Assaf Gavron - Almost Dead

They were surprised to see her in the kitchen — so she told me, because I asked her to tell me everything in detail — but she said she’d rather work. The head chef, Alon, had taken her aside and asked her whether she was sure. It was going to be a busy night. She wept briefly in his arms and said she was sure. For the first hour she worked in silence, and her silence infected Alon and the other three chefs working with her, Issam, Osama and Alex, and the waiters coming in and out with the orders, and the head waiter Yatzpan (real name Mahmoud, but he looked just like a fatter version of Yatzpan, the comedian), who came on to her on a daily basis, and the drinks guy, Natzer, though he never said anything anyway. The orders, fed into the restaurant tills by the waiters, flowed relentlessly from the two printers in the kitchen, and Alon read the print-outs and divided the salads, the roasts, the fish and the desserts between the chefs and took the orders coming in from room service, and Shuli, in her round-buttoned tunic and tall toque, concentrated on her work and thought about nothing whatsoever.

Garrulous Issam — curly haired, balding, ever smiling — began talking to Osama in Arabic, which was usually Shuli’s cue to call over and ask what they were muttering about so secretly, or have a go at Osama for his maddeningly squeaky voice—‘like listening to a whistle’. But tonight she just cut the bagel, stuck it in the toaster, laid out the salmon, took the sheet of lasagna, red sauce on top, Parmesan, ten minutes in the top oven, checked the heat with a knife, pizza bases from the tall stack, tomato sauce, handful of mozzarella, handful of Parmesan, onion and green pepper, seven minutes on high and on to the wooden trays ready to go…she sank into the sensations and the smells. The slippery mozzarella, the translucent flesh of the fish, the dough’s comforting elasticity; the salmon’s fresh scent, the basil’s sharpness, the onion coaxing the tears out of you. ‘Alex: fruit salad and apple pie! Issam: ravioli, fries! Shuli: Artichoke Carpaccio!’ Artichoke slices on a plate, olive oil and lemon from the big jugs filled by Alon, crushed peppercorns, salty Bulgarian cheese, dried plum tomatoes and rocket to decorate, and down on the aluminium surface for Alon, who was doing the announcing today. ‘Artichoke, who asked for it?’ She pointed to the bowl of rocket. ‘More rocket!’ She knows the menu by heart, has done for six months, and here comes another order from Alon and she’s on it automatically, hand here, fingers there, grabbing, spreading, crumbling, kneading, chopping, deep-frying…

Despite the wine she’d drunk and the grief that weighed her hands down, she managed for a couple of hours. Then Alon told her to take a coffee and sit in the lobby for a few minutes: her silence was worrying him. She took a bottle of beer instead. As soon as she took her first swig she started crying uncontrollably. Deep sobs that hurt her ribs and shook her whole body. She felt hands on her shoulder and turned to see Marwan, a beautiful nineteen-year-old kid from Beit-Hanina with the eyes of a cartoon deer. Shuli was a quarter in love with Marwan but apart from a few meaningful glances (and her fantasies at home) there was nothing between them. Now his kindness made her feel nauseous and her weeping intensified. She shouted at him to get off her, and the alarmed Marwan recoiled and returned to work. Guests watched the sobbing cook. Alon was called from the kitchen. Did she want to go home? With her face in her hands, she said she didn’t. What did she want to do, then? She said she didn’t know. Did she want coffee? She responded with a long swig of the Heineken and another flurry of tears. And then she got up, washed her face in the bathroom and returned to work, back into her automatic mode. Her feet hurt, she hadn’t slept much the previous night, her back bothered her, but she went on. One of her friends among the waitresses told her to go home. The plates piled up. Alon roared for Yusuf to bring coasters. Giora is dead Giora is dead Giora is dead, she thought in a loop. Giora, Marwan, Croc, Giora, Marwan, Croc. The Arabs were quietly humming an Arab song. ‘Alex, bring lettuce!’ Alex was flashing his silver tooth…

‘Croc?’ I said. ‘You were thinking of me?’

We were driving from King David Street down towards the German Colony.

‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘I thought of the Croc. Among other things.’

I didn’t say a word. We took a left at the train station towards Arnona and Armon Hanaziv, and headed on past the Ramat Rachel Kibbutz. She took us to a spot where we could sit and look over the Judaean desert, and when I said wasn’t it dangerous she just laughed.

‘What was the message he wanted you to give me?’

A second passed before I realised what she was talking about.

‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘He didn’t get to say it. He was thinking. But I’m pretty sure he wanted to let you know that he loved you. Something like that.’

She looked at me.

‘His look had that kind of meaning. It wasn’t a “tell her to feed the cats” kind of look,’ I said, staring at the gearstick. ‘And I can understand him.’

‘He didn’t have any cats. He couldn’t stand them.’

‘I can understand him on that one too.’

She smiled. So I wiped her smile with a kiss. Her lips were soft as feathers, as deep and salty as the sea.

‘We’re human beings, not angels,’ Bilahl said brusquely. Surprisingly, he wasn’t angry with Naji. He had been in the room when the bulb blew too. ‘Anyone can change his mind. It’s natural. He said he didn’t feel ready. Maybe in the future…’

‘You think he’s an informer?’

‘Relax. He gave me the name of someone to stand in for him. Mahmoud Salam al-Mahmuzi: dedicated to the Holy Cause. Twenty-three years old and from Al-Amari. This camp needs a hero.’

‘He’s coming here?’

‘Later. First we need to take a look at him at the operations apartment. See if he’s got the right stuff. Then — your lesson, a video, a haircut, and, God willing, we could be on our way by noon tomorrow.’

‘ …yes, Mama. Yes, Mama. Yes. Tomorrow. Mama, I can’t talk in here…yes. Not now… ’

One tube for piss. Another for air.

‘ No, I’m at work, Mama. It’s not dangerous, he’s not…no, that’s crazy, he’s fine. He can’t do anything at all… Stoi! Ostav’te menya v pokoe! Leave me alone! ’

Oh, play me a song, Svet. Give me a massage, Svet…

‘ God, what a pain she is! So: how are we doing? My mother’s worried you’re going to do something to me ha h…oh, have we done a poo? ’

Oh, Svet, just please, please, shut up. And here comes your phone again, and I can’t do anything at all…

We passed Ali’s café, where silver-haired men were playing backgammon or cards and drinking glasses of tea. Some younger, bored-looking guys. Bilahl nodded to them. As for me — in Al-Amari, all my friends are on TV. Rita Khouri off The Weakest Link on Lebanese TV, George Khourdahi off Who Wants to Be a Millionaire? on MBC, Noah’s Ark ’s Tommy Musari on Channel 2, Ihab Abu-Nasif, who hosts The Mission on Al-Manar — and beautiful Shirin Abu-Akla from the news on Al-Jazeera. Occasionally I might get a phone call from Rami, or from Natzer in Jerusalem, but Natzer just made me think how dead and gone my childhood was, and I’d let him go to voicemail…I grew up with him and Titi and limping Rami in Murair: marbles, donkeys, football, and later, messing about with girls, a little bit of school, football. A plastic bullet shattered Rami’s knee when he was eight, during the first intifada. Titi works at the Majdal Bani Fadel checkpoint: he’s got an old Peugeot van he sells cold drinks from. Every morning he fills a box with crushed ice and a few dozen cans from his Uncle Faez’s store, and drives a quarter of an hour down to the checkpoint. But Natzer left the village. He works in the King David in Jerusalem, and lives in Beit-Hanina. I don’t know exactly what he’s doing, but the money’s good. Pretty girls and so on. He once shaved his beard off because of a Jewish girl. Even when we were kids he’d make friends with the soldiers. Natzer likes the things that life on the other side has to offer him. He kept himself well away from Bilahl’s wars and when he calls I let him go to voicemail.