Edeet Ravel - Look for Me

“I think I have everything.”

“You don’t have to bring water, I have a whole crate in my van. Dana, you look as if I’ve come to arrest you.”

“I shouldn’t be going down with you. I should be going with Odelia.”

“Wel .”

“Yes, wel .”

“I’m real y happy you’re coming down with me,” he said.

“We’re just friends.”

“Friends! Don’t exaggerate … Aren’t you going to lock your door?”

“Oh …yes,” I said vaguely, and looked for my house key in my knapsack. I often left my door unlocked. “I can’t find the key. Hold on.”

I went back inside, took a spare key from a glass bowl in the kitchen, and locked my door.

I fol owed Ra to his van, climbed up to the passenger seat. “I spoke to Coby yesterday,” I told him as we set out. “I’ve seen him around, but we never talked before. But there was a mouse under Jacky’s sink, ve mice actual y, and Coby sent the guard, Marik, to get the mice.

Marik once saw me naked by accident, ages ago, and he’s stil embarrassed every time he sees me. After he got rid of the mice I had dinner Marik once saw me naked by accident, ages ago, and he’s stil embarrassed every time he sees me. After he got rid of the mice I had dinner with Coby and he said he has a cousin in Intel igence, he’s going to ask him about Daniel.”

“How did the guard see you naked? Through the window?”

“No, on the street. The air from the sidewalk grate blew my dress up. As luck would have it, that was the one time in my life I wasn’t wearing underwear.”

Rafi burst out laughing. “You’re ful of surprises, Dana.”

“Maybe Coby’s cousin is the one.”

“That would be great, Dana. Seat belt, please.”

“But Coby said he isn’t optimistic.”

“Why?”

“He says if the army has a reason for not tel ing me where Daniel is, his cousin wil have the same reason. He thinks Daniel is a spy. What a laugh.”

“That real y does seem unlikely. Who could he spy on? He doesn’t speak a word of Arabic, and instead of blending in, he stands out.

Besides, I don’t think we have a lot of spies these days. Espionage is mostly technological now.”

“I feel I’m get ing closer. I feel I’m real y get ing close, after al these years. I just have to find the right person … Where are we meeting, by the way?”

“The gas station. We’re going in through the southern end of Lifna.”

“Too bad we’re going on Friday instead of Saturday. Al the fanatic set lers wil be out.”

“The rabbis real y wanted to come. There’s supposed to be a joint prayer session. So we’re compromising by starting late, to accommodate people who work Friday morning.”

“I’d like to photograph that, the praying. I have some very good photos of the cave-dwel ers from the summer.”

“I’d like to see your photographs. Where do you keep them?”

“In shoe boxes, under the bed.”

“Are they mostly color or black-and-white?”

“Depends. I’m not real y that good.”

“I think you are.”

“How would you know?”

“I have your book.”

He was referring to Seaside, the book of photographs Beatrice had produced. She had chosen my beach photos for the col ection: our families on the beach, Palestinian families on the Coastal Strip beach, back in the days when there were fewer curfews and it seemed there might even be peace. She’d chosen her favorite photograph for the cover: a father with two girls, one in each arm, walking into the sea, the water already up to his knees. The faces of the two girls were turned toward the camera, tiny faces just above their father’s shoulders, one under a white sun bonnet, both girls smiling blissful y, as if to say, Can anything be more perfect than this? The father can only be seen from the back, a streak of dark fuzz running down his spine. Is he a Palestinian father or one of our fathers? I won’t tel .

Rafi said, “I didn’t know Palestinians swam with their clothes on. Your book made me realize that I don’t know the most basic things about them.”

“Some wear bathing suits.”

“Hard to believe there was a time you could go to the strip just like that, and take pictures at the beach,” Rafi said, shaking his head.

“I had so much fun. You can’t imagine how great it was. We got along real y wel —they were always inviting me to come home with them. I played with the kids, we built sand castles. People were in a good mood back then.”

“How did you communicate?”

“That was never a problem. Most of the men knew Hebrew, and some of the women spoke a lit le English. And there’s always sign language to fal back on. I should learn Arabic, but it’s such a hard language.”

“If you had it in school from first grade you wouldn’t find it hard.”

“Yes,” I said, “compulsory Arabic from first grade. Then we’l know the Messiah has arrived.”

“A few years ago we actual y had the il usion that things were get ing bet er. There was talk of making Arabic compulsory, and we real y believed it might happen.”

“I want a child,” I said, remembering the lit le bcobys I had held at the beach. “You’re lucky you have a daughter.”

“I can give you a child if you want, Dana. My wife wouldn’t object.”

“Two wives!”

“No, one wife. But I’d help you out as much as I could.”

“I feel I’m going to nd Daniel soon. I want his child. And I can’t believe Graciela wouldn’t mind, no mat er what she says. She’d mind a lot. Any woman would.”

There was an uncomfortable silence in the car. We’d brought up the forbidden topic. “Just an altruistic o er,” Ra joked, trying to break the tension.

“I’l keep it in mind. Free sperm. You’re right, you don’t get that kind of of er every day.”

But we were stil embarrassed. I wanted to reach out and touch his hand, but I looked out of the window instead.

At least eighty cars were already parked at the gas station near the border of the South Lifna Hil s. People were standing in smal groups and talking, or buying co ee and snacks at the lit le convenience store, or using the washroom. The gas station was on an isolated strip of road; you couldn’t see any towns or cities in the distance, only neat, alternating bands of green and taupe, and beyond them the indistinct mauve dunes of the desert. Near the station, scat ered randomly as though abandoned or misplaced, were the usual mystifying objects, the mauve dunes of the desert. Near the station, scat ered randomly as though abandoned or misplaced, were the usual mystifying objects, the exact nature of which no one could guess: some sort of steel tower; a cement cylinder; equipment and machines that appeared to have been designed for complicated engineering feats. I took a photograph of these unidenti ed bits of civilization; they captured the improvised feeling we al carried within us. We didn’t know where we were going and we wondered how we’d lasted this long on such imsy foundations and muddled e orts. The myths we grew up on tried to compensate us, but myths were slippery by nature. In fact we were lost, walking on air, inside air, fal ing.

The organizers handed out tape and yers in three languages: messages of peace printed in bold let ers on white sheets of paper. We taped them to our cars and then we taped numbers on our fenders. Ra ’s van was tenth. Then the organizers gave instructions, explained the mission. I didn’t listen careful y. The instructions didn’t vary much from activity to activity: no violence, no get ing into arguments with army or police or anyone else we encountered. Al interactions would be handled by trained negotiators. A lawyer spoke to the crowd; the cave dwel ers’ hearing had been postponed, which meant their eviction was on hold. It was good news, she said, relatively speaking.