Show me, then. Convince me. Roll back the rock. Return Smadar. All of her. Gift her back to me, all sewn up and pretty and dark-eyed again. That’s all I ask. Is that too much? No more whining from me, no more weeping, no more complaints. A heavenly stitch, that’s all I ask. And bring back Abir too, for Bassam, for me, for Salwa, for Areen, for Hiba, for Nurit, for all of us. And while you’re at it bring back Sivan and Ahuva and Dalia and Yamina and Lilly and Yael and Shulamit and Khalila and Sabah and Zahava and Rivka and Yasmine and Sarah and Inaam and Ayala and Sharon and Talia and Rashida and Rachel and Nina and Mariam and Tamara and Zuhal and Riva and every other one under this hot murdering sun. Is that too much to ask for? Is it?
He felt the bike galloping underneath him as he drove back to his house and sat in his office, closed the curtains, rearranged the photographs on his desk.
69
Smadar. From the Song of Solomon. The grapevine. The opening of the flower.
70
Abir. From the ancient Arabic. The perfume. The fragrance of the flower.
71
He has only ever been stopped once on his motorbike. He had heard that the back road from the West Bank was closed, but it was the easiest and quickest way home. The rain hammered down in slanting sheets. He took the chance. What was the worst that could happen: to be stopped, to be questioned, to be turned away?
He had, he knew—even at his age—an impish grin, a chubby face, a soft pale gaze. He sat low and throttled the engine. The bike sprayed up droplets behind him.
A sudden spotlight funneled a shot of fear down his spine. He throttled back, sat up on the bike. His visor was blurry with raindrops. The spotlight enveloped him. He braked in the pool of brightness. The back wheel skidded slightly in the oily rain.
A shout insinuated itself into the night. The guard was trembling as he ran through the downpour. The light was scattershot with silver spears of rain. The guard pointed his gun at Rami’s helmet. Rami raised his hands slowly, opened the visor, greeted him in Hebrew, Shalom aleichem, shalom, in his thickest accent, showed him his Israeli identity card, said he lived in Jerusalem, he had to get home.
—The road’s closed, sir.
—What do you want me to do, go back there?
A raindrop fell from the barrel of the soldier’s rifle: Go back, yes, sir, go back, right now, this road is off-limits.
A tiredness had crawled into Rami’s bones. He wanted to be home with Nurit, in his comfortable chair, a blanket over his knees, the simple life, the ordinary mundanities, the private pain, not this forsaken rain, this roadblock, this cold, this shaking gun.
He lifted the visor further: I was lost, I got lost, and you want me to go back there, are you mad? Look at my I.D. I’m Jewish. I got lost. Lost, man. Why in the world would you want me to go back?
The boy’s gun swung back and forth wildly.
—Go back, sir.
—Are you fucking crazy? You think I have a death wish? I got lost, I took the wrong road, that’s all.
—Sir. I’m telling you it’s closed.
—Tell me this—
—What?
—What Jew in their right mind would go to the West Bank in the first place?
The boy’s face puzzled. Rami tightened the throttle, gave the engine some throat.
—Go ahead, habibi, shoot me if you have to, but I’m going home.
He watched a fault line develop further on the boy’s brow, a little earthquake of confusion as Rami closed the visor, turned on his hazards and drove on, his whole body conspired into the bike, all the time thinking of the gun aimed at him, a bullet slamming into the small of his back.
72
When, the next day, in the office of the Parents Circle, he began to tell Bassam the checkpoint story, he stopped short and remembered the shiny blue shoe sailing through the air and the bullet ripping into the back of Abir’s skull. He had no desire to tell last night’s story anymore.
73
The shopkeeper was named Niesha the Ancient, even though she was just thirty-four years old. She heard the pops. One, two, three, four. A screech of tires. For a moment there was silence. Her hands remained on the long wooden counter. Then the shouting began: the high pitch of schoolchildren, girls mostly, an unusual sign: the girls were usually quiet. Niesha reached for her keys from the cash register.
Outside, a commotion. A child on the pavement. A blue skirt. A white cotton collar blouse. A discarded shoe. Niesha dropped to her knees. She knew the child’s name. She leaned down to check the pulse.
—Wake up, Abir, wake up.
Screams rang out. A crowd huddled over the child. She was unconscious. Men and women keyed their telephones for a signal. Word went around that traffic had been blocked by the soldiers at the far end of the road. Nothing was being allowed through: no ambulances, no police, no paramedics.
—Wake up, wake up.
Minutes passed. A young teacher crossed the roundabout, wailing. A battered taxi pulled up. The young driver waved his arms. Kids streamed from the school gates.
Niesha helped pick Abir from the ground and bundle her into the back seat of the taxi. She wedged herself into the well between the front and back seats to keep the child from rolling off. The driver glanced over his shoulder and the taxi lurched. Someone had thrown the lost shoe into the back of the car. Niesha slipped it on Abir’s foot. She felt the warmth of the toes. She knew instantly that she would never forget the surprising warmth of the flesh.
The taxi raced through the heart of the marketplace. Word had already jumped around Anata and Shu’fat. Calls went out from the mosques, the balconies, the side streets. Kids ran from the alleyways, streamed down towards the school. The driver braked only for the speed bumps. He hit traffic on the far side of the market. He laid his hand on the car horn. The cars around them joined in the hellish symphony.
Niesha lay on the floor beneath Abir, reaching up, keeping the child’s head still. Abir’s eyes fluttered. She made no sounds. Her pulse was slow and irregular. Niesha touched the child’s toes once more. They had grown colder.
The windows of the taxi were down. Loudspeakers outside. Flags unfurling. The prospect of riot. The car jolted forward. The driver invoked the name of Allah. The tumult rang in Niesha’s ears.
The hospital building was low-slung and dingy. A team waited on the steps. Niesha took her hand from Abir’s head and opened the rear door before the taxi had even stopped. Shouts went up for a gurney. The front steps of the hospital were mayhem.