The Inbetween People (23 page)

In late July she came. It was a Saturday evening, I had been there for the weekend, the car was packed to leave. I was fishing, though with only half a heart to the task; the first fingers of inky darkness were spreading across the sky, though the black rock I sat on still held the heat of the day. A car sounded in the distance, his car, the sound of it was completely familiar to me. All time fell away, the car approached, nearer, nearer, spluttered to a halt, I turned, and she was standing there—Sahar. I stood on the black rock, and we regarded each other through the darkness that was swallowing the last remaining light from the evening sky.

For a moment, she said, for a moment it seemed you were him.

I moved my toe around on the rock, placed my hands in my pockets.

But then you turned, she said, but then you turned, and it could have been any beach and it wasn’t him.

We stood there on the beach, she on the sand, I on the rock, and there was awkwardness between us. I’ve been coming here a lot, she said, I wondered if you come too. Her face was older, there were lines around her jaw, and her black eyes were hollow. Actually, she said, and she took a step towards me, I was hoping I’d find you here. I was beginning to think you don’t come.

I come sometimes, I said. I came here this weekend just to think. I had a decision I needed to make. She watched me through the descending darkness, and her quietness, her very lack of reaction, the manner in which she was so similar to him at times, and moved so softly within her surrounding world, caused me to confide in her. I reached for my pocket and gave her the letter. She read the words, my words, stating that I was refusing to serve in the armed forces. She stared at the words for a long time and when she turned to me again there was something else in her eyes, and I knew that she understood how I had arrived at this decision.

Is it on account of him? she said. I shrugged, I don’t know, I said, I only decided this weekend. Don’t, she said. Her voice was harsh, raspish. Don’t. But there was something calculating in her face.

I began to tidy up my fishing gear, I must go I said. I fumbled with the bait on the rock, gathered everything into a heap in the middle. What will it achieve, she said, what is there to achieve by doing it? She stumbled over the words. You would achieve nothing but trouble for yourself. I could barely see her in the darkness, only her shadow, her hair black against the profile of her face. He wouldn’t want you to do this, she said, he wouldn’t want you to bring trouble upon yourself. I shrugged. She bit down hard on her lip and I saw a bubble of blood glimmering before she licked it away. There is something else you could do, she said, there is something else. She moved nearer to the rock.

I sat on the rock and lit a cigarette. She crouched in front of me, stared over the lake, far away across the water distant lights shone. We didn’t talk much, my mind was flooded with the possibilities of what she was thinking, and she seemed absorbed in her own thoughts, her eyes were distant and vacant. We sat like that for a long while, occasionally I rearranged my fishing tackle in the centre of the rock, or smoked a cigarette and listened to the echoes of the weekend holidaymakers coming to us across the water that lapped against the side of the rock like a timid creature. For some reason anything seemed possible that night. The air was heavy and filled with moisture so that I saw the sweat glistening on her face, and though we sat in silence for much of the time and gazed at the lake, an understanding grew between us just the same.

Later I addressed her again. I’m going to give them the letter, I said, I want to give it to them. They will arrest me. She looked at me. I will serve my time, I said.

They won’t arrest you, she said, they can’t. But then after a time she said, well, maybe they will.

Her words seemed to become absorbed in the night air and she was silent again. Someone should be there with you when they come, she said eventually. You shouldn’t be alone. And then, I will if you’d like, she said, I will be there when they come, if you tell me what day. She went to the car and wrote her number down on a small square of paper in neat writing, and then laughed suddenly, but of course you know our number, she said, well, my number, and then she blushed and was quiet again. I’ll be there, she said. If you tell me when, I’ll come. A mosquito hovered around her ear and she raised her hand to brush it away. She grew silent then, she didn’t speak. I wanted to speak but whenever I stole a glance at her I saw that her face was twisted and raw with grief. After a time she moved again towards the car.

I must go, she said. I walked with her. There is something else you can do, she said. Avi, she said, Avi, you must promise you will give it some thought. When I ask, that is, when I ask just give it some thought. I looked away from the car, it depends what it is, I said. Don’t go to prison, she said, there isn’t the time. What do you mean, I said, what are you talking about? I moved closer to her, so close that I felt her breath against my cheek, and the impulse to move nearer, hold her against me, was there again, like the long ago day on the beach; but I recalled the grief that lived on her face just moments ago, the agony in her eyes, and I did not move towards her.

It will be November, I said, the beginning of November, that is when I am due for my service. Early November, she said, and her eyes were seized by panic, I thought it would be sooner. I reached my hand out and stroked her cheek, her skin was soft. Until when, she said, when will they release you? Late November, I said, November the twenty-ninth. They will release me when I have served for the time that I should have been in the Reserves. Those are the dates. That doesn’t give me much time, she said. I lowered my hand. I thought she would speak again, reach her hand out to me, but she sat inside the car, reversed along the length of the beach, and drove away into the night, so that the sound of the engine became distant, until eventually it merged with the other sounds of the summer night, and the beach was empty again.

After she was gone an utter sense of desolation descended upon me, and I slept in the end, a tired hopeless sleep disturbed always by absurd dreams, so that when I awoke my neck was stiff, and my back ached, and I lay awake in the darkness recalling her eyes, the cunning that entered them, the knowledge they contained of what I had lost. I remembered the gleam in them, obscure, a flickering sense of desperation just beneath the surface, hidden deep in the depths of her eyes, and I wondered what it was she wanted of me. Though I didn’t sleep much, a sense of resolution descended upon me and I posted the letter on my journey home.

A
JACKAL
cries out in the night, he is alone, separated from his peers, the pack lets out a series of answering yelps, but the creature does not find them immediately, his cries continue to reverberate through the desert, growing louder as his sense of desperation deepens, his naked sense of abandonment is revealed to the desert night. Somewhere in the midst of the writing I rediscovered, here in the darkness of my cell, the stillness of the beach, and I feel it now with absolute lucidity: the cold water against my skin, the sound of a fish flipping on the ground, choking in the hot air, the smell of the sun-baked black rocks, the feel of the sand beneath my feet, the girl, the softness of her skin under my hand.

I write, and after a time I cease to write. I place my pen on the desk and I tidy the pages into a stack.

C
HAPTER
33

July 28th, 2001

T
o Whom It May Concern:

This is to state that I, Avi Goldberg, will be unable to be in attendance at Camp 81 at 8:00
A
.
M
. on November 4th, 2001. Indeed I wish to notify you at this time that I refuse to serve beyond Israel’s 1967 borders. If you cannot assure me that you can accept my position on this going forward, I will not be in attendance on this day. You will not hear from me again on this matter.

Avi Goldberg

C
HAPTER
34

I
slide the cold omelette around my plate, a trail of oil glistens in its wake. I prod my fork against its rubber texture, there is a knot lodged in my stomach, it has been there all morning.

So will you go home, I say. Will you go home when you are finished here?

David raises his eyes to mine, a look of surprise across his face, no, he says, no. I won’t go home, you heard what she said. He raises a forkful of omelette to his mouth, chews it methodically. Maybe she didn’t mean it, I say. Maybe you can sort it out once you’re done here. He shakes his head and his hair falls into his eyes. We’ve been together a long time, he says, she meant what she said. He moves a slice of cucumber around his plate with his fork. There is no doubt about it at all, he says, she meant it. He takes a delicate bite from the cucumber. So where will you go, Avi, he says. I shrug.

I’ve decided to go to Egypt for a time, he says. After I leave here. There’s a place in the Sinai we used to go, Ruti and I, before we were married. I’ll sit on a beach, probably won’t do anything much, after that I don’t know. You have to consider, he says, even if she allowed me to go home, there would be the same argument next year, and the year after that. He reaches for the plate of sliced cucumber and tomatoes that lies between us. I might go further into Africa, he says, or I might come back. I’ll have to see. He raises a slice of tomato towards his mouth, pauses, points his knife at me. She wouldn’t even read the leaflets, he says.

He looks at me then, his eyes full of intent beneath the curls that bounce over his forehead. I must give you my number, he says. He takes a pen from his pocket, gropes around for a blank sheet of paper, in the end he removes one of the leaflets from his pocket, the leaflet with the photo of the eleven-year-old boy, the boy who was shot in Ramallah for throwing stones.

He writes an address across the leaflet. Here is where I’ll be, he says. If you need to come there. It’s a small place, he says. There’s a beach there, that’s where I’ll be for a while. He examines the words on the page, adds his mobile phone number. Call me sometime, he says. Whatever you decide, wherever you go. He rises to his feet. David, I say, don’t you think you should try to fix things. He moves away from the table, carries his empty plate to the area where other prisoners stack plates and wash dishes, then shuffles out towards the garden, raising his hand in a final salute of farewell, and after he has gone, I walk to my cell, place the small amount of possessions I brought to this place in my rucksack, and report to Zaki, who unlocks a series of doors, then gates, and suddenly the blue sky looms before me. Zaki hovers in the shadows, raises his hand to cover his eyes from the sharp light, his arms move as he points out the direction I must take; you’ll need to get the bus, he says, straight down there, about fifteen minutes. He grips my hand tight and shakes it, squeezing it hard between his great paws, then slams the door shut behind me.

The sun is already hot when I emerge from the prison, the muddy puddles of water from the night rain evaporating in the heat of the day. I walk through the sunshine, the silent walls of the prison looming behind me, gradually disappearing into the morning haze. The sun grows hotter, the pack on my back already a burden; after a time I pause and gaze in the direction where Zaki said the bus stops would be, but there is nothing in the distance, just the black road, the ochre hills, and the sky.