Daniel Silva - The Kill Artist

“I don’t believe things like that happened in Palestine.”

“Of course they did, Dominique. After the massacre word spread through the Arab villages like wildfire. The Jews took full advantage of the situation. They mounted loud-speakers on trucks and broadcast warnings. They told the Arabs to get out, or there would be another Deir Yassin. They concocted stories about outbreaks of typhus and cholera. They made clandestine radio broadcasts in Arabic, masquerading as Arab leaders, and urged the Palestinians to take flight to avoid a bloodbath. This is the real reason the Palestinians left.”

“I had no idea,” she said.

“My own family came from the village of Lydda. Lydda, like Deir Yassin, no longer exists. It is now Lod. It’s where the Zionists put their fucking airport. After a battle with the Arab defenders, the Jews entered Lydda. There was complete panic. Two hundred fifty Arab villagers were killed in the crossfire. After the town was captured, the commanders asked Ben-Gurion what should be done with the Arabs. He said, ”Drive them out!“ The actual expulsion orders were signed by Yitzhak Rabin. My family was given ten minutes to pack a few belongings, as much as they could carry in a single bag, and told to get out. They started walking. The Jews laughed at them. Spat at them. That’s the truth about what happened in Palestine. That’s who I am. That’s why I hate them.”

Jacqueline, however, was thinking not of the Arabs of Lydda but of the Jews of Marseilles-of Maurice and Rachel Halévy and the night the Vichy gendarmes came for them.

“You’re shaking,” he said.

“Your story upset me. Come back to bed. I want to hold you.”

He crawled back into bed, spread his body gently over hers, and kissed her mouth. “End of lecture,” he said. “We’ll resume tomorrow, if you’re interested.”

“I’m interested-very interested, in fact.”

“Do you believe the things I’ve told you, or do you think I’m just another fanatical Arab who wants to see the Jews driven into the sea?”

“I believe you, Yusef.”

“Do you like poetry?”

“I love poetry.”

“Poetry is very important to the Palestinian people. Our poetry allows us to express our suffering. It gives us the courage to face our past. A poet named Mu’in Basisu is one of my favorites.”

He kissed her again and began to recite:

And after the flood none was left of this people

This land, but a rope and a pole

None but bare bodies floating on mires

Leavings of kin and child

None but swelled bodies

Their numbers unknown

Here wreckage, here death, here drowned in deep waters

Scraps of bread loaf still clasped in my hand.

She said, “It’s beautiful.”

“It sounds better in Arabic.” He paused for a moment, then said, “Do you speak any Arabic, Dominique?”

“Of course not. Why do you ask?”

“I was just wondering.”

In the morning Yusef brought her coffee in bed. Jacqueline sat up and drank it very quickly. She needed the jolt of caffeine to help her think. She hadn’t slept. Several times she had considered slipping out of bed, but Yusef was a restless sleeper and she feared he might awaken. If he discovered her making imprints of his keys with a special device disguised as a mascara case, there would be no way to explain. He would assume she was an Israeli agent. He might very well kill her. It would be better to leave his flat without the imprints than to be caught. She wanted to do it right-for Gabriel’s sake and her own.

She looked at her watch. It was nearly nine o’clock.

“I’m sorry I let you sleep so long,” Yusef said.

“That’s all right. I was tired.”

“It was a good tired, yes?”

She kissed him and said, “It was a very good tired.”

“Call your boss and tell him you’re going to take the day off and make love to a Palestinian named Yusef al-Tawfiki.”

“I don’t think he’ll see the humor in that.”

“This man has never wanted to spend the day making love to a woman?”

“I’m not sure, actually.”

“I’m going to take a shower. You’re welcome to join me.”

“I’ll never get to work that way.”

“That was my intention.”

“Get in the shower. Is there any more coffee?”

“In the kitchen.”

Yusef stepped into the bathroom and closed the door halfway. Jacqueline lay in bed until she heard him step into the shower; then she slipped from beneath the blankets and padded into the kitchen. She poured herself a cup of coffee and walked into the sitting room. She placed the coffee on the table next to Yusef’s keys and sat down. The shower was still running.

She reached into her bag and withdrew her mascara case. She popped it open and glanced inside. It was filled with a soft ceramic material. All she had to do was place a key against the material and squeeze the lid closed. The ersatz case would produce a perfect imprint.

Her hands were trembling. She picked up the keys carefully, to prevent them from making any sound, and singled out the first: the Yale model he had used for the street entrance. She placed it inside the case, closed the lid, and squeezed. She opened the case and removed the key. The imprint was flawless. She repeated the process two more times, once with the second Yale key, then with the skeleton. She had three perfect imprints.

She closed the lid, placed the keys exactly where Yusef had left them, then returned the mascara case to her purse.

“What are you doing there?”

She looked up, startled, and quickly regained her composure. Yusef was standing in the center of the floor, his wet body wrapped in a beige bath towel. How long had he been standing there? How much had he seen? Damn it, Jacqueline! Why weren’t you watching the door!

She said, “I’m looking for my cigarettes. Have you seen them?”

He pointed toward the bedroom. “You left them in there.”

“Oh, yes. God, sometimes I think I’m losing my mind.”

“That’s all you were doing? Just looking for cigarettes?”

“What else would I be doing?” She spread her arms to indicate the spartan squalor of his sitting room. “You think I’m trying to make off with your valuables?”

She stood and picked up her handbag. “Are you finished in the bathroom?”

“Yes, but why are you bringing your purse to the bathroom?”

She thought: He suspects something. Suddenly she wanted to get out of the flat as quickly as possible. Then she thought: I should be offended by questions like that.

“I think I may be getting my period,” she said icily. “I don’t think I like the way you’re acting. Is this the way all Arab men treat their lovers the morning after?”

She brushed past him and entered the bedroom. She was surprised at how convincing she had managed to sound. Her hands were shaking as she collected her clothing and entered the bathroom. She ran water in the sink while she dressed. Then she opened the door and went out. Yusef was in the sitting room. He wore faded jeans, a sweater, loafers with no socks.

He said, “I’ll call you a cab.”

“Don’t bother. I’ll find my own way home.”

“Let me walk you down.”

“I’ll see myself out, thank you.”

“What’s wrong with you? Why are you acting this way?”

“Because I don’t like the way you were talking to me. I had a nice time, until now. Maybe I’ll see you around sometime.”

She opened the door and stepped into the hallway. Yusef followed her. She walked quickly down the stairs, then across the lobby.

At the front entrance he grabbed her arm. “I’m sorry, Dominique. I’m just a little paranoid sometimes. You’d be paranoid too if you’d lived my life. I didn’t mean anything by it. How can I make it up to you?”