A. Yehoshua - The Liberated Bride

The Jew, needless to say, was not about to wait in the darkness by an empty grave. Knowing Rashid’s estimates of time and distance to be accurate, he joined him in scrambling up the steep, rocky hill. “I hope no one thinks we’re pigs,” he joked as he followed his agile guide, who looked back from time to time to see if the middle-aged Orientalist needed help.

“What a thought, Professor!” Rashid said. “They’re licensed hunters. They know enough to get a degree in it. One is a lawyer, and the other is a dentist. They only shoot what they’re allowed to. Besides, I’ll give them a warning whistle when we get close….”

All the same, though the moon was bright enough to highlight the yellow flowers of the prickly pears, the Orientalist, afraid of being taken for a prowling animal, stayed close to Rashid, who sounded some shrill whistles in the direction of a clump of trees on the hilltop.

“If they’re tracking something, they won’t answer,” he whispered. “Let’s wait and see.”

A call came from the branches of the trees:

“Rashid?”

“Yes, Anton. It’s me.”

“ Walow , *‘Yes, Anton, it’s me.’” The hunters guffawed at the Hebrew answer. “ Weyn inta, ya az’ar kushi?” †

“Cut it out, Marwan. You too, Anton,” Rashid said good-naturedly. “I’m not alone. I have a distinguished Jewish guest. And he speaks Arabic, so watch yourselves.”

“ Min hada?” ‡

“First come on down from those trees.”

“ Lakin min jibtilna?” §

“Come on down.”

The hunters were perched in harness seats up near the tops of the trees, double-barreled shotguns in their hands.

“Tell us who you’ve brought.”

Rashid introduced the Jewish professor. The strong beam of a flashlight was aimed at them from a tree.

“Jesus Christ!” the lawyer said. “Are you Judge Rivlin’s husband? Believe it or not, I once tried a case before her….”

“Will you two come down!” Rashid scolded. “We can’t have a conversation with you sitting in a tree.”

“Marwan is ashamed to be seen.”

“Why is that?”

“Don’t ask! I hate to admit it, but an hour ago he shot and killed a piglet. A little baby.”

“It was an accident,” Marwan apologized. “I didn’t mean to. I can’t even look at it.”

“He thought it was a jackal. But how could it have been a jackal, when the jackals were killed off long ago?”

“I never said it was a jackal, you dope! I thought it was a partridge. Watch out behind that tree, Rashid. Dir balak! La tit’harak ula t’sib ishi…. “ ∥

The two hunters clambered slowly down, their shotguns snagging on the branches. Despite the hot night, they were wearing military flak jackets; their pockets bulged with shells. The gray-haired man was the dentist. The lawyer was younger and taller. Both had pistols strapped to their waists, as if they were manhunters too.

“Welcome to Hunter’s Hill, Professor,” said the lawyer, who spoke a racy Hebrew. He gave Rivlin a cheerful handshake. “No kidding, I once appeared before your wife in a libel suit. She made mincemeat of me.”

“Deservedly?”

“Who knows what’s deserved and what isn’t, Professor?” The lawyer sighed and shouldered his gun. “Ask your wife. She always thinks she’s right. A tough woman, I’m telling you!”

Rashid came to the judge’s defense. “She’s not always so tough. You should have seen her laughing at Samaher’s wedding. The village will never forget her.”

“Maybe she laughs at weddings. But in court she has a tongue like a knife. A first-rate judge. Even the losers respect her.”

Rivlin, stung by longing, nodded modestly. Where are you now, my love? Are you in your hotel? Can you — uncomplaining, uncomforted, unable to switch rooms — cope with the tacky accommodations? Who will open your suitcase for you, hang up your clothes, make bearable your world while you sit huddled on the bed, staring glumly at the ugly, dirty walls?

“What brings you here?” the hunters asked.

Rashid told them about his cousin’s promotion to research assistant on an important scholarly project.

“Is Samaher still ill?” The question, asked by the lawyer, was addressed to Rivlin, as if it took a Jew to verify such things.

“Not unless pregnancy is an illness,” Rashid interposed angrily. Afraid the Orientalist might talk too much, he changed the subject to the Jew’s Ramadan solidarity fast.

The two hunters threw Rivlin wondering looks.

“But what will you do for us Christians, Professor?”

“I’ll fast during Lent.”

They laughed and led him and Rashid to a large rock. Behind it, underneath a black tarpaulin that they removed, a piglet lay in the moonlight.

“I don’t know how it happened,” the dentist lamented. “I’m always so careful.”

Rivlin had never seen a wild boar up close. The little creature lay peacefully on its bristles, its snout agape as though letting out a last sigh.

Rashid knelt and looked for the entry wound. He turned the piglet over, exposing a smooth, pink belly. It was three or four months old, he reckoned. He held it up by its hind legs to gauge its weight.

“How in hell could I have thought that was a partridge?” the dentist asked.

“The mother pig took off with the first shot,” Anton told them. “She’s still hanging around. We saw her from the trees, fifty or sixty meters off. Maybe she’s waiting for her baby to come back.”

“Are you going to shoot her too?” Rashid asked.

“If she insists.”

“On what?”

They laughed. “Dying.”

“What do you say?” Rashid asked. “Should we give the piglet to the Abuna?”

“Just take it as it is, unskinned and uncleaned. It’s our gift. Il-banduk hatamli kalbi . *It will bring us bad luck.”

Rashid turned to Rivlin. For the first time in their travels, he laid a light hand on the Jew’s shoulder.

“You won’t mind, Professor, if we put the piglet in the back of the minibus? Don’t worry. It’s fresh and won’t smell. But if it will bother you, forget it. You’re the passenger. It’s up to you.”

Rivlin looked at the piglet, deep within which, like a powerful sleeping pill, was a bullet. It seemed to be poignantly hugging itself, its forefeet crossed, when dangled by Rashid. The Orientalist gingerly stuck out a foot to touch the curious tail, stiffly erect in the moonlight. Dreamily he rocked the carcass with a toe, suddenly struck by the realization that he was in for another sleepless night. “All right,” he said glumly to Rashid, who was awaiting his decision. “Wrap it up, and we’ll take it to the Abuna.”

Odd, his using the Christian title of respect for a priest he had never met.

20.

AND HOW, REALLY, did you manage to stay up that whole night? What kept you going? Wanting to meet the Abuna? Or was it the Song of Paradise that enticed you from your bed to a foreign adventure needing no passport?

You may as well admit it: the displaced and irreplaceable Arab with the coal black eyes, who is the age of your eldest son, though more like your youngest in his sure and easygoing sense of himself, has an influence over you. And not at all a bad one, though it has made his concerns and adventures yours too. A transporter of men who are at home in the give-and-take of human commerce, he finds it entirely natural to transport you, an introverted old professor, across a dotted green line on the map that, imaginary demarcation, will be haggled over until the end of time.

One way or another, now that the minibus is again speeding along the main road with a prematurely and sorrowfully shot piglet in its backseat, you can check your clarity of mind and powers of endurance — both, despite (or is it because of?) the bizarre day, amazingly keen and looking forward to the night plans of your driver, which include, so it seems, not only a charitable Abuna and a needy sister awaiting her holiday gift, but a Song of Paradise sung by an angel in a church.