much, Amalia,” and quickly began arranging the jewellery.

When she was finished, Amalia stood behind her, a smile brushing her lips.

“And the prices?”

“Oh, I really don’t know, 380 for each?”

“I hope you’re not that cheap with men,” Amalia didn’t try to conceal her smile now. “Call me in two weeks to see if I’ve sold anything.”

Maisoon was halfway out the door when Amalia added “Oh, and one more thing. You have one month. If nothing sells by then, we’re done doing business.”

The smell of Ziyad’s famously delicious shakshooka reached her nostrils as she took the steps in twos, realizing she was famished. For once, she was glad he’d invaded her apartment.

They ate lunch in silence, Ziyad wanting to avoid anything that had to do with checkpoints and little sick kids, while Maisoon was annoyed that he didn’t ask how her meeting had gone. Things were getting complicated between them. Something Maisoon had made every effort to avoid. She just wanted a lover. Nothing more. Not now. But Ziyad wanted a wife. Nothing less. To break the silence, Maisoon brought a bottle of cheap red wine from the kitchen.

“Mashallah! You made a deal with the Yahudiyya?” Ziyad’s face lit up.

“She let me have a shelf,” she said, not looking at his face, “You know, for display.”

Ziyad’s hand froze mid-air between the bottle and his glass. He thought of the long hours she spent glued to her worktable. “Walla? Mabrouk ya hayati!” He tried to sound excited, but Maisoon knew that inside, his sense of worthlessness was expanding.

Ziyad had finished his degree in architecture at the Technion two years ago but hadn’t found a proper job. Most Jewish companies didn’t want an Arab employee and in the Arab community, things were complicated. Strings had to be pulled, you had to have the right connections, the right family name and, sometimes even the right religion. For two years now, he’d been working at the customer service department of a cellular phone company, occasionally giving private lessons in maths and physics to high-school students.

“It’s just a small shelf, barely visible. And she’s giving me a month. But I know she didn’t really like my work.” Maisoon tried to soften the blow. “But hey! You want to see what I’m working on now?” Grabbing her glass of wine, she got up and started in the direction of the large wooden worktable.

Ziyad came up behind her, grabbing her around the waist, taking away her glass, whispering in her ear, “Later, hayati. We should first do something wild.”

Maisoon heard a tinge of sadness in his voice.

After making love, they fell asleep, exhausted. When they woke up, it was already dark outside. Another day almost gone. Um Tawfiq would be checking on her laundry. Abu Nidal would be making the last pot of kahwa for the day and Um Muhammad would be on her way home. And Maisoon and Ziyad would be …

Later that evening, when the suffocating heat subsided, they took a cool shower and left for a café. The souk was now only a ghost of faint scents—vegetables mingled with the bitterness of kahwa, wrapping loosely around Maisoon’s scarf. It was yet to produce the thick rotting smells that would rise later. They walked in silence. Not hand in hand. Not in Wadi Nisnas. Maisoon in one of her long summer skirts, a red scarf draped over her white tanktop. The crumbling two-storey buildings on each side of the narrow alley were leaning close to one another, the greying white cracks between the stones widening up just so, whispering almost-forgotten, bruised memories.

“So what’s the deal with this Yahudiyya? Why did you say before that she didn’t like your work?” Ziyad asked as they walked up the stairs marking the end of the souk.

“I don’t know. It’s just that … I felt she let me have that undusted shelf out of pity. And my work looked so out of sync with the rest of the jewellery. I mean, you should see what she’s got in there!” She adjusted her scarf, blown off her shoulders by a light naseem. “The jewellery she sells is so boring, it’s all the same, with clean sharp lines.”

“Think positive, Mais. That’s probably why she liked your work. Because it’s fresh and different.”

It was his logical mode of thinking, so simple yet so distanced from her. It’s what attracted her to him but also what frustrated her. He was very practical and rational. Not emotional like her. He had solid feet on the ground. An anchor. Blueprints ready for a whole lifetime.

At the café, they were interrupted by a phone call from Tamar. Maisoon excused herself and walked outside. These phone calls were all too familiar to Ziyad. Maisoon would sometimes be on the phone for more than an hour with her Jewish friends. ‘Sharing’ as Maisoon put it. After the phone call, and for the rest of their evening, Maisoon talked about Machsom Watch while Ziyad sipped his beer in silence, his calm face belying his annoyance. Can’t I have even one single night with you. You alone. Just give me one night without checkpoints, soldiers, permits, crossing borders, the chasm between this world and theirs. Is that too much to ask of you, Mais?

“I’ll walk you home, but I’m not coming up.”

She turned around, noticing only now that he was walking a few steps behind her. She looked away—knowing a lie was forming on his lips.

“I promised Basel to help him with this project he needs to submit at the end of the month. I have to be at his place early in the morning.”

Maisoon kept walking, increasing the distance between them.

“But I can be at your place for lunch tomorrow … I’ll make you a nice shakshooka.” He caught up with her, touched the small of her back, but her body evaded him. The rest of the way to the souk passed in silence.

He kissed her lightly and turned around, without salamat. She grabbed him by his shirt and pulled him to her. Their bodies collided, the cold stone against her back. Warmth spreading down her legs. His tongue on her neck. Fingers invading her belly, stealing their way downwards. Feeling the muscles of his back tense at the touch of her palms. The very subtle groan—almost a whisper—released involuntarily with his outbreath.

Two teenage boys were approaching, their laughter pushing the wind ahead of them. She cupped his face in her palms, kissed him violently, pushed his body away, and disappeared into the dark stairway. “No shakshooka tomorrow. I want a restaurant. Good night albi.” Her voice tumbled down from the top of the stairs with the same force as her kiss.